384
THE VARIETIES OF RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE
How indeed could it be otherwise? The extraordinary value, for
explanation and prevision, of those mathematical and mechanical
modes of conception which science uses, was a result that could not
possibly have been expected in advance. Weight, movement, velo-
city, direction, position, what thin, pallid, uninteresting ideas! How
could the richer animistic aspects of Nature, the peculiarities and
oddities that make phenomena picturesquely striking or expressive,
fail to have been first singled out and followed by philosophy as
the more promising avenue to the knowledge of Nature’s life? Well,
it is still in these richer animistic and dramatic aspects that reli-
gion delights to dwell. It is the terror and beauty of phenomena,
the “promise” of the dawn and of the rainbow, the “voice” of the
thunder, the “gentleness” of the summer rain, the “sublimity” of the
stars, and not the physical laws which these things follow, by which
the religious mind still continues to be most impressed; and just as
of yore, the devout man tells you that in the solitude of his room
or of the fields he still feels the divine presence, that inflowings of
help come in reply to his prayers, and that sacrifices to this unseen
reality fill him with security and peace.
The author goes on to prove by the analogy of many other natural facts that this sympath-
etic action between things at a distance is the true rationale of the case. “If,” he says, “the
heart of a horse, slain by a witch, taken out of the yet reeking carcase, be impaled upon an
arrow and roasted, immediately the whole witch becomes tormented with the insufferable
pains and cruelty of the fire, which could by no means happen unless there preceded a
conjunction of the spirit of the witch with the spirit of the horse. In the reeking and
yet panting heart, the spirit of the witch is kept captive, and the retreat of it prevented by
the arrow transfixed. Similarly hath not many a murdered carcase at the coroner’s inquest
suffered a fresh hæmorrhage or cruentation at the presence of the assassin? — the blood
being, as in a furious fit of anger, enraged and agitated by the impress of revenge conceived
against the murderer, at the instant of the soul’s compulsive exile from the body. So, if you
have dropsy, gout, or jaundice, by including some of your warm blood in the shell and white
of an egg, which, exposed to a gentle heat, and mixed with a bait of flesh, you shall give to
a hungry dog or hog, the disease shall instantly pass from you into the animal, and leave you
entirely. And similarly again, if you burn some of the milk either of a cow or of a woman, the
gland from which it issued will dry up. A gentleman at Brussels had his nose mowed off in a
combat, but the celebrated surgeon Tagliacozzus digged a new nose for him out of the skin
of the arm of a porter at Bologna. About thirteen months after his return to his own country,
the engrafted nose grew cold, putrefied, and in a few days dropped of, and it was then dis-
covered that the porter had expired, near about the same punctilio of time. There are still at
Brussels eye-witnesses of this occurrence,” says Van Helmont; and adds, “I pray what is there
in this of superstition or of exalted imagination?”
Modern mind-cure literature — the works of Prentice Mulford, for example — is full of
sympathetic magic.
CONCLUSIONS
385
Pure anachronism! says the survival-theory; — anachronism for
which deanthropomorphization of the imagination is the remedy
required. The less we mix the private with the cosmic, the more we
dwell in universal and impersonal terms, the truer heirs of Science
we become.
In spite of the appeal which this impersonality of the scientific
attitude makes to a certain magnanimity of temper, I believe it
to be shallow, and I can now state my reason in comparatively few
words. That reason is that, so long as we deal with the cosmic and
the general, we deal only with the symbols of reality, but as soon
as we deal with private and personal phenomena as such, we deal with
realities in the completest sense of the term. I think I can easily make
clear what I mean by these words.
The world of our experience consists at all times of two parts,
an objective and a subjective part, of which the former may be
incalculably more extensive than the latter, and yet the latter can
never be omitted or suppressed. The objective part is the sum total
of whatsoever at any given time we may be thinking of, the sub-
jective part is the inner “state” in which the thinking comes to pass.
What we think of may be enormous, — the cosmic times and spaces,
for example, — whereas the inner state may be the most fugitive
and paltry activity of mind. Yet the cosmic objects, so far as the
experience yields them, are but ideal pictures of something whose
existence we do not inwardly possess but only point at outwardly,
while the inner state is our very experience itself; its reality and
that of our experience are one. A conscious field plus its object as
felt or thought of plus an attitude towards the object plus the sense
of a self to whom the attitude belongs — such a concrete bit of
personal experience may be a small bit, but it is a solid bit as long
as it lasts; not hollow, not a mere abstract element of experience,
such as the “object” is when taken all alone. It is a full fact, even
though it be an insignificant fact; it is of the kind to which all
realities whatsoever must belong; the motor currents of the world
run through the like of it; it is on the line connecting real events
with real events. That unsharable feeling which each one of us has
of the pinch of his individual destiny as he privately feels it rolling
out on fortune’s wheel may be disparaged for its egotism, may be
sneered at as unscientific, but it is the one thing that fills up the