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THE VARIETIES OF RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE
“Shall I ever again have any of those prodigious reveries which some-
times 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 respira-
tion 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.”
1
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.’ ”
2
The well-known passage from Walt Whitman is a classical expres-
sion 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,
1
Op. cit., i. 43–44.
2
Memoiren einer Idealistin, 5te Auflage, 1900, iii. 166. For years she had been unable to
pray, owing to materialistic belief.
MYSTICISM
307
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.”
1
I could easily give more instances, but one will suffice. I take it
from the Autobiography of J. Trevor.
2
“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,
1
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.
2
My Quest for God, London, 1897, pp. 268, 269, abridged.