Chapter 1

“What the world, which truly knows nothing, calls ‘mysticism’ is the science
of ultimates, . . . the science of self-evident Reality, which cannot be
‘reasoned about,’ because it is the object of pure reason or perception. The
Babe sucking its mother’s breast, and the Lover returning, after twenty
years’ separation, to his home and food in the same bosom, are the types and
princes of Mystics.”


“The Rod, the Root, and the Flower”

T he most highly developed branches of the human family have in common one
peculiar characteristic. They tend to produce—sporadically it is true, and
often in the teeth of adverse external circumstances—a curious and definite
type of personality; a type which refuses to be satisfied with that which
other men call experience, and is inclined, in the words of its enemies, to
“deny the world in order that it may find reality.” We meet these persons in
the east and the west; in the ancient, mediaeval, and modern worlds. Their
one passion appears to be the prosecution of a certain spiritual and
intangible quest: the finding of a “way out” or a “way back” to some
desirable state in which alone they can satisfy their craving for absolute
truth. This quest, for them, has constituted the whole meaning of life. They
have made for it without effort sacrifices which have appeared enormous to
other men: and it is an indirect testimony to its objective actuality, that
whatever the place or period in which they have arisen, their aims,
doctrines and methods have been substantially the same. Their experience,
therefore, forms a body of evidence, curiously self-consistent and often
mutually explanatory, which must be taken into account before we can add up
the sum of the energies and potentialities of the human spirit, or
reasonably speculate on its relations to the unknown world which lies
outside the boundaries of sense.

All men, at one time or another, have fallen in love with the veiled Isis
whom they call Truth. With most, this has been a passing passion: they have
early seen its hopelessness and turned to more practical things. But others
remain all their lives the devout lovers of reality: though the manner of
their love, the vision which they make to themselves of the beloved object
varies enormously. Some see Truth as Dante saw Beatrice: an adorable yet
intangible figure, found in this world yet revealing the next. To others she
seems rather an evil but an irresistible enchantress: enticing, demanding
payment and betraying her lover at the last. Some have seen her in a test
tube, and some in a poet’s dream: some before the altar, others in the
slime. The extreme pragmatists have even sought her in the kitchen;
declaring that she may best be recognized by her utility. Last stage of all,
the philosophic sceptic has comforted an unsuccessful courtship by assuring
himself that his mistress is not really there.

Under whatsoever symbols they have objectified their quest, none of these
seekers have ever been able to assure the world that they have found, seen
face to face, the Reality behind the veil. But if we may trust the reports
of the mystics—and they are reports given with a strange accent of certainty
and good faith—they have succeeded where all these others have failed, in
establishing immediate communication between the spirit of man, entangled as
they declare amongst material things, and that “only Reality,” that
immaterial and final Being, which some philosophers call the Absolute, and
most theologians call God. This, they say—and here many who are not mystics
agree with them—is the hidden Truth which is the object of man’s craving;
the only satisfying goal of his quest. Hence, they should claim from us the
same attention that we give to other explorers of countries in which we are
not competent to adventure ourselves; for the mystics are the pioneers of
the spiritual world, and we have no right to deny validity to their
discoveries, merely because we lack the opportunity or the courage necessary
to those who would prosecute such explorations for themselves.

It is the object of this book to attempt a description, and also—though this
is needless for those who read that description in good faith—a
justification of these experiences and the conclusions which have been drawn
from them. So remote, however, are these matters from our ordinary habits of
thought, that their investigation entails, in those who would attempt to
understand them, a definite preparation: a purging of the intellect. As with
those who came of old to the Mysteries, purification is here the gate of
knowledge. We must come to this encounter with minds cleared of prejudice
and convention, must deliberately break with our inveterate habit of taking
the “visible world” for granted; our lazy assumption that somehow science is
“real” and metaphysics is not. We must pull down our own card
houses—descend, as the mystics say, “into our nothingness”—and examine for
ourselves the foundations of all possible human experience, before we are in
a position to criticize the buildings of the visionaries, the poets, and the
saints. We must not begin to talk of the unreal world of these dreamers
until we have discovered—if we can—a real world with which it may be

Such a criticism of reality is of course the business of philosophy. I need
hardly say that this book is not written by a philosopher, nor is it
addressed to students of that imperial science. Nevertheless, amateurs
though we be, we cannot reach our starting-point without trespassing to some
extent on philosophic ground. That ground covers the whole area of first
principles: and it is to first principles that we must go, if we would
understand the true significance of the mystic type.

Let us then begin at the beginning: and remind ourselves of a few of the
trite and primary facts which all practical persons agree to ignore. That
beginning, for human thought, is of course the I, the Ego, the
self-conscious subject which is writing this book, or the other
self-conscious subject which is reading it; and which declares, in the teeth
of all arguments, I AM. [1] Here is a point as to which we all feel quite
sure. No metaphysician has yet shaken the ordinary individual’s belief in
his own existence. The uncertainties only begin for most of us when we ask
what else is .

To this I, this conscious self “imprisoned in the body like an oyster in his
shell,” [2] come, as we know, a constant stream of messages and experiences.
Chief amongst these are the stimulation of the tactile nerves whose result
we call touch, the vibrations taken up by the optic nerve which we call
light, and those taken up by the ear and perceived as sound.

What do these experiences mean? The first answer of the unsophisticated Self
is, that they indicate the nature of the external world: it is to the
“evidence of her senses” that she turns, when she is asked what the world is
like. From the messages received through those senses, which pour in on her
whether she will or no, battering upon her gateways at every instant and
from every side, she constructs that “sense-world” which is the “real and
solid world” of normal men. As the impressions come in—or rather those
interpretations of the original impressions which her nervous system
supplies—she pounces on them, much as players in the spelling game pounce on
the separate letters dealt out to them. She sorts, accepts, rejects,
combines: and then triumphantly produces from them a “concept” which is, she
says, the external world. With an enviable and amazing simplicity she
attributes her own sensations to the unknown universe. The stars, she says,
are bright; the grass is green. For her, as for the philosopher Hume,
“reality consists in impressions and ideas.”

It is immediately apparent, however, that this sense-world, this seemingly
real external universe—though it may be useful and valid in other
respects—cannot be the external world, but only the Self’s projected picture
of it. [3] It is a work of art, not a scientific fact; and, whilst it may
well possess the profound significance proper to great works of art, is
dangerous if treated as a subject of analysis. Very slight investigation
shows that it is a picture whose relation to reality is at best symbolic and
approximate, and which would have no meaning for selves whose senses, or
channels of communication, happened to be arranged upon a different plan.
The evidence of the senses, then, cannot be accepted as evidence of the
nature of ultimate reality: useful servants, they are dangerous guides. Nor
can their testimony disconcert those seekers whose reports they appear to

The conscious self sits, so to speak, at the receiving end of a telegraph
wire. On any other theory than that of mysticism, it is her one channel of
communication with the hypothetical “external world.” The receiving
instrument registers certain messages. She does not know, and—so long as she
remains dependent on that instrument—never can know, the object, the reality
at the other end of the wire, by which those messages are sent; neither can
the messages truly disclose the nature of that object. But she is justified
on the whole in accepting them as evidence that something exists beyond
herself and her receiving instrument. It is obvious that the structural
peculiarities of the telegraphic instrument will have exerted a modifying
effect upon the message. That which is conveyed as dash and dot, colour and
shape, may have been received in a very different form. Therefore this
message, though it may in a partial sense be relevant to the supposed
reality at the other end, can never be adequate to it. There will be fine
vibrations which it fails to take up, others which it confuses together.
Hence a portion of the message is always lost; or, in other language, there
are aspects of the world which we can never know.

The sphere of our possible intellectual knowledge is thus strictly
conditioned by the limits of our own personality. On this basis, not the
ends of the earth, but the external termini of our own sensory nerves, are
the termini of our explorations: and to “know oneself” is really to know
one’s universe. We are locked up with our receiving instruments: we cannot
get up and walk away in the hope of seeing whither the lines lead.
Eckhart’s words are still final for us: “the soul can only approach created
things by the voluntary reception of images.” Did some mischievous Demiurge
choose to tickle our sensory apparatus in a new way, we should receive by
this act a new universe.

William James once suggested as a useful exercise for young idealists, a
consideration of the changes which would be worked in our ordinary world if
the various branches of our receiving instruments exchanged duties; if, for
instance, we heard all colours and saw all sounds. Such a remark throws a
sudden light on the strange and apparently insane statement of the visionary
Saint-Martin, “I heard flowers that sounded, and saw notes that shone”; and
on the reports of other mystics concerning a rare moment of consciousness in
which the senses are fused into a single and ineffable act of perception,
and colour and sound are known as aspects of one thing. [4]

Since music is but an interpretation of certain vibrations undertaken by the
ear, and colour an interpretation of other vibrations performed by the eye,
this is less mad than it sounds and may yet be brought within the radius of
physical science. Did such an alteration of our senses take place the world
would still send us the same messages—that strange unknown world from which,
on this hypothesis, we are hermetically sealed—but we should interpret them
differently. Beauty would still be ours, though speaking another tongue. The
bird’s song would then strike our retina as a pageant of colour: we should
see the magical tones of the wind, hear as a great fugue the repeated and
harmonized greens of the forest, the cadences of stormy skies. Did we
realize how slight an adjustment of our organs is needed to initiate us into
such a world, we should perhaps be less contemptuous of those mystics who
tell us that they apprehended the Absolute as “heavenly music” or “Uncreated
Light”: less fanatical in our determination to make the solid “world of
common sense” the only standard of reality. This “world of common sense” is
a conceptual world. It may represent an external universe: it certainly does
represent the activity of the human mind. Within that mind it is built up:
and there most of us are content “at ease for aye to dwell,” like the soul
in the Palace of Art.

A direct encounter with absolute truth, then, appears to be impossible for
normal non-mystical consciousness. We cannot know the reality, or even prove
the existence, of the simplest object: though this is a limitation which few
people realize acutely and most would deny. But there persists in the race a
type of personality which does realize this limitation: and cannot be
content with the sham realities that furnish the universe of normal men. It
is necessary, as it seems, to the comfort of persons of this type to form
for themselves some image of the Something or Nothing which is at the end of
their telegraph lines: some “conception of being,” some “theory of
knowledge.” They are tormented by the Unknowable, ache for first principles,
demand some background to the shadow show of things. In so far as man
possesses this temperament, he hungers for reality, and must satisfy that
hunger as best he can: staving off starvation, though he many not be filled.

It is doubtful whether any two selves have offered themselves exactly the
same image of the truth outside their gates: for a living metaphysic, like a
living religion, is at bottom a strictly personal affair—a matter, as
William James reminded us, of vision rather than of argument. [5]
Nevertheless such a living metaphysic may—and if sound generally does—escape
the stigma of subjectivism by outwardly attaching itself to a traditional
School; as personal religion may and should outwardly attach itself to a
traditional church. Let us then consider shortly the results arrived at by
these traditional schools—the great classic theories concerning the nature
of reality. In them we see crystallized the best that the human intellect,
left to itself, has been able to achieve.

I. The most obvious and generally accepted explanation of the world is of
course that of Naturalism, or naive Realism: the point of view of the plain
man. Naturalism states simply that we see the real world, though we may not
see it very well. What seems to normal healthy people to be there, is
approximately there. It congratulates itself on resting in the concrete; it
accepts material things as real. In other words, our corrected and
correlated sense impressions, raised to their highest point of efficiency,
form for it the only valid material of knowledge: knowledge itself being the
classified results of exact observation.

Such an attitude as this may be a counsel of prudence, in view of our
ignorance of all that lies beyond: but it can never satisfy our hunger for
reality. It says in effect, “The room in which we find ourselves is fairly
comfortable. Draw the curtains, for the night is dark: and let us devote
ourselves to describing the furniture.” Unfortunately, however, even the
furniture refuses to accommodate itself to the naturalistic view of things.
Once we begin to examine it attentively, we find that it abounds in hints of
wonder and mystery: declares aloud that even chairs and tables are not what
they seem.

We have seen that the most elementary criticism, applied to any ordinary
object of perception, tends to invalidate the simple and comfortable creed
of “common sense”; that not merely faith but gross credulity, is needed by
the mind which would accept the apparent as the real. I say, for instance,
that I “see” a house. I can only mean by this that the part of my receiving
instrument which undertakes the duty called vision is affected in a certain
way, and arouses in my mind the idea “house.” The idea “house” is now
treated by me as a real house, and my further observations will be an
unfolding, enriching, and defining of this image. But what the external
reality is which evoked the image that I call “house,” I do not know and
never can know. It is as mysterious, as far beyond my apprehension, as the
constitution of the angelic choirs. Consciousness shrinks in terror from
contact with the mighty verb “to be.” I may of course call in one sense to
“corroborate,” as we trustfully say, the evidence of the other; may approach
the house, and touch it. Then the nerves of my hand will be affected by a
sensation which I translate as hardness and solidity; the eye by a peculiar
and wholly incomprehensible sensation called redness; and from these purely
personal changes my mind constructs and externalizes an idea which it calls
red bricks. Science herself, however, if she be asked to verify the reality
of these perceptions, at once declares that though the material world be
real, the ideas of solidity and colour are but hallucination. They belong to
the human animal, not to the physical universe: pertain to accident not
substance, as scholastic philosophy would say.

“The red brick,” says Science, “is a mere convention. In reality that bit,
like all other bits of the universe, consists, so far as I know at present,
of innumerable atoms whirling and dancing one about the other. It is no more
solid than a snowstorm. Were you to eat of Alice-in-Wonderland’s mushroom
and shrink to the dimensions of the infra-world, each atom with its
electrons might seem to you a solar system and the red brick itself a
universe. Moreover, these atoms themselves elude me as I try to grasp them.
They are only manifestations of something else. Could I track matter to its
lair, I might conceivably discover that it has no extension, and become an
idealist in spite of myself. As for redness, as you call it, that is a
question of the relation between your optic nerve and the light waves which
it is unable to absorb. This evening, when the sun slopes, your brick will
probably be purple, a very little deviation from normal vision on your part
would make it green. Even the sense that the object of perception is outside
yourself may be fancy; since you as easily attribute this external quality
to images seen in dreams, and to waking hallucinations, as you do to those
objects which, as you absurdly say, are ‘really there.’”

Further, there is no trustworthy standard by which we can separate the
“real” from the “unreal” aspects of phenomena. Such standards as exist are
conventional: and correspond to convenience, not to truth. It is no argument
to say that most men see the world in much the same way, and that this
“way” is the true standard of reality: though for practical purposes we have
agreed that sanity consists in sharing the hallucinations of our neighbours.
Those who are honest with themselves know that this “sharing” is at best
incomplete. By the voluntary adoption of a new conception of the universe,
the fitting of a new alphabet to the old Morse code—a proceeding which we
call the acquirement of knowledge—we can and do change to a marked extent
our way of seeing things: building up new worlds from old sense impressions,
and transmuting objects more easily and thoroughly than any magician. “Eyes
and ears,” said Heracleitus, “are bad witnesses to those who have barbarian
souls”: and even those whose souls are civilized tend to see and hear all
things through a temperament. In one and the same sky the poet may discover
the habitation of angels, whilst the sailor sees only a promise of dirty
weather ahead. Hence, artist and surgeon, Christian and rationalist,
pessimist and optimist, do actually and truly live in different and mutually
exclusive worlds, not only of thought but also of perception. Only the happy
circumstance that our ordinary speech is conventional, not realistic,
permits us to conceal from one another the unique and lonely world in which
each lives. Now and then an artist is born, terribly articulate, foolishly
truthful, who insists on “Speaking as he saw.” Then other men, lapped warmly
in their artificial universe, agree that he is mad: or, at the very best, an
“extraordinarily imaginative fellow.”

Moreover, even this unique world of the individual is not permanent. Each of
us, as we grow and change, works incessantly and involuntarily at the
re-making of our sensual universe. We behold at any specific moment not
“that which is,” but “that which we are”, and personality undergoes many
readjustments in the course of its passage from birth through maturity to
death. The mind which seeks the Real, then, in this shifting and subjective
“natural” world is of necessity thrown back on itself: on images and
concepts which owe more to the “seer” than to the “seen.” But Reality must
be real for all, once they have found it: must exist “in itself” upon a
plane of being unconditioned by the perceiving mind. Only thus can it
satisfy that mind’s most vital instinct, most sacred passion—its “instinct
for the Absolute,” its passion for truth.

You are not asked, as a result of these antique and elementary propositions,
to wipe clean the slate of normal human experience, and cast in your lot
with intellectual nihilism. You are only asked to acknowledge that it is but
a slate, and that the white scratches upon it which the ordinary man calls
facts, and the Scientific Realist calls knowledge, are at best relative and
conventionalized symbols of that aspect of the unknowable reality at which
they hint. This being so, whilst we must all draw a picture of some kind on
our slate and act in relation therewith, we cannot deny the validity—though
we may deny the usefulness—of the pictures which others produce, however
abnormal and impossible they may seem; since these are sketching an aspect
of reality which has not come within our sensual field, and so does not and
cannot form part of our world. Yet as the theologian claims that the
doctrine of the Trinity veils and reveals not Three but One, so the varied
aspects under which the universe appears to the perceiving consciousness
hint at a final reality, or in Kantian language, a Transcendental Object,
which shall be, not any one, yet all of its manifestations; transcending yet
including the innumerable fragmentary worlds of individual conception. We
begin, then, to ask what can be the nature of this One; and whence comes the
persistent instinct which—receiving no encouragement from sense
experience—apprehends and desires this unknown unity, this all-inclusive
Absolute, as the only possible satisfaction of its thirst for truth.

2. The second great conception of Being— Idealism— has arrived by a process
of elimination at a tentative answer to this question. It whisks us far from
the material universe, with its interesting array of “things,” its
machinery, its law, into the pure, if thin, air of a metaphysical world.
Whilst the naturalist’s world is constructed from an observation of the
evidence offered by the senses, the Idealist’s world is constructed from an
observation of the processes of thought. There are but two things, he says
in effect, about which we are sure: the existence of a thinking subject, a
conscious Self, and of an object, an Idea, with which that subject deals. We
know, that is to say, both Mind and Thought. What we call the universe is
really a collection of such thoughts; and these, we agree, have been more or
less distorted by the subject, the individual thinker, in the process of
assimilation. Obviously, we do not think all that there is to be thought,
conceive all that there is to be conceived; neither do we necessarily
combine in right order and proportion those ideas which we are capable of
grasping. Reality, says Objective Idealism, is the complete, undistorted
Object, the big thought, of which we pick up these fragmentary hints: the
world of phenomena which we treat as real being merely its shadow show or
“manifestation in space and time.”

According to the form of Objective Idealism here chosen from amongst many as
typical—for almost every Idealist has his own scheme of metaphysical
salvation [6] —we live in a universe which is, in popular language, the
Idea, or Dream of its Creator. We, as Tweedledum explained to Alice in the
most philosophic of all fairy tales, are “just part of the dream.” All life,
all phenomena, are the endless modifications and expressions of the one
transcendent Object, the mighty and dynamic Thought of one Absolute Thinker,
in which we are bathed. This Object, or certain aspects of it—and the place
of each individual consciousness within the Cosmic Thought, or, as we say,
our position in life, largely determines which these aspects shall be—is
interpreted by the senses and conceived by the mind, under limitations which
we are accustomed to call matter, space and time. But we have no reason to
suppose that matter, space, and time are necessarily parts of reality; of
the ultimate Idea. Probability points rather to their being the pencil and
paper with which we sketch it. As our vision, our idea of things, tends to
approximate more and more to that of the Eternal Idea, so we get nearer and
nearer to reality: for the idealist’s reality is simply the Idea, or Thought
of God. This, he says, is the supreme unity at which all the illusory
appearances that make up the widely differing worlds of “common sense,” of
science, of metaphysics, and of art dimly hint. This is the sense in which
it can truly be said that only the supernatural possesses reality; for that
world of appearance which we call natural is certainly largely made up of
preconception and illusion, of the hints offered by the eternal real world
of Idea outside our gates, and the quaint concepts which we at our receiving
instrument manufacture from them.

There is this to be said for the argument of Idealism: that in the last
resort, the destinies of mankind are invariably guided, not by the concrete
“facts” of the sense world, but by concepts which are acknowledged by every
one to exist only on the mental plane. In the great moments of existence,
when he rises to spiritual freedom, these are the things which every man
feels to be real. It is by these and for these that he is found willing to
live, work suffer, and die. Love, patriotism, religion, altruism, fame, all
belong to the transcendental world. Hence, they partake more of the nature
of reality than any “fact” could do; and man, dimly recognizing this, has
ever bowed to them as to immortal centres of energy. Religions as a rule are
steeped in idealism: Christianity in particular is a trumpet call to an
idealistic conception of life, Buddhism is little less. Over and over again,
their Scriptures tell us that only materialists will be damned.

In Idealism we have perhaps the most sublime theory of Being which has ever
been constructed by the human intellect: a theory so sublime, in fact, that
it can hardly have been produced by the exercise of “pure reason” alone, but
must be looked upon as a manifestation of that natural mysticism, that
instinct for the Absolute, which is latent in man. But, when we ask the
idealist how we are to attain communion with the reality which he describes
to us as “certainly there,” his system suddenly breaks down; and discloses
itself as a diagram of the heavens, not a ladder to the stars. This failure
of Idealism to find in practice the reality of which it thinks so much is
due, in the opinion of the mystics, to a cause which finds epigrammatic
expression in the celebrated phrase by which St. Jerome marked the
distinction between religion and philosophy. “Plato located the soul of man
in the head; Christ located it in the heart.” That is to say, Idealism,
though just in its premises, and often daring and honest in their
application, is stultified by the exclusive intellectualism of its own
methods: by its fatal trust in the squirrel-work of the industrious brain
instead of the piercing vision of the desirous heart. It interests man, but
does not involve him in its processes: does not catch him up to the new and
more real life which it describes. Hence the thing that matters, the living
thing, has somehow escaped it; and its observations bear the same relation
to reality as the art of the anatomist does to the mystery of birth.

3. But there is yet another Theory of Being to be considered: that which may
be loosely defined as Philosophic Scepticism. This is the attitude of those
who refuse to accept either the realistic or the idealistic answer to the
eternal question: and, confronted in their turn with the riddle of reality,
reply that there is no riddle to solve. We of course assume for the ordinary
purposes of life that for every sequence a: b: present in our consciousness
there exists a mental or material A: B: in the external universe, and that
the first is a strictly relevant, though probably wholly inadequate,
expression of the second. The bundle of visual and auditory sensations, for
instance, whose sum total I am accustomed to call Mrs. Smith, corresponds
with something that exists in the actual as well as in my phenomenal world.
Behind my Mrs. Smith, behind the very different Mrs. Smith which the X rays
would exhibit, there is, contends the Objective Idealist, a transcendental,
or in the Platonic sense an ideal Mrs. Smith, at whose qualities I cannot
even guess; but whose existence is quite independent of my apprehension of
it. But though we do and must act on this hypothesis, it remains only a
hypothesis; and it is one which philosophic scepticism will not let pass.

The external world, say the sceptical schools, is—so far as I know it—a
concept present in my mind. If my mind ceased to exist, so far as I know the
concept which I call the world would cease to exist too. The one thing which
for me indubitably is, isthe self’s experience, its whole consciousness.
Outside this circle of consciousness I have no authority to indulge in
guesses as to what may or may not Be. Hence, for me, the Absolute is a
meaningless diagram, a superfluous complication of thought: since the mind,
wholly cut off from contact with external reality, has no reason to suppose
that such a reality exists except in its own ideas. Every effort made by
philosophy to go forth in search of it is merely the metaphysical squirrel
running round the conceptual cage. In the completion and perfect unfolding
of the set of ideas with which our consciousness is furnished, lies the only
reality which we can ever hope to know. Far better to stay here and make
ourselves at home: only this, for us, truly is.

This purely subjective conception of Being has found representatives in
every school of thought: even including by a curious paradox, that of
mystical philosophy—its one effective antagonist. Thus Delacroix, after an
exhaustive and even sympathetic analysis of St. Teresa’s progress towards
union with the Absolute, ends upon the assumption that the God with whom she
was united was the content of her own subconscious mind. [7] Such a
mysticism is that of a kitten running after its own tail: a different path
indeed from that which the great seekers for reality have pursued. The
reductio ad absurdum of this doctrine is found in the so-called
“philosophy” of New Thought, which begs its disciples to “try quietly to
realize that the Infinite is really You.” [8] By its utter denial not merely
of a knowable, but of a logically conceivable Transcendent, it drives us in
the end to the conclusion of extreme pragmatism; that Truth, for us, is not
an immutable reality, but merely that idea which happens to work out as true
and useful in any given experience. There is no reality behind appearance;
therefore all faiths, all figments with which we people that nothingness are
equally true, provided they be comfortable and good to live by.

Logically carried out, this conception of Being would permit each man to
regard other men as non-existent except within his own consciousness: the
only place where a strict scepticism will allow that anything exists. Even
the mind which conceives consciousness exists for us only in our own
conception of it; we no more know what we are than we know what we shall be.
Man is left a conscious Something in the midst, so far as he knows, of
Nothing: with no resources save the exploring of his own consciousness.

Philosophic scepticism is particularly interesting to our present inquiry,
because it shows us the position in which “pure reason,” if left to itself,
is bound to end. It is utterly logical; and though we may feel it to be
absurd, we can never prove it to be so. Those who are temperamentally
inclined to credulity may become naturalists, and persuade themselves to
believe in the reality of the sense world. Those with a certain instinct for
the Absolute may adopt the more reasonable faith of idealism. But the true
intellectualist, who concedes nothing to instinct or emotion, is obliged in
the end to adopt some form of sceptical philosophy. The horrors of nihilism,
in fact, can only be escaped by the exercise of faith, by a trust in man’s
innate but strictly irrational instinct for that Real “above all reason,
beyond all thought” towards which at its best moments his spirit tends. If
the metaphysician be true to his own postulates, he must acknowledge in the
end that we are all forced to live, to think, and at last to die, in an
unknown and unknowable world: fed arbitrarily and diligently, yet how we
know not, by ideas and suggestions whose truth we cannot test but whose
pressure we cannot resist. It is not by sight but by faith—faith in a
supposed external order which we can never prove to exist, and in the
approximate truthfulness and constancy of the vague messages which we
receive from it—that ordinary men must live and move. We must put our trust
in “laws of nature” which have been devised by the human mind as a
convenient epitome of its own observations of phenomena, must, for the
purposes of daily life, accept these phenomena at their face value: an act
of faith beside which the grossest superstitions of the Neapolitan peasant
are hardly noticeable.

The intellectual quest of Reality, then, leads us down one of three blind
alleys: (1) To an acceptance of the symbolic world of appearance as the
real; (2) to the elaboration of a theory also of necessity symbolic—which,
beautiful in itself, cannot help us to attain the Absolute which it
describes; (3) to a hopeless but strictly logical skepticism.

In answer to the “Why? Why?” of the bewildered and eternal child in us,
philosophy, though always ready to postulate the unknown if she can, is
bound to reply only, “Nescio! Nescio!” In spite of all her busy map-making,
she cannot reach the goal which she points out to us, cannot explain the
curious conditions under which we imagine that we know; cannot even divide
with a sure hand the subject and object of thought. Science, whose business
is with phenomena and our knowledge of them, though she too is an idealist
at heart, has been accustomed to explain that all our ideas and instincts,
the pictured world that we take so seriously, the oddly limited and illusory
nature of our experience, appear to minister to one great end: the
preservation of life, and consequent fulfilment of that highly mystical
hypothesis, the Cosmic Idea. Each perception, she assures us, serves a
useful purpose in this evolutionary scheme: a scheme, by the way, which has
been invented—we know not why—by the human mind, and imposed upon an
obedient universe.

By vision, hearing, smell, and touch, says Science, we find our way about,
are warned of danger, obtain our food. The male perceives beauty in the
female in order that the species may be propagated. It is true that this
primitive instinct has given birth to higher and purer emotions; but these
too fulfil a social purpose and are not so useless as they seem. Man must
eat to live, therefore many foods give us agreeable sensations. If he
overeats, he dies; therefore indigestion is an unpleasant pain. Certain
facts of which too keen a perception would act detrimentally to the
life-force are, for most men, impossible of realization: i.e. , the
uncertainty of life, the decay of the body, the vanity of all things under
the sun. When we are in good health, we all feel very real, solid, and
permanent; and this is of all our illusions the most ridiculous, and also
the most obviously useful from the point of view of the efficiency and
preservation of the race.

But when we look closer, we see that this brisk generalization does not
cover all the ground—not even that little tract of ground of which our
senses make us free; indeed, that it is more remarkable for its omissions
than for its inclusions. Récéjac has well said that “from the moment in
which man is no longer content to devise things useful for his existence
under the exclusive action of the will-to-live, the principle of (physical)
evolution has been violated.” [9] Nothing can be more certain than that man
is not so content. He has been called by utilitarian philosophers a
tool-making animal—the highest praise they knew how to bestow. More surely
he is a vision-making animal; [10] a creature of perverse and unpractical
ideals, dominated by dreams no less than by appetites—dreams which can only
be justified upon the theory that he moves towards some other goal than that
of physical perfection or intellectual supremacy, is controlled by some
higher and more vital reality than that of the determinists. We are driven
to the conclusion that if the theory of evolution is to include or explain
the facts of artistic and spiritual experience—and it cannot be accepted by
any serious thinker if these great tracts of consciousness remain outside
its range—it must be rebuilt on a mental rather than a physical basis.

Even the most ordinary human life includes in its range fundamental
experiences—violent and unforgettable sensations—forced on us as it were
against our will, for which science finds it hard to account. These
experiences and sensations, and the hours of exalted emotion which they
bring with them—often recognized by us as the greatest, most significant
hours of our lives—fulfil no office in relation to her pet “functions of
nutrition and reproduction.” It is true that they are far-reaching in their
effects on character; but they do little or nothing to assist that character
in its struggle for physical life. To the unprejudiced eye many of them seem
hopelessly out of place in a universe constructed on strictly
physico-chemical lines—look almost as though nature, left to herself, tended
to contradict her own beautifully logical laws. Their presence, more, the
large place which they fill in the human world of appearance, is a puzzling
circumstance for deterministic philosophers; who can only escape from the
dilemma here presented to them by calling these things illusions, and
dignifying their own more manageable illusions with the title of facts.

Amongst the more intractable of these groups of perceptions and experiences
are those which we connect with religion, with pain and with beauty. All
three, for those selves which are capable of receiving their messages,
possess a mysterious authority far in excess of those feelings, arguments,
or appearances which they may happen to contradict. All three, were the
universe of the naturalists true, would be absurd; all three have ever been
treated with the reverence due to vital matters by the best minds of the

A. I need not point out the hopelessly irrational character of all great
religions: which rest, one and all, on a primary assumption that can never
be intellectually demonstrated, much less proved—the assumption that the
supra-sensible is somehow important and real, and is intimately connected
with the life of man. This fact has been incessantly dwelt upon by their
critics, and has provoked many a misplaced exercise of ingenuity on the part
of their intelligent friends. Yet religion—emphasizing and pushing to
extremes that general dependence on faith which we saw to be an inevitable
condition of our lives—is one of the most universal and ineradicable
functions of man, and this although it constantly acts detrimentally to the
interests of his merely physical existence, opposes “the exclusive action of
the will-to-live,” except in so far as that will aspires to eternal life.
Strictly utilitarian, almost logical in the savage, religion becomes more
and more transcendental with the upward progress of the race. It begins as
black magic; it ends as Pure Love. Why did the Cosmic Idea elaborate this
religious instinct, if the construction put upon its intentions by the
determinists be true?

B. Consider again the whole group of phenomena which are known as “the
problem of suffering”: the mental anguish and physical pain which appear to
be the inevitable result of the steady operation of “natural law” and its
voluntary assistants, the cruelty, greed, and injustice of man. Here, it is
true, the naturalist seems at first sight to make a little headway, and can
point to some amongst the cruder forms of suffering which are clearly useful
to the race: punishing us for past follies, spurring to new efforts, warning
against future infringements of “law.” But he forgets the many others which
refuse to be resumed under this simple formula: forgets to explain how it is
that the Cosmic Idea involves the long torments of the incurable, the
tortures of the innocent, the deep anguish of the bereaved, the existence of
so many gratuitously agonizing forms of death. He forgets, too, the strange
fact that man’s capacity for suffering tends to increase in depth and
subtlety with the increase of culture and civilization; ignores the still
more mysterious, perhaps most significant circumstance that the highest
types have accepted it eagerly and willingly, have found in Pain the grave
but kindly teacher of immortal secrets, the conferrer of liberty, even the
initiator into amazing joys.

Those who “explain” suffering as the result of nature’s immense fecundity—a
by-product of that overcrowding and stress through which the fittest tend to
survive—forget that even were this demonstration valid and complete it would
leave the real problem untouched. The question is not, whence come those
conditions which provoke in the self the experiences called sorrow, anxiety,
pain: but, why do these conditions hurt the self? The pain is mental; a
little chloroform, and though the conditions continue unabated the suffering
is gone. Why does full consciousness always include the mysterious capacity
for misery as well as for happiness—a capacity which seems at first sight to
invalidate any conception of the Absolute as Beautiful and Good? Why does
evolution, as we ascend the ladder of life, foster instead of diminishing
the capacity for useless mental anguish, for long, dull torment, bitter
grief? Why, when so much lies outside our limited powers of perception, when
so many of our own most vital functions are unperceived by consciousness,
does suffering of some sort form an integral part of the experience of man?
For utilitarian purposes acute discomfort would be quite enough; the Cosmic
Idea, as the determinists explain it, did not really need an apparatus which
felt all the throes of cancer, the horrors of neurasthenia, the pangs of
birth. Still less did it need the torments of impotent sympathy for other
people’s irremediable pain the dreadful power of feeling the world’s woe. We
are hopelessly over-sensitized for the part science calls us to play.

Pain, however we may look at it, indicates a profound disharmony between the
sense-world and the human self. If it is to be vanquished, either the
disharmony must be resolved by a deliberate and careful adjustment of the
self to the world of sense, or, that self must turn from the sense-world to
some other with which it is in tune. [11] Pessimist and optimist here join
hands. But whilst the pessimist, resting in appearance, only sees “nature
red in tooth and claw” offering him little hope of escape, the optimist
thinks that pain and anguish—which may in their lower forms be life’s harsh
guides on the path of physical evolution—in their higher and apparently
“useless” developments are her leaders and teachers in the upper school of
Supra-sensible Reality. He believes that they press the self towards another
world, still “natural” for him, though “supernatural” for his antagonist, in
which it will be more at home. Watching life, he sees in Pain the complement
of Love: and is inclined to call these the wings on which man’s spirit can
best take flight towards the Absolute. Hence he can say with A Kempis,
“Gloriari in tribulatione non est grave amanti,” [12] and needs not to speak
of morbid folly when he sees the Christian saints run eagerly and merrily to
the Cross. [13]

He calls suffering the “gymnastic of eternity,” the “terrible initiative
caress of God”; recognizing in it a quality for which the disagreeable
rearrangement of nerve molecules cannot account. Sometimes, in the excess of
his optimism, he puts to the test of practice this theory with all its
implications. Refusing to be deluded by the pleasures of the sense world, he
accepts instead of avoiding pain, and becomes an ascetic; a puzzling type
for the convinced naturalist, who, falling back upon contempt—that favourite
resource of the frustrated reason—can only regard him as diseased.

Pain, then, which plunges like a sword through creation, leaving on the one
side cringing and degraded animals and on the other side heroes and saints,
is one of those facts of universal experience which are peculiarly
intractable from the point of view of a merely materialistic philosophy.

C. From this same point of view the existence of music and poetry, the
qualities of beauty and of rhythm, the evoked sensations of awe, reverence,
and rapture, are almost as difficult to account for. The question why an
apparent corrugation of the Earth’s surface, called for convenience’ sake an
Alp, coated with congealed water, and perceived by us as a snowy peak,
should produce in certain natures acute sensations of ecstasy and adoration,
why the skylark’s song should catch us up to heaven, and wonder and mystery
speak to us alike in “the little speedwell’s darling blue” and in the
cadence of the wind, is a problem that seems to be merely absurd, until it
is seen to be insoluble. Here Madam How and Lady Why alike are silent. With
all our busy seeking, we have not found the sorting house where loveliness
is extracted from the flux of things. We know not why “great” poetry should
move us to unspeakable emotion, or a stream of notes, arranged in a peculiar
sequence, catch us up to heightened levels of vitality: nor can we guess how
a passionate admiration for that which we call “best” in art or letters can
possibly contribute to the physical evolution of the race. In spite of many
lengthy disquisitions on Esthetics, Beauty’s secret is still her own. A
shadowy companion, half seen, half guessed at, she keeps step with the
upward march of life: and we receive her message and respond to it, not
because we understand it but because we must .

Here it is that we approach that attitude of the self, that point of view,
which is loosely and generally called mystical. Here, instead of those broad
blind alleys which philosophy showed us, a certain type of mind has always
discerned three strait and narrow ways going out towards the Absolute. In
religion, in pain, and in beauty—and not only in these, but in many other
apparently useless peculiarities of the empirical world and of the
perceiving consciousness—these persons insist that they recognize at least
the fringe of the real. Down these three paths, as well as by many another
secret way, they claim that news comes to the self concerning levels of
reality which in their wholeness are inaccessible to the senses: worlds
wondrous and immortal, whose existence is not conditioned by the “given”
world which those senses report. “Beauty,” said Hegel, who, though he was no
mystic, had a touch of that mystical intuition which no philosopher can
afford to be without, “is merely the Spiritual making itself known
sensuously.” [14] In the good, the beautiful, the true,” says Rudolph
Eucken, “we see Reality revealing its personal character. They are parts of
a coherent and substantial spiritual world.” [15] Here, some of the veils of
that substantial world are stripped off: Reality peeps through and is
recognized, dimly or acutely, by the imprisoned self.

Récéjac only develops this idea when he says, [16] “If the mind penetrates
deeply into the facts of aesthetics, it will find more and more, that these
facts are based upon an ideal identity between the mind itself and things.
At a certain point the harmony becomes so complete, and the finality so
close that it gives us actual emotion. The Beautiful then becomes the
sublime; brief apparition, by which the soul is caught up into the true
mystic state, and touches the Absolute. It is scarcely possible to persist
in this Esthetic perception without feeling lifted up by it above things and
above ourselves, in an ontological vision which closely resembles the
Absolute of the Mystics.” It was of this underlying reality—this truth of
things—that St. Augustine cried in a moment of lucid vision, “Oh, Beauty so
old and so new, too late have I loved thee!” [17] It is in this sense also
that “beauty is truth, truth beauty”: and as regards the knowledge of
ultimate things which is possible to ordinary men, it may well be that

“That is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

“Of Beauty,” says Plato in an immortal passage, “I repeat again that we saw
her there shining in company with the celestial forms; and coming to earth
we find her here too, shining in clearness through the clearest aperture of
sense. For sight is the most piercing of our bodily senses: though not by
that is wisdom seen; her loveliness would have been transporting if there
had been a visible image of her, and the other ideas, if they had visible
counterparts, would be equally lovely. But this is the privilege of Beauty,
that being the loveliest she is also the most palpable to sight. Now he who
is not newly initiated, or who has been corrupted, does not easily rise out
of this world to the sight of true beauty in the other. . . . But he whose
initiation is recent, and who has been the spectator of many glories in the
other world, is amazed when he sees anyone having a godlike face or form,
which is the expression of Divine Beauty; and at first a shudder runs
through him, and again the old awe steals over him. . . .” [18]

Most men in the course of their lives have known such Platonic hours of
initiation, when the sense of beauty has risen from a pleasant feeling to a
passion, and an element of strangeness and terror has been mingled with
their joy. In those hours the world has seemed charged with a new vitality;
with a splendour which does not belong to it but is poured through it, as
light through a coloured window, grace through a sacrament, from that
Perfect Beauty which “shines in company with the celestial forms” beyond the
pale of appearance. In such moods of heightened consciousness each blade of
grass seems fierce with meaning, and becomes a well of wondrous light: a
“little emerald set in the City of God.” The seeing self is indeed an
initiate thrust suddenly into the sanctuary of the mysteries: and feels the
“old awe and amazement” with which man encounters the Real. In such
experiences, a new factor of the eternal calculus appears to be thrust in on
us, a factor which no honest seeker for truth can afford to neglect; since,
if it be dangerous to say that any two systems of knowledge are mutually
exclusive, it is still more dangerous to give uncritical priority to any one
system. We are bound, then, to examine this path to reality as closely and
seriously as we should investigate the most neatly finished safety-ladder of
solid ash which offered a salita alle stelle.

Why, after all, take as our standard a material world whose existence is
affirmed by nothing more trustworthy than the sense-impressions of “normal
men”; those imperfect and easily cheated channels of communication? The
mystics, those adventurers of whom we spoke upon the first page of this
book, have always declared, implicitly or explicitly, their distrust in
these channels of communication. They have never been deceived by phenomena,
nor by the careful logic of the industrious intellect. One after another,
with extraordinary unanimity, they have rejected that appeal to the unreal
world of appearance which is the standard of sensible men: affirming that
there is another way, another secret, by which the conscious self may reach
the actuality which it seeks. More complete in their grasp of experience
than the votaries of intellect or of sense, they accept as central for life
those spiritual messages which are mediated by religion, by beauty, and by
pain. More reasonable than the rationalists, they find in that very hunger
for reality which is the mother of all metaphysics, an implicit proof that
such reality exists; that there is something else, some final satisfaction,
beyond the ceaseless stream of sensation which besieges consciousness. “In
that thou hast sought me, thou hast already found me,” says the voice of
Absolute Truth in their ears. This is the first doctrine of mysticism. Its
next is that only in so far as the self is real can it hope to know Reality:
like to like: Cot ad cot loquitur. Upon the propositions implicit in these
two laws the whole claim and practice of the mystic life depends.

“Finite as we are,” they say—and here they speak not for themselves, but for
the race—“lost though we seem to be in the woods or in the wide air’s
wilderness, in this world of time and of chance, we have still, like the
strayed animals or like the migrating birds, our homing instinct. . . . We
seek. That is a fact. We seek a city still out of sight. In the contrast
with this goal, we live. But if this be so, then already we possess
something of Being even in our finite seeking. For the readiness to seek is
already something of an attainment, even if a poor one.” [19]

Further, in this seeking we are not wholly dependent on that homing
instinct. For some, who have climbed to the hill-tops, that city is not
really out of sight. The mystics see it and report to us concerning it.
Science and metaphysics may do their best and their worst: but these
pathfinders of the spirit never falter in their statements concerning that
independent spiritual world which is the only goal of “pilgrim man.” They
say that messages come to him from that spiritual world, that complete
reality which we call Absolute: that we are not, after all, hermetically
sealed from it. To all who will receive it, news comes of a world of
Absolute Life, Absolute Beauty, Absolute Truth, beyond the bourne of time
and place: news that most of us translate—and inevitably distort in the
process—into the language of religion, of beauty, of love, or of pain.

Of all those forms of life and thought with which humanity has fed its
craving for truth, mysticism alone postulates, and in the persons of its
great initiates proves, not only the existence of the Absolute, but also
this link: this possibility first of knowing, finally of attaining it. It
denies that possible knowledge is to be limited (a) to sense impressions,
(b) to any process of intellection, (c) to the unfolding of the content of
normal consciousness. Such diagrams of experience, it says, are hopelessly
incomplete. The mystics find the basis of their method not in logic but in
life: in the existence of a discoverable “real,” a spark of true being,
within the seeking subject, which can, in that ineffable experience which
they call the “act of union,” fuse itself with and thus apprehend the
reality of the sought Object. In theological language, their theory of
knowledge is that the spirit of man, itself essentially divine, is capable
of immediate communion with God, the One Reality. [20]

In mysticism that love of truth which we saw as the beginning of all
philosophy leaves the merely intellectual sphere, and takes on the assured
aspect of a personal passion. Where the philosopher guesses and argues, the
mystic lives and looks; and speaks, consequently, the disconcerting language
of first-hand experience, not the neat dialectic of the schools. Hence
whilst the Absolute of the metaphysicians remains a diagram—impersonal and
unattainable—the Absolute of the mystics is lovable, attainable, alive.

“Oh, taste and see!” they cry, in accents of astounding certainty and joy.
“Ours is an experimental science. We can but communicate our system, never
its result. We come to you not as thinkers, but as doers. Leave your deep
and absurd trust in the senses, with their language of dot and dash, which
may possibly report fact but can never communicate personality. If
philosophy has taught you anything, she has surely taught you the length of
her tether, and the impossibility of attaining to the doubtless admirable
grazing land which lies beyond it. One after another, idealists have arisen
who, straining frantically at the rope, have announced to the world their
approaching liberty; only to be flung back at last into the little circle of
sensation. But here we are, a small family, it is true, yet one that refuses
to die out, assuring you that we have slipped the knot and are free of those
grazing grounds. This is evidence which you are bound to bring into account
before you can add up the sum total of possible knowledge; for you will find
it impossible to prove that the world as seen by the mystics, ‘unimaginable,
formless, dark with excess of bright,’ is less real than that which is
expounded by the youngest and most promising demonstrator of a
physicochemical universe. We will be quite candid with you. Examine us as
much as you like: our machinery, our veracity, our results. We cannot
promise that you shall see what we have seen, for here each man must
adventure for himself; but we defy you to stigmatize our experiences as
impossible or invalid. Is your world of experience so well and logically
founded that you dare make of it a standard? Philosophy tells you that it is
founded on nothing better than the reports of your sensory apparatus and the
traditional concepts of the race. Certainly it is imperfect, probably it is
illusion in any event, it never touches the foundation of things. Whereas
‘what the world, which truly knows nothing, calls “mysticism” is the science
of ultimates, . . . the science of self-evident Reality, which cannot be
“reasoned about,” because it is the object of pure reason or perception.’“

[1] Even this I AM, which has seemed safe ground to most metaphysicians, is
of course combated by certain schools of philosophy. “The word Sum ,” said
Eckhart long ago, “can be spoken by no creature but by God only: for it
becomes the creature to testify of itself Non Sum .” In a less mystical
strain Lotze, and after him Bradley and other modern writers, have devoted
much destructive criticism to the concept of the Ego as the starting-point
of philosophy: looking upon it as a large, and logically unwarrantable,

[2] Plato, “Phaedrus,” § 250.

[3] Thus Eckhart, “Every time that the powers of the soul come into contact
with created things, they receive the create images and likenesses from the
created thing and absorb them. In this way arises the soul’s knowledge of
created things. Created things cannot come nearer to the soul than this, and
the soul can only approach created things by the voluntary reception of
images. And it is through the presence of the image that the soul approaches
the created world: for the image is a Thing, which the soul creates with her
own powers. Does the soul want to know the nature of a stone—horse—a man?
She forms an image.”—-Meister Eckhart, Pred. i. (“Mystische Schriften,” p.

[4] Thus Edward Carpenter says of his own experience of the mystical
consciousness, “The perception seems to be one in which all the senses unite
into one sense” (quoted in Bucke’s “Cosmic Consciousness,” p. 198).

[5] “A Pluralistic Universe,” p. 10.

[6] There are four main groups of such schemes: (1) Subjective; (2)
Objective; (3) Transcendental (Kantian); (4) Absolute (Hegelian). To this
last belongs by descent the Immanental Idealism of Croce and Gentile.

[7] Delacroix, “Études sur le Mysticisme,” p. 62.

[8] E. Towne, “Just how to Wake the Solar Plexus,” p. 25.

[9] “Fondements de la Connaissance Mystique,” p. 15.

[10] Or, as Aristotle, and after him St. Thomas Aquinas, suggest, a
contemplative animal, since “this act alone in man is proper to him, and is
in no way shared by any other being in this world” (“Summa Contra
Gentiles,” 1. iii, cap. xxxvii., Rickaby’s translation).

[11] All the healing arts, from Aesculapius and Galen to Metchnikoff and
Mrs. Eddy, have virtually accepted and worked upon these two principles.

[12] “De Imitatione Christi.” I. ii. cap. vi.

[13] “Such as these, I say, as if enamoured by My honour and famished for
the food of souls, run to the table of the Most holy Cross, willing to
suffer pain. . . . To these, My most dear sons, trouble is a pleasure, and
pleasure and every consolation that the world would offer them are a toil”
(St. Catherine ofSiena, Dialogo, cap. xxviii.). Here and throughout I have
used Thorold’s translation.

[14] “Philosophy of Religion,” vol. ii. p. 8.

[15] “Der Sinn und Wert des Lebens,” p. 148.

[16] “Fondements de la Connaissance Mystique,” p. 74.

[17] Aug. Conf., bk. x. cap. xxvii.

[18] “Phaedrus,” § 250 (Jowett’s translation). The reference in the phrase
“he whose initiation is recent” is to the rite of admission into the Orphic
Mysteries. It is believed by some authorities that the neophyte may have
been cast into an hypnotic sleep by his “initiator,” and whilst in this
condition a vision of the “glories of the other world” suggested to him. The
main phenomena of “conversion” would thus be artificially produced: but the
point of attack being the mind rather than the heart, the results, as would
appear from the context, were usually transient.

[19] Royce, “The World and the Individual,” vol. i. p. 181.

[20] The idea of Divine Union as man’s true end is of course of great
antiquity. Its first definite appearance in the religious consciousness of
Europe seems to coincide with the establishment of the Orphic Mysteries in
Greece and Southern Italy in the sixth century B.C. See Rohde: “Psyche,”
cap. 10, and Adam, “The Religious Teachers of Greece,” p. 92.

[21] Coventry Patmore, “The Rod, the Root, and the Flower,” “Aurea Dicta,”