by William James

Lectures XVI and XVII of The Varieties of Religious Experience contain the essential core of William James's contribution to the study of religion: a sustained, empirical investigation of mystical states of consciousness as real psychological data. The lectures were delivered as part of the Gifford Lectures at Edinburgh in 1901–1902 and published the same year. James begins by proposing four marks that define mystical experience — ineffability, noetic quality, transiency, and passivity — and then moves through a rich catalog of examples: from ordinary flashes of deepened significance, through nitrous oxide intoxication, nature mysticism, and the yogic samadhi, to the heights of Christian contemplative experience in Saint Teresa and Saint John of the Cross. The chapter closes with a carefully qualified three-part judgment on what mystical states do and do not warrant us in believing.

William James (1842–1910) was an American philosopher and psychologist, the founder of pragmatism and functional psychology, and one of the most wide-ranging minds of the nineteenth century. Born in New York to the theologian Henry James Sr. and brother to the novelist Henry James, he studied medicine at Harvard before turning to philosophy and psychology. His Principles of Psychology (1890) established him as the foremost psychologist in the English-speaking world. The Gifford Lectures represent the summit of his religious and philosophical thinking — an attempt to treat personal religious experience with the same seriousness that a scientist would bring to any other class of phenomena, without either dismissing it as pathology or accepting it uncritically as revelation.

The lecture text is from the first edition, published by Longmans, Green, and Co. (London and New York, 1902), as reproduced in the Project Gutenberg digital edition (PG #621). James's endnotes, which in the original appear as footnotes keyed to the lecture page, are collected here as numbered Notes following the body of the text. All endnote references have been removed from the body to preserve clean reading; readers interested in the scholarly apparatus will find the full notes below.

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.

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.

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:—

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.

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.” This sense of
deeper significance is not confined to rational propositions. Single
words, 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.

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.”

Sir James Crichton-Browne has given the technical name of “dreamy states”
to these sudden invasions of vaguely reminiscent consciousness. 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.

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?”

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
anæsthetic 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?”

In a recital like this there is certainly something suggestive of
pathology. 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 anæsthetics, 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.

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.

I just now spoke of friends who believe in the anæsthetic 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.”

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
anæsthetics, 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?”

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.”

Certain aspects of nature seem to have a peculiar power of awakening such
mystical moods. 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:—

“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.”

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 Dauphiné, 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. Earth, heaven, and sea resounded as in one vast
world-encircling harmony. It was as if the chorus of all the great
who had ever lived were about me. I felt myself one with them, and
it appeared as if I heard their greeting: ‘Thou too belongest to
the company of those who overcome.’ ”

The well-known passage from Walt Whitman is a classical expression of this
sporadic type of mystical experience.

“I believe in you, my Soul ...
Loaf with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat;...
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer morning.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that
pass all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love.”

I could easily give more instances, but one will suffice. I take it from
the Autobiography of J. Trevor.

“One brilliant Sunday morning, my wife and boys went to the
Unitarian Chapel in Macclesfield. I felt it impossible to
accompany them—as though to leave the sunshine on the hills, and
go down there to the chapel, would be for the time an act of
spiritual suicide. And I felt such need for new inspiration and
expansion in my life. So, very reluctantly and sadly, I left my
wife and boys to go down into the town, while I went further up
into the hills with my stick and my dog. In the loveliness of the
morning, and the beauty of the hills and valleys, I soon lost my
sense of sadness and regret. For nearly an hour I walked along the
road to the ‘Cat and Fiddle,’ and then returned. On the way back,
suddenly, without warning, I felt that I was in Heaven—an inward
state of peace and joy and assurance indescribably intense,
accompanied with a sense of being bathed in a warm glow of light,
as though the external condition had brought about the internal
effect—a feeling of having passed beyond the body, though the
scene around me stood out more clearly and as if nearer to me than
before, by reason of the illumination in the midst of which I
seemed to be placed. This deep emotion lasted, though with
decreasing strength, until I reached home, and for some time
after, only gradually passing away.”

The writer adds that having had further experiences of a similar sort, he
now knows them well.

“The spiritual life,” he writes, “justifies itself to those who
live it; but what can we say to those who do not understand? This,
at least, we can say, that it is a life whose experiences are
proved real to their possessor, because they remain with him when
brought closest into contact with the objective realities of life.
Dreams cannot stand this test. We wake from them to find that they
are but dreams. Wanderings of an overwrought brain do not stand
this test. These highest experiences that I have had of God’s
presence have been rare and brief—flashes of consciousness which
have compelled me to exclaim with surprise—God is here!—or
conditions of exaltation and insight, less intense, and only
gradually passing away. I have severely questioned the worth of
these moments. To no soul have I named them, lest I should be
building my life and work on mere phantasies of the brain. But I
find that, after every questioning and test, they stand out to-day
as the most real experiences of my life, and experiences which
have explained and justified and unified all past experiences and
all past growth. Indeed, their reality and their far-reaching
significance are ever becoming more clear and evident. When they
came, I was living the fullest, strongest, sanest, deepest life. I
was not seeking them. What I was seeking, with resolute
determination, was to live more intensely my own life, as against
what I knew would be the adverse judgment of the world. It was in
the most real seasons that the Real Presence came, and I was aware
that I was immersed in the infinite ocean of God.”

Even the least mystical of you must by this time be convinced of the
existence of mystical moments as states of consciousness of an entirely
specific quality, and of the deep impression which they make on those who
have them. A Canadian psychiatrist, Dr. R. M. Bucke, gives to the more
distinctly characterized of these phenomena the name of cosmic
consciousness. “Cosmic consciousness in its more striking instances is
not,” Dr. Bucke says, “simply an expansion or extension of the self-
conscious mind with which we are all familiar, but the superaddition of a
function as distinct from any possessed by the average man as
self-consciousness is distinct from any function possessed by one of the
higher animals.”

“The prime characteristic of cosmic consciousness is a
consciousness of the cosmos, that is, of the life and order of the
universe. Along with the consciousness of the cosmos there occurs
an intellectual enlightenment which alone would place the
individual on a new plane of existence—would make him almost a
member of a new species. To this is added a state of moral
exaltation, an indescribable feeling of elevation, elation, and
joyousness, and a quickening of the moral sense, which is fully as
striking, and more important than is the enhanced intellectual
power. With these come what may be called a sense of immortality,
a consciousness of eternal life, not a conviction that he shall
have this, but the consciousness that he has it already.”

It was Dr. Bucke’s own experience of a typical onset of cosmic
consciousness in his own person which led him to investigate it in others.
He has printed his conclusions in a highly interesting volume, from which
I take the following account of what occurred to him:—

“I had spent the evening in a great city, with two friends,
reading and discussing poetry and philosophy. We parted at
midnight. I had a long drive in a hansom to my lodging. My mind,
deeply under the influence of the ideas, images, and emotions
called up by the reading and talk, was calm and peaceful. I was in
a state of quiet, almost passive enjoyment, not actually thinking,
but letting ideas, images, and emotions flow of themselves, as it
were, through my mind. All at once, without warning of any kind, I
found myself wrapped in a flame-colored cloud. For an instant I
thought of fire, an immense conflagration somewhere close by in
that great city; the next, I knew that the fire was within myself.
Directly afterward there came upon me a sense of exultation, of
immense joyousness accompanied or immediately followed by an
intellectual illumination impossible to describe. Among other
things, I did not merely come to believe, but I saw that the
universe is not composed of dead matter, but is, on the contrary,
a living Presence; I became conscious in myself of eternal life.
It was not a conviction that I would have eternal life, but a
consciousness that I possessed eternal life then; I saw that all
men are immortal; that the cosmic order is such that without any
peradventure all things work together for the good of each and
all; that the foundation principle of the world, of all the
worlds, is what we call love, and that the happiness of each and
all is in the long run absolutely certain. The vision lasted a few
seconds and was gone; but the memory of it and the sense of the
reality of what it taught has remained during the quarter of a
century which has since elapsed. I knew that what the vision
showed was true. I had attained to a point of view from which I
saw that it must be true. That view, that conviction, I may say
that consciousness, has never, even during periods of the deepest
depression, been lost.”

We have now seen enough of this cosmic or mystic consciousness, as it
comes sporadically. We must next pass to its methodical cultivation as an
element of the religious life. Hindus, Buddhists, Mohammedans, and
Christians all have cultivated it methodically.

In India, training in mystical insight has been known from time immemorial
under the name of yoga. Yoga means the experimental union of the
individual with the divine. It is based on persevering exercise; and the
diet, posture, breathing, intellectual concentration, and moral discipline
vary slightly in the different systems which teach it. The yogi, or
disciple, who has by these means overcome the obscurations of his lower
nature sufficiently, enters into the condition termed samâdhi, “and
comes face to face with facts which no instinct or reason can ever know.”
He learns—

“That the mind itself has a higher state of existence, beyond
reason, a superconscious state, and that when the mind gets to
that higher state, then this knowledge beyond reasoning comes....
All the different steps in yoga are intended to bring us
scientifically to the superconscious state or samâdhi.... Just as
unconscious work is beneath consciousness, so there is another
work which is above consciousness, and which, also, is not
accompanied with the feeling of egoism.... There is no feeling of
I, and yet the mind works, desireless, free from restlessness,
objectless, bodiless. Then the Truth shines in its full
effulgence, and we know ourselves—for Samâdhi lies potential in us
all—for what we truly are, free, immortal, omnipotent, loosed from
the finite, and its contrasts of good and evil altogether, and
identical with the Atman or Universal Soul.”

The Vedantists say that one may stumble into superconsciousness
sporadically, without the previous discipline, but it is then impure.
Their test of its purity, like our test of religion’s value, is empirical:
its fruits must be good for life. When a man comes out of Samâdhi, they
assure us that he remains “enlightened, a sage, a prophet, a saint, his
whole character changed, his life changed, illumined.”

The Buddhists use the word “samâdhi” as well as the Hindus; but “dhyâna”
is their special word for higher states of contemplation. There seem to be
four stages recognized in dhyâna. The first stage comes through
concentration of the mind upon one point. It excludes desire, but not
discernment or judgment: it is still intellectual. In the second stage the
intellectual functions drop off, and the satisfied sense of unity remains.
In the third stage the satisfaction departs, and indifference begins,
along with memory and self-consciousness. In the fourth stage the
indifference, memory, and self-consciousness are perfected. [Just what
“memory” and “self-consciousness” mean in this connection is doubtful.
They cannot be the faculties familiar to us in the lower life.] Higher
stages still of contemplation are mentioned—a region where there exists
nothing, and where the meditator says: “There exists absolutely nothing,”
and stops. Then he reaches another region where he says: “There are
neither ideas nor absence of ideas,” and stops again. Then another region
where, “having reached the end of both idea and perception, he stops
finally.” This would seem to be, not yet Nirvâna, but as close an approach
to it as this life affords.

In the Mohammedan world the Sufi sect and various dervish bodies are the
possessors of the mystical tradition. The Sufis have existed in Persia
from the earliest times, and as their pantheism is so at variance with the
hot and rigid monotheism of the Arab mind, it has been suggested that
Sufism must have been inoculated into Islam by Hindu influences. We
Christians know little of Sufism, for its secrets are disclosed only to
those initiated. To give its existence a certain liveliness in your minds,
I will quote a Moslem document, and pass away from the subject.

Al-Ghazzali, a Persian philosopher and theologian, who flourished in the
eleventh century, and ranks as one of the greatest doctors of the Moslem
church, has left us one of the few autobiographies to be found outside of
Christian literature. Strange that a species of book so abundant among
ourselves should be so little represented elsewhere—the absence of
strictly personal confessions is the chief difficulty to the purely
literary student who would like to become acquainted with the inwardness
of religions other than the Christian.

M. Schmölders has translated a part of Al-Ghazzali’s autobiography into
French:—

“The Science of the Sufis,” says the Moslem author, “aims at
detaching the heart from all that is not God, and at giving to it
for sole occupation the meditation of the divine being. Theory
being more easy for me than practice, I read [certain books] until
I understood all that can be learned by study and hearsay. Then I
recognized that what pertains most exclusively to their method is
just what no study can grasp, but only transport, ecstasy, and the
transformation of the soul. How great, for example, is the
difference between knowing the definitions of health, of satiety,
with their causes and conditions, and being really healthy or
filled. How different to know in what drunkenness consists,—as
being a state occasioned by a vapor that rises from the
stomach,—and being drunk effectively. Without doubt, the drunken
man knows neither the definition of drunkenness nor what makes it
interesting for science. Being drunk, he knows nothing; whilst the
physician, although not drunk, knows well in what drunkenness
consists, and what are its predisposing conditions. Similarly
there is a difference between knowing the nature of abstinence,
and being abstinent or having one’s soul detached from the
world.—Thus I had learned what words could teach of Sufism, but
what was left could be learned neither by study nor through the
ears, but solely by giving one’s self up to ecstasy and leading a
pious life.

“Reflecting on my situation, I found myself tied down by a
multitude of bonds—temptations on every side. Considering my
teaching, I found it was impure before God. I saw myself
struggling with all my might to achieve glory and to spread my
name. [Here follows an account of his six months’ hesitation to
break away from the conditions of his life at Bagdad, at the end
of which he fell ill with a paralysis of the tongue.] Then,
feeling my own weakness, and having entirely given up my own will,
I repaired to God like a man in distress who has no more
resources. He answered, as he answers the wretch who invokes him.
My heart no longer felt any difficulty in renouncing glory,
wealth, and my children. So I quitted Bagdad, and reserving from
my fortune only what was indispensable for my subsistence, I
distributed the rest. I went to Syria, where I remained about two
years, with no other occupation than living in retreat and
solitude, conquering my desires, combating my passions, training
myself to purify my soul, to make my character perfect, to prepare
my heart for meditating on God—all according to the methods of the
Sufis, as I had read of them.

“This retreat only increased my desire to live in solitude, and to
complete the purification of my heart and fit it for meditation.
But the vicissitudes of the times, the affairs of the family, the
need of subsistence, changed in some respects my primitive
resolve, and interfered with my plans for a purely solitary life.
I had never yet found myself completely in ecstasy, save in a few
single hours; nevertheless, I kept the hope of attaining this
state. Every time that the accidents led me astray, I sought to
return; and in this situation I spent ten years. During this
solitary state things were revealed to me which it is impossible
either to describe or to point out. I recognized for certain that
the Sufis are assuredly walking in the path of God. Both in their
acts and in their inaction, whether internal or external, they are
illumined by the light which proceeds from the prophetic source.
The first condition for a Sufi is to purge his heart entirely of
all that is not God. The next key of the contemplative life
consists in the humble prayers which escape from the fervent soul,
and in the meditations on God in which the heart is swallowed up
entirely. But in reality this is only the beginning of the Sufi
life, the end of Sufism being total absorption in God. The
intuitions and all that precede are, so to speak, only the
threshold for those who enter. From the beginning, revelations
take place in so flagrant a shape that the Sufis see before them,
whilst wide awake, the angels and the souls of the prophets. They
hear their voices and obtain their favors. Then the transport
rises from the perception of forms and figures to a degree which
escapes all expression, and which no man may seek to give an
account of without his words involving sin.

“Whoever has had no experience of the transport knows of the true
nature of prophetism nothing but the name. He may meanwhile be
sure of its existence, both by experience and by what he hears the
Sufis say. As there are men endowed only with the sensitive
faculty who reject what is offered them in the way of objects of
the pure understanding, so there are intellectual men who reject
and avoid the things perceived by the prophetic faculty. A blind
man can understand nothing of colors save what he has learned by
narration and hearsay. Yet God has brought prophetism near to men
in giving them all a state analogous to it in its principal
characters. This state is sleep. If you were to tell a man who was
himself without experience of such a phenomenon that there are
people who at times swoon away so as to resemble dead men, and who
[in dreams] yet perceive things that are hidden, he would deny it
[and give his reasons]. Nevertheless, his arguments would be
refuted by actual experience. Wherefore, just as the understanding
is a stage of human life in which an eye opens to discern various
intellectual objects uncomprehended by sensation; just so in the
prophetic the sight is illumined by a light which uncovers hidden
things and objects which the intellect fails to reach. The chief
properties of prophetism are perceptible only during the
transport, by those who embrace the Sufi life. The prophet is
endowed with qualities to which you possess nothing analogous, and
which consequently you cannot possibly understand. How should you
know their true nature, since one knows only what one can
comprehend? But the transport which one attains by the method of
the Sufis is like an immediate perception, as if one touched the
objects with one’s hand.”

This incommunicableness of the transport is the keynote of all mysticism.
Mystical truth exists for the individual who has the transport, but for no
one else. In this, as I have said, it resembles the knowledge given to us
in sensations more than that given by conceptual thought. Thought, with
its remoteness and abstractness, has often enough in the history of
philosophy been contrasted unfavorably with sensation. It is a commonplace
of metaphysics that God’s knowledge cannot be discursive but must be
intuitive, that is, must be constructed more after the pattern of what in
ourselves is called immediate feeling, than after that of proposition and
judgment. But our immediate feelings have no content but what the five
senses supply; and we have seen and shall see again that mystics may
emphatically deny that the senses play any part in the very highest type
of knowledge which their transports yield.

In the Christian church there have always been mystics. Although many of
them have been viewed with suspicion, some have gained favor in the eyes
of the authorities. The experiences of these have been treated as
precedents, and a codified system of mystical theology has been based upon
them, in which everything legitimate finds its place. The basis of
the system is “orison” or meditation, the methodical elevation of the soul
towards God. Through the practice of orison the higher levels of mystical
experience may be attained. It is odd that Protestantism, especially
evangelical Protestantism, should seemingly have abandoned everything
methodical in this line. Apart from what prayer may lead to, Protestant
mystical experience appears to have been almost exclusively sporadic. It
has been left to our mind-curers to reintroduce methodical meditation into
our religious life.

The first thing to be aimed at in orison is the mind’s detachment from
outer sensations, for these interfere with its concentration upon ideal
things. Such manuals as Saint Ignatius’s Spiritual Exercises recommend the
disciple to expel sensation by a graduated series of efforts to imagine
holy scenes. The acme of this kind of discipline would be a semi-
hallucinatory mono-ideism—an imaginary figure of Christ, for example,
coming fully to occupy the mind. Sensorial images of this sort, whether
literal or symbolic, play an enormous part in mysticism. But in
certain cases imagery may fall away entirely, and in the very highest
raptures it tends to do so. The state of consciousness becomes then
insusceptible of any verbal description. Mystical teachers are unanimous
as to this. Saint John of the Cross, for instance, one of the best of
them, thus describes the condition called the “union of love,” which, he
says, is reached by “dark contemplation.” In this the Deity compenetrates
the soul, but in such a hidden way that the soul—

“finds no terms, no means, no comparison whereby to render the
sublimity of the wisdom and the delicacy of the spiritual feeling
with which she is filled.... We receive this mystical knowledge of
God clothed in none of the kinds of images, in none of the
sensible representations, which our mind makes use of in other
circumstances. Accordingly in this knowledge, since the senses and
the imagination are not employed, we get neither form nor
impression, nor can we give any account or furnish any likeness,
although the mysterious and sweet-tasting wisdom comes home so
clearly to the inmost parts of our soul. Fancy a man seeing a
certain kind of thing for the first time in his life. He can
understand it, use and enjoy it, but he cannot apply a name to it,
nor communicate any idea of it, even though all the while it be a
mere thing of sense. How much greater will be his powerlessness
when it goes beyond the senses! This is the peculiarity of the
divine language. The more infused, intimate, spiritual, and
supersensible it is, the more does it exceed the senses, both
inner and outer, and impose silence upon them.... The soul then
feels as if placed in a vast and profound solitude, to which no
created thing has access, in an immense and boundless desert,
desert the more delicious the more solitary it is. There, in this
abyss of wisdom, the soul grows by what it drinks in from the
well-springs of the comprehension of love, ... and recognizes,
however sublime and learned may be the terms we employ, how
utterly vile, insignificant, and improper they are, when we seek
to discourse of divine things by their means.”

I cannot pretend to detail to you the sundry stages of the Christian
mystical life. Our time would not suffice, for one thing; and
moreover, I confess that the subdivisions and names which we find in the
Catholic books seem to me to represent nothing objectively distinct. So
many men, so many minds: I imagine that these experiences can be as
infinitely varied as are the idiosyncrasies of individuals.

The cognitive aspects of them, their value in the way of revelation, is
what we are directly concerned with, and it is easy to show by citation
how strong an impression they leave of being revelations of new depths of
truth. Saint Teresa is the expert of experts in describing such
conditions, so I will turn immediately to what she says of one of the
highest of them, the “orison of union.”

“In the orison of union,” says Saint Teresa, “the soul is fully
awake as regards God, but wholly asleep as regards things of this
world and in respect of herself. During the short time the union
lasts, she is as it were deprived of every feeling, and even if
she would, she could not think of any single thing. Thus she needs
to employ no artifice in order to arrest the use of her
understanding: it remains so stricken with inactivity that she
neither knows what she loves, nor in what manner she loves, nor
what she wills. In short, she is utterly dead to the things of the
world and lives solely in God.... I do not even know whether in
this state she has enough life left to breathe. It seems to me she
has not; or at least that if she does breathe, she is unaware of
it. Her intellect would fain understand something of what is going
on within her, but it has so little force now that it can act in
no way whatsoever. So a person who falls into a deep faint appears
as if dead....

“Thus does God, when he raises a soul to union with himself,
suspend the natural action of all her faculties. She neither sees,
hears, nor understands, so long as she is united with God. But
this time is always short, and it seems even shorter than it is.
God establishes himself in the interior of this soul in such a
way, that when she returns to herself, it is wholly impossible for
her to doubt that she has been in God, and God in her. This truth
remains so strongly impressed on her that, even though many years
should pass without the condition returning, she can neither
forget the favor she received, nor doubt of its reality. If you,
nevertheless, ask how it is possible that the soul can see and
understand that she has been in God, since during the union she
has neither sight nor understanding, I reply that she does not see
it then, but that she sees it clearly later, after she has
returned to herself, not by any vision, but by a certitude which
abides with her and which God alone can give her. I knew a person
who was ignorant of the truth that God’s mode of being in
everything must be either by presence, by power, or by essence,
but who, after having received the grace of which I am speaking,
believed this truth in the most unshakable manner. So much so
that, having consulted a half-learned man who was as ignorant on
this point as she had been before she was enlightened, when he
replied that God is in us only by ‘grace,’ she disbelieved his
reply, so sure she was of the true answer; and when she came to
ask wiser doctors, they confirmed her in her belief, which much
consoled her....

“But how, you will repeat, can one have such certainty in
respect to what one does not see? This question, I am powerless to
answer. These are secrets of God’s omnipotence which it does not
appertain to me to penetrate. All that I know is that I tell the
truth; and I shall never believe that any soul who does not
possess this certainty has ever been really united to God.”

The kinds of truth communicable in mystical ways, whether these be
sensible or supersensible, are various. Some of them relate to this
world,—visions of the future, the reading of hearts, the sudden
understanding of texts, the knowledge of distant events, for example; but
the most important revelations are theological or metaphysical.

“Saint Ignatius confessed one day to Father Laynez that a single
hour of meditation at Manresa had taught him more truths about
heavenly things than all the teachings of all the doctors put
together could have taught him.... One day in orison, on the steps
of the choir of the Dominican church, he saw in a distinct manner
the plan of divine wisdom in the creation of the world. On another
occasion, during a procession, his spirit was ravished in God, and
it was given him to contemplate, in a form and images fitted to
the weak understanding of a dweller on the earth, the deep mystery
of the holy Trinity. This last vision flooded his heart with such
sweetness, that the mere memory of it in after times made him shed
abundant tears.”

Similarly with Saint Teresa. “One day, being in orison,” she
writes, “it was granted me to perceive in one instant how all
things are seen and contained in God. I did not perceive them in
their proper form, and nevertheless the view I had of them was of
a sovereign clearness, and has remained vividly impressed upon my
soul. It is one of the most signal of all the graces which the
Lord has granted me.... The view was so subtile and delicate that
the understanding cannot grasp it.”

She goes on to tell how it was as if the Deity were an enormous and
sovereignly limpid diamond, in which all our actions were contained in
such a way that their full sinfulness appeared evident as never before. On
another day, she relates, while she was reciting the Athanasian Creed,—

“Our Lord made me comprehend in what way it is that one God can be
in three Persons. He made me see it so clearly that I remained as
extremely surprised as I was comforted, ... and now, when I think
of the holy Trinity, or hear It spoken of, I understand how the
three adorable Persons form only one God and I experience an
unspeakable happiness.”

On still another occasion, it was given to Saint Teresa to see and
understand in what wise the Mother of God had been assumed into her place
in Heaven.

The deliciousness of some of these states seems to be beyond anything
known in ordinary consciousness. It evidently involves organic
sensibilities, for it is spoken of as something too extreme to be borne,
and as verging on bodily pain. But it is too subtle and piercing a
delight for ordinary words to denote. God’s touches, the wounds of his
spear, references to ebriety and to nuptial union have to figure in the
phraseology by which it is shadowed forth. Intellect and senses both swoon
away in these highest states of ecstasy. “If our understanding
comprehends,” says Saint Teresa, “it is in a mode which remains unknown to
it, and it can understand nothing of what it comprehends. For my own part,
I do not believe that it does comprehend, because, as I said, it does not
understand itself to do so. I confess that it is all a mystery in which I
am lost.” In the condition called raptus or ravishment by
theologians, breathing and circulation are so depressed that it is a
question among the doctors whether the soul be or be not temporarily
dissevered from the body. One must read Saint Teresa’s descriptions and
the very exact distinctions which she makes, to persuade one’s self that
one is dealing, not with imaginary experiences, but with phenomena which,
however rare, follow perfectly definite psychological types.

To the medical mind these ecstasies signify nothing but suggested and
imitated hypnoid states, on an intellectual basis of superstition, and a
corporeal one of degeneration and hysteria. Undoubtedly these pathological
conditions have existed in many and possibly in all the cases, but that
fact tells us nothing about the value for knowledge of the consciousness
which they induce. To pass a spiritual judgment upon these states, we must
not content ourselves with superficial medical talk, but inquire into
their fruits for life.

Their fruits appear to have been various. Stupefaction, for one thing,
seems not to have been altogether absent as a result. You may remember the
helplessness in the kitchen and schoolroom of poor Margaret Mary Alacoque.
Many other ecstatics would have perished but for the care taken of them by
admiring followers. The “other-worldliness” encouraged by the mystical
consciousness makes this over-abstraction from practical life peculiarly
liable to befall mystics in whom the character is naturally passive and
the intellect feeble; but in natively strong minds and characters we find
quite opposite results. The great Spanish mystics, who carried the habit
of ecstasy as far as it has often been carried, appear for the most part
to have shown indomitable spirit and energy, and all the more so for the
trances in which they indulged.

Saint Ignatius was a mystic, but his mysticism made him assuredly one of
the most powerfully practical human engines that ever lived. Saint John of
the Cross, writing of the intuitions and “touches” by which God reaches
the substance of the soul, tells us that—

“They enrich it marvelously. A single one of them may be
sufficient to abolish at a stroke certain imperfections of which
the soul during its whole life had vainly tried to rid itself, and
to leave it adorned with virtues and loaded with supernatural
gifts. A single one of these intoxicating consolations may reward
it for all the labors undergone in its life—even were they
numberless. Invested with an invincible courage, filled with an
impassioned desire to suffer for its God, the soul then is seized
with a strange torment—that of not being allowed to suffer
enough.”

Saint Teresa is as emphatic, and much more detailed. You may perhaps
remember a passage I quoted from her in my first lecture. There are
many similar pages in her autobiography. Where in literature is a more
evidently veracious account of the formation of a new centre of spiritual
energy, than is given in her description of the effects of certain
ecstasies which in departing leave the soul upon a higher level of
emotional excitement?

“Often, infirm and wrought upon with dreadful pains before the
ecstasy, the soul emerges from it full of health and admirably
disposed for action ... as if God had willed that the body itself,
already obedient to the soul’s desires, should share in the soul’s
happiness.... The soul after such a favor is animated with a
degree of courage so great that if at that moment its body should
be torn to pieces for the cause of God, it would feel nothing but
the liveliest comfort. Then it is that promises and heroic
resolutions spring up in profusion in us, soaring desires, horror
of the world, and the clear perception of our proper
nothingness.... What empire is comparable to that of a soul who,
from this sublime summit to which God has raised her, sees all the
things of earth beneath her feet, and is captivated by no one of
them? How ashamed she is of her former attachments! How amazed at
her blindness! What lively pity she feels for those whom she
recognizes still shrouded in the darkness!... She groans at having
ever been sensitive to points of honor, at the illusion that made
her ever see as honor what the world calls by that name. Now she
sees in this name nothing more than an immense lie of which the
world remains a victim. She discovers, in the new light from
above, that in genuine honor there is nothing spurious, that to be
faithful to this honor is to give our respect to what deserves to
be respected really, and to consider as nothing, or as less than
nothing, whatsoever perishes and is not agreeable to God.... She
laughs when she sees grave persons, persons of orison, caring for
points of honor for which she now feels profoundest contempt. It
is suitable to the dignity of their rank to act thus, they
pretend, and it makes them more useful to others. But she knows
that in despising the dignity of their rank for the pure love of
God they would do more good in a single day than they would effect
in ten years by preserving it.... She laughs at herself that there
should ever have been a time in her life when she made any case of
money, when she ever desired it.... Oh! if human beings might only
agree together to regard it as so much useless mud, what harmony
would then reign in the world! With what friendship we would all
treat each other if our interest in honor and in money could but
disappear from earth! For my own part, I feel as if it would be a
remedy for all our ills.”

Mystical conditions may, therefore, render the soul more energetic in the
lines which their inspiration favors. But this could be reckoned an
advantage only in case the inspiration were a true one. If the inspiration
were erroneous, the energy would be all the more mistaken and misbegotten.
So we stand once more before that problem of truth which confronted us at
the end of the lectures on saintliness. You will remember that we turned
to mysticism precisely to get some light on truth. Do mystical states
establish the truth of those theological affections in which the saintly
life has its root?

In spite of their repudiation of articulate self-description, mystical
states in general assert a pretty distinct theoretic drift. It is possible
to give the outcome of the majority of them in terms that point in
definite philosophical directions. One of these directions is optimism,
and the other is monism. We pass into mystical states from out of ordinary
consciousness as from a less into a more, as from a smallness into a
vastness, and at the same time as from an unrest to a rest. We feel them
as reconciling, unifying states. They appeal to the yes-function more than
to the no-function in us. In them the unlimited absorbs the limits and
peacefully closes the account. Their very denial of every adjective you
may propose as applicable to the ultimate truth,—He, the Self, the Atman,
is to be described by “No! no!” only, say the Upanishads,—though it
seems on the surface to be a no-function, is a denial made on behalf of a
deeper yes. Whoso calls the Absolute anything in particular, or says that
it is this, seems implicitly to shut it off from being that—it is as
if he lessened it. So we deny the “this,” negating the negation which it
seems to us to imply, in the interests of the higher affirmative attitude
by which we are possessed. The fountain-head of Christian mysticism is
Dionysius the Areopagite. He describes the absolute truth by negatives
exclusively.

“The cause of all things is neither soul nor intellect; nor has it
imagination, opinion, or reason, or intelligence; nor is it reason
or intelligence; nor is it spoken or thought. It is neither
number, nor order, nor magnitude, nor littleness, nor equality,
nor inequality, nor similarity, nor dissimilarity. It neither
stands, nor moves, nor rests.... It is neither essence, nor
eternity, nor time. Even intellectual contact does not belong to
it. It is neither science nor truth. It is not even royalty or
wisdom; not one; not unity; not divinity or goodness; nor even
spirit as we know it,” etc., ad libitum.

But these qualifications are denied by Dionysius, not because the truth
falls short of them, but because it so infinitely excels them. It is above
them. It is super-lucent, super-splendent, super-essential,
super-sublime, super everything that can be named. Like Hegel in his
logic, mystics journey towards the positive pole of truth only by the
“Methode der Absoluten Negativität.”

Thus come the paradoxical expressions that so abound in mystical writings.
As when Eckhart tells of the still desert of the Godhead, “where never was
seen difference, neither Father, Son, nor Holy Ghost, where there is no
one at home, yet where the spark of the soul is more at peace than in
itself.” As when Boehme writes of the Primal Love, that “it may fitly
be compared to Nothing, for it is deeper than any Thing, and is as nothing
with respect to all things, forasmuch as it is not comprehensible by any
of them. And because it is nothing respectively, it is therefore free from
all things, and is that only good, which a man cannot express or utter
what it is, there being nothing to which it may be compared, to express it
by.” Or as when Angelus Silesius sings:—

“Gott ist ein lauter Nichts, ihn rührt kein Nun noch Hier;
Je mehr du nach ihm greiffst, je mehr entwind er dir.”

To this dialectical use, by the intellect, of negation as a mode of
passage towards a higher kind of affirmation, there is correlated the
subtlest of moral counterparts in the sphere of the personal will. Since
denial of the finite self and its wants, since asceticism of some sort, is
found in religious experience to be the only doorway to the larger and
more blessed life, this moral mystery intertwines and combines with the
intellectual mystery in all mystical writings.

“Love,” continues Behmen, is Nothing, for “when thou art gone
forth wholly from the Creature and from that which is visible, and
art become Nothing to all that is Nature and Creature, then thou
art in that eternal One, which is God himself, and then thou shalt
feel within thee the highest virtue of Love.... The treasure of
treasures for the soul is where she goeth out of the Somewhat into
that Nothing out of which all things may be made. The soul here
saith, I have nothing, for I am utterly stripped and naked; I
can do nothing, for I have no manner of power, but am as water
poured out; I am nothing, for all that I am is no more than an
image of Being, and only God is to me I AM; and so, sitting down
in my own Nothingness, I give glory to the eternal Being, and
will nothing of myself, that so God may will all in me, being
unto me my God and all things.”

In Paul’s language, I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me. Only when
I become as nothing can God enter in and no difference between his life
and mine remain outstanding.

This overcoming of all the usual barriers between the individual and the
Absolute is the great mystic achievement. In mystic states we both become
one with the Absolute and we become aware of our oneness. This is the
everlasting and triumphant mystical tradition, hardly altered by
differences of clime or creed. In Hinduism, in Neoplatonism, in Sufism, in
Christian mysticism, in Whitmanism, we find the same recurring note, so
that there is about mystical utterances an eternal unanimity which ought
to make a critic stop and think, and which brings it about that the
mystical classics have, as has been said, neither birthday nor native
land. Perpetually telling of the unity of man with God, their speech
antedates languages, and they do not grow old.

“That art Thou!” say the Upanishads, and the Vedantists add: “Not a part,
not a mode of That, but identically That, that absolute Spirit of the
World.” “As pure water poured into pure water remains the same, thus, O
Gautama, is the Self of a thinker who knows. Water in water, fire in fire,
ether in ether, no one can distinguish them; likewise a man whose mind has
entered into the Self.” “ ‘Every man,’ says the Sufi Gulshan-Râz,
‘whose heart is no longer shaken by any doubt, knows with certainty that
there is no being save only One.... In his divine majesty the me, the
we, the thou, are not found, for in the One there can be no
distinction. Every being who is annulled and entirely separated from
himself, hears resound outside of him this voice and this echo: I am
God: he has an eternal way of existing, and is no longer subject to
death.’ ” In the vision of God, says Plotinus, “what sees is not our
reason, but something prior and superior to our reason.... He who thus
sees does not properly see, does not distinguish or imagine two things. He
changes, he ceases to be himself, preserves nothing of himself. Absorbed
in God, he makes but one with him, like a centre of a circle coinciding
with another centre.” “Here,” writes Suso, “the spirit dies, and yet
is all alive in the marvels of the Godhead ... and is lost in the
stillness of the glorious dazzling obscurity and of the naked simple
unity. It is in this modeless where that the highest bliss is to be
found.” “Ich bin so gross als Gott,” sings Angelus Silesius again,
“Er ist als ich so klein; Er kann nicht über mich, ich unter ihm nicht
sein.”

In mystical literature such self-contradictory phrases as “dazzling
obscurity,” “whispering silence,” “teeming desert,” are continually met
with. They prove that not conceptual speech, but music rather, is the
element through which we are best spoken to by mystical truth. Many
mystical scriptures are indeed little more than musical compositions.

“He who would hear the voice of Nada, ‘the Soundless Sound,’ and
comprehend it, he has to learn the nature of Dhâranâ.... When to
himself his form appears unreal, as do on waking all the forms he
sees in dreams; when he has ceased to hear the many, he may
discern the ONE—the inner sound which kills the outer.... For then
the soul will hear, and will remember. And then to the inner ear
will speak THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE.... And now thy Self is lost
in SELF, thyself unto THYSELF, merged in that SELF from which
thou first didst radiate.... Behold! thou hast become the Light,
thou hast become the Sound, thou art thy Master and thy God. Thou
art THYSELF the object of thy search: the VOICE unbroken, that
resounds throughout eternities, exempt from change, from sin
exempt, the seven sounds in one, the VOICE OF THE SILENCE. Om tat
Sat.”

These words, if they do not awaken laughter as you receive them, probably
stir chords within you which music and language touch in common. Music
gives us ontological messages which non-musical criticism is unable to
contradict, though it may laugh at our foolishness in minding them. There
is a verge of the mind which these things haunt; and whispers therefrom
mingle with the operations of our understanding, even as the waters of the
infinite ocean send their waves to break among the pebbles that lie upon
our shores.

“Here begins the sea that ends not till the world’s end. Where we
stand,
Could we know the next high sea-mark set beyond these waves that
gleam,
We should know what never man hath known, nor eye of man hath
scanned....
Ah, but here man’s heart leaps, yearning towards the gloom with
venturous glee,
From the shore that hath no shore beyond it, set in all the
sea.”

That doctrine, for example, that eternity is timeless, that our
“immortality,” if we live in the eternal, is not so much future as already
now and here, which we find so often expressed to-day in certain
philosophic circles, finds its support in a “hear, hear!” or an “amen,”
which floats up from that mysteriously deeper level. We recognize the
passwords to the mystical region as we hear them, but we cannot use them
ourselves; it alone has the keeping of “the password primeval.”

I have now sketched with extreme brevity and insufficiency, but as fairly
as I am able in the time allowed, the general traits of the mystic range
of consciousness. It is on the whole pantheistic and optimistic, or at
least the opposite of pessimistic. It is anti-naturalistic, and harmonizes
best with twice-bornness and so-called other-worldly states of mind.

My next task is to inquire whether we can invoke it as authoritative. Does
it furnish any warrant for the truth of the twice-bornness and
supernaturality and pantheism which it favors? I must give my answer to
this question as concisely as I can.

In brief my answer is this,—and I will divide it into three parts:—

(1) Mystical states, when well developed, usually are, and have the right
to be, absolutely authoritative over the individuals to whom they come.

(2) No authority emanates from them which should make it a duty for those
who stand outside of them to accept their revelations uncritically.

(3) They break down the authority of the non-mystical or rationalistic
consciousness, based upon the understanding and the senses alone. They
show it to be only one kind of consciousness. They open out the
possibility of other orders of truth, in which, so far as anything in us
vitally responds to them, we may freely continue to have faith.

I will take up these points one by one.

As a matter of psychological fact, mystical states of a well-pronounced
and emphatic sort are usually authoritative over those who have
them. They have been “there,” and know. It is vain for rationalism to
grumble about this. If the mystical truth that comes to a man proves to be
a force that he can live by, what mandate have we of the majority to order
him to live in another way? We can throw him into a prison or a madhouse,
but we cannot change his mind—we commonly attach it only the more
stubbornly to its beliefs. It mocks our utmost efforts, as a matter
of fact, and in point of logic it absolutely escapes our jurisdiction. Our
own more “rational” beliefs are based on evidence exactly similar in
nature to that which mystics quote for theirs. Our senses, namely, have
assured us of certain states of fact; but mystical experiences are as
direct perceptions of fact for those who have them as any sensations ever
were for us. The records show that even though the five senses be in
abeyance in them, they are absolutely sensational in their epistemological
quality, if I may be pardoned the barbarous expression,—that is, they are
face to face presentations of what seems immediately to exist.

The mystic is, in short, invulnerable, and must be left, whether we
relish it or not, in undisturbed enjoyment of his creed. Faith, says
Tolstoy, is that by which men live. And faith-state and mystic state are
practically convertible terms.

But I now proceed to add that mystics have no right to claim that we ought
to accept the deliverance of their peculiar experiences, if we are
ourselves outsiders and feel no private call thereto. The utmost they can
ever ask of us in this life is to admit that they establish a presumption.
They form a consensus and have an unequivocal outcome; and it would be
odd, mystics might say, if such a unanimous type of experience should
prove to be altogether wrong. At bottom, however, this would only be an
appeal to numbers, like the appeal of rationalism the other way; and the
appeal to numbers has no logical force. If we acknowledge it, it is for
“suggestive,” not for logical reasons: we follow the majority because to
do so suits our life.

But even this presumption from the unanimity of mystics is far from being
strong. In characterizing mystic states as pantheistic, optimistic, etc.,
I am afraid I over-simplified the truth. I did so for expository reasons,
and to keep the closer to the classic mystical tradition. The classic
religious mysticism, it now must be confessed, is only a “privileged
case.” It is an extract, kept true to type by the selection of the
fittest specimens and their preservation in “schools.” It is carved out
from a much larger mass; and if we take the larger mass as seriously as
religious mysticism has historically taken itself, we find that the
supposed unanimity largely disappears. To begin with, even religious
mysticism itself, the kind that accumulates traditions and makes schools,
is much less unanimous than I have allowed. It has been both ascetic and
antinomianly self-indulgent within the Christian church. It is
dualistic in Sankhya, and monistic in Vedanta philosophy. I called it
pantheistic; but the great Spanish mystics are anything but pantheists.
They are with few exceptions non-metaphysical minds, for whom “the
category of personality” is absolute. The “union” of man with God is for
them much more like an occasional miracle than like an original
identity. How different again, apart from the happiness common to
all, is the mysticism of Walt Whitman, Edward Carpenter, Richard
Jefferies, and other naturalistic pantheists, from the more distinctively
Christian sort. The fact is that the mystical feeling of enlargement,
union, and emancipation has no specific intellectual content whatever of
its own. It is capable of forming matrimonial alliances with material
furnished by the most diverse philosophies and theologies, provided only
they can find a place in their framework for its peculiar emotional mood.
We have no right, therefore, to invoke its prestige as distinctively in
favor of any special belief, such as that in absolute idealism, or in the
absolute monistic identity, or in the absolute goodness, of the world. It
is only relatively in favor of all these things—it passes out of common
human consciousness in the direction in which they lie.

So much for religious mysticism proper. But more remains to be told, for
religious mysticism is only one half of mysticism. The other half has no
accumulated traditions except those which the text-books on insanity
supply. Open any one of these, and you will find abundant cases in which
“mystical ideas” are cited as characteristic symptoms of enfeebled or
deluded states of mind. In delusional insanity, paranoia, as they
sometimes call it, we may have a diabolical mysticism, a sort of
religious mysticism turned upside down. The same sense of ineffable
importance in the smallest events, the same texts and words coming with
new meanings, the same voices and visions and leadings and missions, the
same controlling by extraneous powers; only this time the emotion is
pessimistic: instead of consolations we have desolations; the meanings are
dreadful; and the powers are enemies to life. It is evident that from the
point of view of their psychological mechanism, the classic mysticism and
these lower mysticisms spring from the same mental level, from that great
subliminal or transmarginal region of which science is beginning to admit
the existence, but of which so little is really known. That region
contains every kind of matter: “seraph and snake” abide there side by
side. To come from thence is no infallible credential. What comes must be
sifted and tested, and run the gauntlet of confrontation with the total
context of experience, just like what comes from the outer world of sense.
Its value must be ascertained by empirical methods, so long as we are not
mystics ourselves.

Once more, then, I repeat that non-mystics are under no obligation to
acknowledge in mystical states a superior authority conferred on them by
their intrinsic nature.

Yet, I repeat once more, the existence of mystical states absolutely
overthrows the pretension of non-mystical states to be the sole and
ultimate dictators of what we may believe. As a rule, mystical states
merely add a supersensuous meaning to the ordinary outward data of
consciousness. They are excitements like the emotions of love or ambition,
gifts to our spirit by means of which facts already objectively before us
fall into a new expressiveness and make a new connection with our active
life. They do not contradict these facts as such, or deny anything that
our senses have immediately seized. It is the rationalistic critic
rather who plays the part of denier in the controversy, and his denials
have no strength, for there never can be a state of facts to which new
meaning may not truthfully be added, provided the mind ascend to a more
enveloping point of view. It must always remain an open question whether
mystical states may not possibly be such superior points of view, windows
through which the mind looks out upon a more extensive and inclusive
world. The difference of the views seen from the different mystical
windows need not prevent us from entertaining this supposition. The wider
world would in that case prove to have a mixed constitution like that of
this world, that is all. It would have its celestial and its infernal
regions, its tempting and its saving moments, its valid experiences and
its counterfeit ones, just as our world has them; but it would be a wider
world all the same. We should have to use its experiences by selecting and
subordinating and substituting just as is our custom in this ordinary
naturalistic world; we should be liable to error just as we are now; yet
the counting in of that wider world of meanings, and the serious dealing
with it, might, in spite of all the perplexity, be indispensable stages in
our approach to the final fullness of the truth.

In this shape, I think, we have to leave the subject. Mystical states
indeed wield no authority due simply to their being mystical states. But
the higher ones among them point in directions to which the religious
sentiments even of non-mystical men incline. They tell of the supremacy of
the ideal, of vastness, of union, of safety, and of rest. They offer us
hypotheses, hypotheses which we may voluntarily ignore, but which as
thinkers we cannot possibly upset. The supernaturalism and optimism to
which they would persuade us may, interpreted in one way or another, be
after all the truest of insights into the meaning of this life.

“Oh, the little more, and how much it is; and the little less, and what
worlds away!” It may be that possibility and permission of this sort are
all that the religious consciousness requires to live on. In my last
lecture I shall have to try to persuade you that this is the case.
Meanwhile, however, I am sure that for many of my readers this diet is too
slender. If supernaturalism and inner union with the divine are true, you
think, then not so much permission, as compulsion to believe, ought to be
found. Philosophy has always professed to prove religious truth by
coercive argument; and the construction of philosophies of this kind has
always been one favorite function of the religious life, if we use this
term in the large historic sense. But religious philosophy is an enormous
subject, and in my next lecture I can only give that brief glance at it
which my limits will allow.

Notes

224. Newman’s Securus judicat orbis terrarum is another instance.

225. “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 “Philadelphiā,” 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.

226. The Two Voices. In a letter to Mr. B. P. Blood, Tennyson reports of himself as follows:— “I have never had any revelations through anæsthetics, 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.

227. The Lancet, July 6 and 13, 1895, reprinted as the Cavendish Lecture, on Dreamy Mental States, London, Baillière, 1895. They have been a good deal discussed of late by psychologists. See, for example, BERNARD-LEROY: L’Illusion de Fausse Reconnaissance, Paris, 1898.

228. Charles Kingsley’s Life, i. 55, quoted by INGE: Christian Mysticism, London, 1899, p. 341.

229. H. F. BROWN: J. A. Symonds, a Biography, London, 1895, pp. 29-31, abridged.

230. 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.

231. 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.

232. BENJAMIN PAUL BLOOD: The Anæsthetic Revelation and the Gist of Philosophy, Amsterdam, N. Y., 1874, pp. 35, 36. Mr. Blood has made several attempts to adumbrate the anæsthetic 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 trail. 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 anæsthesis, 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 Anæsthetic Revelation,” Mr. Blood describes its value for life as follows:— “The Anæsthetic 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 Anæsthetic Revelation.”—I have considerably abridged the quotation.

233. Op. cit., pp. 78-80, abridged. I subjoin, also abridging it, another interesting anæsthetic 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 that 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.”

234. In Tune with the Infinite, p. 137.

235. 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. 66, 67, 70, 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.

236. Op. cit., i. 43-44.

237. Memoiren einer Idealistin, 5te Auflage, 1900, iii. 166. For years she had been unable to pray, owing to materialistic belief.

238. Whitman in another place expresses in a quieter way what was probably with him a chronic mystical perception: “There is,” he writes, “apart from mere intellect, in the make-up of every superior human identity, a wondrous something that realizes without argument, frequently without what is called education (though I think it the goal and apex of all education deserving the name), an intuition of the absolute balance, in time and space, of the whole of this multifariousness, this revel of fools, and incredible make-believe and general unsettledness, we call the world; a soul-sight of that divine clue and unseen thread which holds the whole congeries of things, all history and time, and all events, however trivial, however momentous, like a leashed dog in the hand of the hunter. [Of] such soul-sight and root-centre for the mind mere optimism explains only the surface.” Whitman charges it against Carlyle that he lacked this perception. Specimen Days and Collect, Philadelphia, 1882, p. 174.

239. My Quest for God, London, 1897, pp. 268, 269, abridged.

240. Op. cit., pp. 256, 257, abridged.

241. Cosmic Consciousness: a study in the evolution of the human Mind, Philadelphia, 1901, p. 2.

242. Loc. cit., pp. 7, 8. My quotation follows the privately printed pamphlet which preceded Dr. Bucke’s larger work, and differs verbally a little from the text of the latter.

243. My quotations are from VIVEKANANDA, Raja Yoga, London, 1896. The completest source of information on Yoga is the work translated by VIHARI LALA MITRA: Yoga Vasishta Maha Ramayana, 4 vols., Calcutta, 1891-99.

244. A European witness, after carefully comparing the results of Yoga with those of the hypnotic or dreamy states artificially producible by us, says: “It makes of its true disciples good, healthy, and happy men.... Through the mastery which the yogi attains over his thoughts and his body, he grows into a ‘character.’ By the subjection of his impulses and propensities to his will, and the fixing of the latter upon the ideal of goodness, he becomes a ‘personality’ hard to influence by others, and thus almost the opposite of what we usually imagine a ‘medium’ so-called, or ‘psychic subject’ to be.” KARL KELLNER: Yoga: Eine Skizze, München, 1896, p. 21.

245. I follow the account in C. F. KOEPPEN: Die Religion des Buddha, Berlin, 1857, i. 585 ff.

246. For a full account of him, see D. B. MACDONALD: The Life of Al- Ghazzali, in the Journal of the American Oriental Society, 1899, vol. xx. p. 71.

247. A. SCHMÖLDERS: Essai sur les écoles philosophiques chez les Arabes, Paris, 1842, pp. 54-68, abridged.

248. GÖRRES’S Christliche Mystik gives a full account of the facts. So does RIBET’S Mystique Divine, 2 vols., Paris, 1890. A still more methodical modern work is the Mystica Theologia of VALLGORNERA, 2 vols., Turin, 1890.

249. M. RÉCÉJAC, in a recent volume, makes them essential. Mysticism he defines as “the tendency to draw near to the Absolute morally, and by the aid of Symbols.” See his Fondements de la Connaissance mystique, Paris, 1897, p. 66. But there are unquestionably mystical conditions in which sensible symbols play no part.

250. Saint John of the Cross: The Dark Night of the Soul, book ii. ch. xvii., in Vie et Œuvres, 3me édition, Paris, 1893, iii. 428-432. Chapter xi. of book ii. of Saint John’s Ascent of Carmel is devoted to showing the harmfulness for the mystical life of the use of sensible imagery.

251. In particular I omit mention of visual and auditory hallucinations, verbal and graphic automatisms, and such marvels as “levitation,” stigmatization, and the healing of disease. These phenomena, which mystics have often presented (or are believed to have presented), have no essential mystical significance, for they occur with no consciousness of illumination whatever, when they occur, as they often do, in persons of non-mystical mind. Consciousness of illumination is for us the essential mark of “mystical” states.

252. The Interior Castle, Fifth Abode, ch. i., in Œuvres, translated by Bouix, iii. 421-424.

253. BARTOLI-MICHEL: Vie de Saint Ignace de Loyola, i. 34-36. Others have had illuminations about the created world, Jacob Boehme, for instance. At the age of twenty-five he was “surrounded by the divine light, and replenished with the heavenly knowledge; insomuch as going abroad into the fields to a green, at Görlitz, he there sat down, and viewing the herbs and grass of the field, in his inward light he saw into their essences, use, and properties, which was discovered to him by their lineaments, figures, and signatures.” Of a later period of experience he writes: “In one quarter of an hour I saw and knew more than if I had been many years together at an university. For I saw and knew the being of all things, the Byss and the Abyss, and the eternal generation of the holy Trinity, the descent and original of the world and of all creatures through the divine wisdom. I knew and saw in myself all the three worlds, the external and visible world being of a procreation or extern birth from both the internal and spiritual worlds; and I saw and knew the whole working essence, in the evil and in the good, and the mutual original and existence; and likewise how the fruitful bearing womb of eternity brought forth. So that I did not only greatly wonder at it, but did also exceedingly rejoice, albeit I could very hardly apprehend the same in my external man and set it down with the pen. For I had a thorough view of the universe as in a chaos, wherein all things are couched and wrapt up, but it was impossible for me to explicate the same.” Jacob Behmen’s Theosophic Philosophy, etc., by EDWARD TAYLOR, London, 1691, pp. 425, 427, abridged. So George Fox: “I was come up to the state of Adam in which he was before he fell. The creation was opened to me; and it was showed me, how all things had their names given to them, according to their nature and virtue. I was at a stand in my mind, whether I should practice physic for the good of mankind, seeing the nature and virtues of the creatures were so opened to me by the Lord.” Journal, Philadelphia, no date, p. 69. Contemporary “Clairvoyance” abounds in similar revelations. Andrew Jackson Davis’s cosmogonies, for example, or certain experiences related in the delectable “Reminiscences and Memories of Henry Thomas Butterworth,” Lebanon, Ohio, 1886.

254. Vie, pp. 581, 582.

255. Loc. cit., p. 574.

256. Saint Teresa discriminates between pain in which the body has a part and pure spiritual pain (Interior Castle, 6th Abode, ch. xi.). As for the bodily part in these celestial joys, she speaks of it as “penetrating to the marrow of the bones, whilst earthly pleasures affect only the surface of the senses. I think,” she adds, “that this is a just description, and I cannot make it better.” Ibid., 5th Abode, ch. i.

257. Vie, p. 198.

258. Œuvres, ii. 320.

259. Above, p. 21.

260. Vie, pp. 229, 200, 231-233, 243.

261. MÜLLER’S translation, part ii. p. 180.

262. T. DAVIDSON’S translation, in Journal of Speculative Philosophy, 1893, vol. xxii. p. 399.

263. “Deus propter excellentiam non immerito Nihil vocatur.” Scotus Erigena, quoted by ANDREW SETH: Two Lectures on Theism, New York, 1897, p. 55.

264. J. ROYCE: Studies in Good and Evil, p. 282.

265. Jacob Behmen’s Dialogues on the Supersensual Life, translated by BERNARD HOLLAND, London, 1901, p. 48.

266. Cherubinischer Wandersmann, Strophe 25.

267. Op. cit., pp. 42, 74, abridged.

268. From a French book I take this mystical expression of happiness in God’s indwelling presence:— “Jesus has come to take up his abode in my heart. It is not so much a habitation, an association, as a sort of fusion. Oh, new and blessed life! life which becomes each day more luminous.... The wall before me, dark a few moments since, is splendid at this hour because the sun shines on it. Wherever its rays fall they light up a conflagration of glory; the smallest speck of glass sparkles, each grain of sand emits fire; even so there is a royal song of triumph in my heart because the Lord is there. My days succeed each other; yesterday a blue sky; to-day a clouded sun; a night filled with strange dreams; but as soon as the eyes open, and I regain consciousness and seem to begin life again, it is always the same figure before me, always the same presence filling my heart.... Formerly the day was dulled by the absence of the Lord. I used to wake invaded by all sorts of sad impressions, and I did not find him on my path. To-day he is with me; and the light cloudiness which covers things is not an obstacle to my communion with him. I feel the pressure of his hand, I feel something else which fills me with a serene joy; shall I dare to speak it out? Yes, for it is the true expression of what I experience. The Holy Spirit is not merely making me a visit; it is no mere dazzling apparition which may from one moment to another spread its wings and leave me in my night, it is a permanent habitation. He can depart only if he takes me with him. More than that; he is not other than myself: he is one with me. It is not a juxtaposition, it is a penetration, a profound modification of my nature, a new manner of my being.” Quoted from the MS. “of an old man” by WILFRED MONOD: Il Vit: six méditations sur le mystère chrétien, pp. 280-283.

269. Compare M. MAETERLINCK: L’Ornement des Noces spirituelles de Ruysbroeck, Bruxelles, 1891, Introduction, p. xix.

270. Upanishads, M. MÜLLER’S translation, ii. 17, 334.

271. SCHMÖLDERS: Op. cit., p. 210.

272. Enneads, BOUILLIER’S translation, Paris, 1861, iii. 561. Compare pp. 473-477, and vol. i. p. 27.

273. Autobiography, pp. 309, 310.

274. Op. cit., Strophe 10.

275. H. P. BLAVATSKY: The Voice of the Silence.

276. SWINBURNE: On the Verge, in “A Midsummer Vacation.”

277. Compare the extracts from Dr. Bucke, quoted on pp. 398, 399.

278. As serious an attempt as I know to mediate between the mystical region and the discursive life is contained in an article on Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover, by F. C. S. SCHILLER, in Mind, vol. ix., 1900.

279. I abstract from weaker states, and from those cases of which the books are full, where the director (but usually not the subject) remains in doubt whether the experience may not have proceeded from the demon.

280. Example: Mr. John Nelson writes of his imprisonment for preaching Methodism: “My soul was as a watered garden, and I could sing praises to God all day long; for he turned my captivity into joy, and gave me to rest as well on the boards, as if I had been on a bed of down. Now could I say, ‘God’s service is perfect freedom,’ and I was carried out much in prayer that my enemies might drink of the same river of peace which my God gave so largely to me.” Journal, London, no date, p. 172.

281. RUYSBROECK, in the work which Maeterlinck has translated, has a chapter against the antinomianism of disciples. H. DELACROIX’S book (Essai sur le mysticisme spéculatif en Allemagne au XIVme Siècle, Paris, 1900) is full of antinomian material. Compare also A. JUNDT: Les Amis de Dieu au XIVme Siècle, Thèse de Strasbourg, 1879.

282. Compare PAUL ROUSSELOT: Les Mystiques Espagnols, Paris, 1869, ch. xii.

283. See CARPENTER’S Towards Democracy, especially the latter parts, and JEFFERIES’S wonderful and splendid mystic rhapsody, The Story of my Heart.

284. In chapter i. of book ii. of his work Degeneration, “MAX NORDAU” seeks to undermine all mysticism by exposing the weakness of the lower kinds. Mysticism for him means any sudden perception of hidden significance in things. He explains such perception by the abundant uncompleted associations which experiences may arouse in a degenerate brain. These give to him who has the experience a vague and vast sense of its leading further, yet they awaken no definite or useful consequent in his thought. The explanation is a plausible one for certain sorts of feeling of significance; and other alienists (WERNICKE, for example, in his Grundriss der Psychiatrie, Theil ii., Leipzig, 1896) have explained “paranoiac” conditions by a laming of the association-organ. But the higher mystical flights, with their positiveness and abruptness, are surely products of no such merely negative condition. It seems far more reasonable to ascribe them to inroads from the subconscious life, of the cerebral activity correlative to which we as yet know nothing.

285. They sometimes add subjective audita et visa to the facts, but as these are usually interpreted as transmundane, they oblige no alteration in the facts of sense.

Colophon

The Varieties of Religious Experience: A Study in Human Nature was delivered as the Gifford Lectures at the University of Edinburgh in 1901–1902 and published by Longmans, Green, and Co. in 1902. The text presented here comprises Lectures XVI and XVII, titled "Mysticism," which James regarded as the vital chapter on which the rest of the lectures depend. William James (1842–1910) died before The Varieties passed into the public domain, but the work has been free of copyright in all jurisdictions for many decades. The Project Gutenberg edition (PG #621) is the source for this archive.

Compiled and formatted for the Good Work Library by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026.

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