It is only youth that has the energy to be bothered with everything.
There comes a time when one’s mind is “made up” on all sorts of things
that were once matters of inquiry; we have profited by experience; we
know that some things are not worth investigating. It is one of the
marvellous laws of growth that this increase in wisdom should accompany
physical decay. As our teeth and hair start to fall out our judgment
grows riper. The law of growth is not really as simple as this, for
there are many silly old men and there are one or two wise youths. The
rich, mellow, balanced period is never reached by some people: Solomon,
on the other hand, was noted for his wisdom while still a young man.
There is, it must be admitted, something mechanical about old men’s
wisdom. Truth is one, of course, so that we should expect a certain
unanimity. The answers of the old can usually be predicted. Wisdom can
be simulated; all that one lacks is the conviction, the spirit that
animates the letter.
Deep conviction is a very impressive quality, especially to youth,
which secretly doubts everything. The man of strong convictions is a
cause of optimism in others, for life would appear a sad cheat if the
payment for sixty years of it did not include one certainty. Youth’s
certainties make as much noise, but everybody detects the bluff. A
fearful man shouts to hearten himself, as all the world knows. Between
the certainties of youth and age there is scepticism, a _fine
fleur_ of brief life, an exquisite tempering of the soul, neither
too soft nor too hard, an infinite flexibility. It is a state of
intense activity; life lived at this pace cannot long endure; the tired
spirit relaxes and one finds rest either in credulity or in dogmatism,
accident determining which attitude affords the soundest slumber. It is
not always easy to detect the true sceptic; that honourable title has
often been wrongly bestowed--Voltaire, for instance, was a dogmatist.
Sceptics exist in all ages, but they are more clearly revealed at those
periods that see the birth of some new inquiry. It is essential to
their indubitable manifestation that the inquiry should be attended by
the passionate interest of a large number of people. At the present
day a very good test inquiry is spiritualism. It is a very much better
test than Free Trade and Tariff Reform, for, owing to its comparative
remoteness, the true sceptic of that alternative might live and die in
obscurity. But spiritualism is a subject on which no one is genuinely
indifferent and towards which hardly anyone is genuinely sceptical.
Dispassionate inquiry on this, as on all matters where human interests
are strongly engaged, is usually a pretence. We need not suppose that
the great ones of the Psychical Research Society are less credulous
than the majority of believers or less intolerant than their louder
opponents; it is merely that, their traditions being scientific, they
have better manners.
Psychical literature, as a whole, is as wearisome as theological
literature, as incredible but less amusing than the lives of the
saints. We lack the quality, be it faith, hope or charity, which would
enable us to share these strange excitements. The “exposers,” on the
other hand, are too sturdy in their common sense. We hear the mallet
fall, but we are not always sure that the eggshell is broken. It is a
situation for the sceptic. In the late Lord Rayleigh’s presidential
address to the Psychical Research Society we find that the sceptic has
at last appeared. It is merely a record of his own experiences, very
plain, very simple, and, like the experiences themselves, singularly
elusive. Many years ago, in a friend’s rooms at Cambridge, he witnessed
an exhibition of the powers of Madame Card, the hypnotist. When she had
completed her passes over the closed eyes of those present she asked
them to open their eyes. “I and some others experienced no difficulty;
and naturally she discarded us and developed her powers over
those--about half the sitters--who had failed or found difficulty.”
From hypnotism he passed to spiritualism, his interest aroused by Sir
William Crookes’ experiences. He induced the medium, Mrs. Jencken, and
her husband, to visit his country house as guests. He describes the
results as disappointing:
I do not mean that very little happened, or that what did happen was
always easy to explain. But most of the happenings were trifling,
and not such as to preclude the idea of trickery. One’s coat-tails
would be pulled, paper cutters, etc., would fly about, knocks would
shake our chairs, and so on. I do not count messages, usually of no
interest, which were spelt out alphabetically by raps that seemed to
come from the neighbourhood of the medium’s feet. Perhaps what struck
us most were lights which on one or two occasions floated about. They
were real enough, but rather difficult to locate, though I do not
think they were ever more than six or eight feet away from us.
Another incident was the gradual tipping over of a rather heavy table
at which they had been sitting. “Mrs. Jencken, as well as ourselves
[i.e. Lady Rayleigh and himself. The husband was not admitted to
these séances] was apparently standing quite clear of it.” He found
it very difficult to reproduce the phenomenon himself, using both
hands. He endeavoured to “improve” the conditions for some experiments.
After being shown some writing, “supposed to be spirit writing,” he
arranged paper and pencils inside a large glass retort, which he then
hermetically sealed. Nothing then appeared on the paper at these
séances. “Possibly this was too much to expect. I may add that on
recently inspecting the retort I find that the opportunity has remained
neglected for forty-five years.”
And so he has left the matter. The experiences were certainly strange,
yes, but in his judgment, not strange enough. On the other hand,
he is reluctant to believe they were due to fraud, and he is quite
convinced that he was not a victim of hallucinations. If Mrs. Jencken
were a clever fraud “her acting was as wonderful as her conjuring.”
She practically never made an intelligent remark on any occasion.
“Her interests seemed to be limited to the spirits and her baby.” In
investigating this subject he finds that the attitude of convinced
believers makes a difficulty. They “take no pains over the details
of evidence on which everything depends.” Others attribute all these
phenomena to the devil and will have nothing to do with them. “I have
sometimes pointed out that if during the long hours of séances we
could keep the devil occupied in so comparatively harmless a manner we
deserved well of our neighbours.”
The general disbelief in scientific circles that meteorites really
came from outer space occurs to him. This disbelief was due, he points
out, to the impossibility of producing the phenomena at pleasure in
our laboratories. Nevertheless, the disbelief was unjustified. Spirit
manifestations may be, he thinks, just such sporadic phenomena. The
situation is made worse by the fact that there has undoubtedly been a
great deal of fraud in connection with spiritualist phenomena. Eusapia
Palladino, for instance, undoubtedly practised deception, “but that is
not the last word.” Telepathy puzzles him. If there is such a means of
communication, why should Nature have adopted the laborious method of
building up our very complicated senses? An antelope in danger from
a lion, for instance, depends on his senses and speed. “But would it
not be simpler if he could know something telepathically of the lion’s
intention, even if it were no more than vague apprehension warning
him to be on the move?” He advises the society to continue their
investigations, and mentions that it is quality, not quantity, that
is so desirable in evidence. He concludes by saying that he fears his
attitude, or want of attitude, will be disappointing to some members of
the society. He suggests that after forty-five years of hesitation “it
may require some personal experience of a compelling kind to break the
crust.” He apologises for this. “Some of those who know me best think
that I ought to be more convinced than I am. Perhaps they are right.”
There he leaves us. We do not believe more or disbelieve less, yet we
are completely satisfied. His massive sincerity, his obvious competence
and, above all, that impression of exquisite balance, have charmed us.
So far as present evidence is concerned we feel that while he has said
nothing he has also said the last word. That is the function of the
sceptic.