The wind sighs through the grass, sighs in the sunshine; it has drifted
the butterfly eastwards along the hill. A few yards away there lies the
skull of a lamb on the turf, white and bleached, picked clean long
since by crows and ants. Like the faint ripple of the summer sea
sounding in the hollow of the ear, so the sweet air ripples in the
grass. The ashes of the man interred in the tumulus are
indistinguishable; they have sunk away like rain into the earth; so his
body has disappeared. I am under no delusion; I am fully aware that no
demonstration can be given of the three stepping-stones of the Cavemen.
The soul is inscrutable; it is not in evidence to show that it exists;
immortality is not tangible. Full well I know that reason and knowledge
and experience tend to disprove all three; that experience denies
answer to prayer. I am under no delusion whatever; I grasp death firmly
in conception as I can grasp this bleached bone; utter extinction,
annihilation. That the soul is a product at best of organic
composition; that it goes out like a flame. This may be the end; my
soul may sink like rain into the earth and disappear. Wind and earth,
sea, and night and day, what then? Let my soul be but a product, what
then? I say it is nothing to me; this only I know, that while I have
lived—now, this moment, while I live—I think immortality, I lift my
mind to a Fourth Idea. If I pass into utter oblivion, yet I have had
that.
The original three ideas of the Cavemen became encumbered with
superstition; ritual grew up, and ceremony, and long ranks of souls
were painted on papyri waiting to be weighed in the scales, and to be
punished or rewarded. These cobwebs grotesque have sullied the original
discoveries and cast them into discredit. Erase them altogether, and
consider only the underlying principles. The principles do not go far
enough, but I shall not discard all of them for that. Even supposing
the pure principles to be illusions, and annihilation the end, even
then it is better—it is something gained to have thought them. Thought
is life; to have thought them is to have lived them. Accepting two of
them as true in principle, then I say that these are but the threshold.
For twelve thousand years no effort has been made to get beyond that
threshold. These are but the primer of soul-life; the merest
hieroglyphics chipped out, a little shape given to the unknown.
Not to-morrow but to-day. Not the to-morrow of the tumulus, the hour of
the sunshine now. This moment give me to live soul-life, not only after
death. Now is eternity, now I am in the midst of immortality; now the
supernatural crowds around me. Open my mind, give my soul to see, let
me live it now on earth, while I hear the burring of the larger bees,
the sweet air in the grass, and watch the yellow wheat wave beneath me.
Sun and earth and sea, night and day—these are the least of things.
Give me soul-life.
There is nothing human in nature. The earth, though loved so dearly,
would let me perish on the ground, and neither bring forth food nor
water. Burning in the sky the great sun, of whose company I have been
so fond, would merely burn on and make no motion to assist me. Those
who have been in an open boat at sea without water have proved the
mercies of the sun, and of the deity who did not give them one drop of
rain, dying in misery under the same rays that smile so beautifully on
the flowers. In the south the sun is the enemy; night and coolness and
rain are the friends of man. As for the sea, it offers us salt water
which we cannot drink. The trees care nothing for us; the hill I
visited so often in days gone by has not missed me. The sun scorches
man, and willing his naked state roast him alive. The sea and the fresh
water alike make no effort to uphold him if his vessel founders; he
casts up his arms in vain, they come to their level over his head,
filling the spot his body occupied. If he falls from a cliff the air
parts; the earth beneath dashes him to pieces.
Water he can drink, but it is not produced for him; how many thousands
have perished for want of it? Some fruits are produced which he can
eat, but they do not produce themselves for him; merely for the purpose
of continuing their species. In wild, tropical countries, at the first
glance there appears to be some consideration for him, but it is on the
surface only. The lion pounces on him, the rhinoceros crushes him, the
serpent bites, insects torture, diseases rack him. Disease worked its
dreary will even among the flower-crowned Polynesians. Returning to our
own country, this very thyme which scents my fingers did not grow for
that purpose, but for its own. So does the wheat beneath; we utilise
it, but its original and native purpose was for itself. By night it is
the same as by day; the stars care not, they pursue their courses
revolving, and we are nothing to them. There is nothing human in the
whole round of nature. All nature, all the universe that we can see, is
absolutely indifferent to us, and except to us human life is of no more
value than grass. If the entire human race perished at this hour, what
difference would it make to the earth? What would the earth care? As
much as for the extinct dodo, or for the fate of the elephant now
going.
On the contrary, a great part, perhaps the whole, of nature and of the
universe is distinctly anti-human. The term inhuman does not express my
meaning, anti-human is better; outre-human, in the sense of beyond,
outside, almost grotesque in its attitude towards, would nearly convey
it. Everything is anti-human. How extraordinary, strange, and
incomprehensible are the creatures captured out of the depths of the
sea! The distorted fishes; the ghastly cuttles; the hideous eel-like
shapes; the crawling shell-encrusted things; the centipede-like beings;
monstrous forms, to see which gives a shock to the brain. They shock
the mind because they exhibit an absence of design. There is no idea in
them.
They have no shape, form, grace, or purpose; they call up a vague sense
of chaos, chaos which the mind revolts from. It would be a relief to
the thought if they ceased to be, and utterly disappeared from the sea.
They are not inimical of intent towards man, not even the shark; but
there the shark is, and that is enough. These miserably hideous things
of the sea are not anti-human in the sense of persecution, they are
outside, they are ultra and beyond. It is like looking into chaos, and
it is vivid because these creatures, interred alive a hundred fathoms
deep, are seldom seen; so that the mind sees them as if only that
moment they had come into existence. Use has not habituated it to them,
so that their anti-human character is at once apparent, and stares at
us with glassy eye.
But it is the same in reality with the creatures on the earth. There
are some of these even now to which use has not accustomed the mind.
Such, for instance, as the toad. At its shapeless shape appearing in an
unexpected corner many people start and exclaim. They are aware that
they shall receive no injury from it, yet it affrights them, it sends a
shock to the mind. The reason lies in its obviously anti-human
character. All the designless, formless chaos of chance-directed
matter, without idea or human plan, squats there embodied in the
pathway. By watching the creature, and convincing the mind from
observation that it is harmless, and even has uses, the horror wears
away. But still remains the form to which the mind can never reconcile
itself. Carved in wood it is still repellent.
Or suddenly there is a rustle like a faint hiss in the grass, and a
green snake glides over the bank. The breath in the chest seems to lose
its vitality; for an instant the nerves refuse to transmit the force of
life. The gliding yellow-streaked worm is so utterly opposed to the
ever present Idea in the mind. Custom may reduce the horror, but no
long pondering can ever bring that creature within the pale of the
human Idea. These are so distinctly opposite and anti-human that
thousands of years have not sufficed to soften their outline. Various
insects and creeping creatures excite the same sense in lesser degrees.
Animals and birds in general do not. The tiger is dreaded, but causes
no disgust. The exception is in those that feed on offal. Horses and
dogs we love; we not only do not recognise anything opposite in them,
we come to love them.
They are useful to us, they show more or less sympathy with us, they
possess, especially the horse, a certain grace of movement. A gloss, as
it were, is thrown over them by these attributes and by familiarity.
The shape of the horse to the eye has become conventional: it is
accepted. Yet the horse is not in any sense human. Could we look at it
suddenly, without previous acquaintance, as at strange fishes in a
tank, the ultra-human character of the horse would be apparent. It is
the curves of the neck and body that carry the horse past without
adverse comment. Examine the hind legs in detail, and the curious
backward motion, the shape and anti-human curves become apparent. Dogs
take us by their intelligence, but they have no hand; pass the hand
over the dog’s head, and the shape of the skull to the sense of feeling
is almost as repellent as the form of the toad to the sense of sight.
We have gradually gathered around us all the creatures that are less
markedly anti-human, horses and dogs and birds, but they are still
themselves. They originally existed like the wheat, for themselves; we
utilise them, but they are not of us.
There is nothing human in any living animal. All nature, the universe
as far as we see, is anti- or ultra-human, outside, and has no concern
with man. These things are unnatural to him. By no course of reasoning,
however tortuous, can nature and the universe be fitted to the mind.
Nor can the mind be fitted to the cosmos. My mind cannot be twisted to
it; I am separate altogether from these designless things. The soul
cannot be wrested down to them. The laws of nature are of no importance
to it. I refuse to be bound by the laws of the tides, nor am I so
bound. Though bodily swung round on this rotating globe, my mind always
remains in the centre. No tidal law, no rotation, no gravitation can
control my thought.
Centuries of thought have failed to reconcile and fit the mind to the
universe, which is designless, and purposeless, and without idea. I
will not endeavour to fit my thought to it any longer; I find and
believe myself to be distinct—separate; and I will labour in earnest to
obtain the highest culture for myself. As these natural things have no
connection with man, it follows again that the natural is the strange
and mysterious, and the supernatural the natural.
There being nothing human in nature or the universe, and all things
being ultra-human and without design, shape, or purpose, I conclude
that, no deity has anything to do with nature. There is no god in
nature, nor in any matter anywhere, either in the clods on the earth or
in the composition of the stars. For what we understand by the deity is
the purest form of Idea, of Mind, and no mind is exhibited in these.
That which controls them is distinct altogether from deity. It is not
force in the sense of electricity, nor a deity as god, nor a spirit,
not even an intelligence, but a power quite different to anything yet
imagined. I cease, therefore, to look for deity in nature or the cosmos
at large, or to trace any marks of divine handiwork. I search for
traces of this force which is not god, and is certainly not the higher
than deity of whom I have written. It is a force without a mind. I wish
to indicate something more subtle than electricity, but absolutely
devoid of consciousness, and with no more feeling than the force which
lifts the tides.
Next, in human affairs, in the relations of man with man, in the
conduct of life, in the events that occur, in human affairs generally
everything happens by chance. No prudence in conduct, no wisdom or
foresight can effect anything, for the most trivial circumstance will
upset the deepest plan of the wisest mind. As Xenophon observed in old
times, wisdom is like casting dice and determining your course by the
number that appears. Virtue, humanity, the best and most beautiful
conduct is wholly in vain. The history of thousands of years
demonstrates it. In all these years there is no more moving instance on
record than that of Danae, when she was dragged to the precipice, two
thousand years ago. Sophron was governor of Ephesus, and Laodice
plotted to assassinate him. Danae discovered the plot, and warned
Sophron, who fled, and saved his life. Laodice—the murderess in
intent—had Danae seized and cast from a cliff. On the verge Danae said
that some persons despised the deity, and they might now prove the
justice of their contempt by her fate. For having saved the man who was
to her as a husband, she was rewarded in this way with cruel death by
the deity, but Laodice was advanced to honour. The bitterness of these
words remains to this hour.
In truth the deity, if responsible for such a thing, or for similar
things which occur now, should be despised. One must always despise the
fatuous belief in such a deity. But as everything in human affairs
obviously happens by chance, it is clear that no deity is responsible.
If the deity guides chance in that manner, then let the deity be
despised. Apparently the deity does not interfere, and all things
happen by chance. I cease, therefore, to look for traces of the deity
in life, because no such traces exist.
I conclude that there is an existence, a something higher than
soul—higher, better, and more perfect than deity. Earnestly I pray to
find this something better than a god. There is something superior,
higher, more good. For this I search, labour, think, and pray. If after
all there be nothing, and my soul has to go out like a flame, yet even
then I have thought this while it lives. With the whole force of my
existence, with the whole force of my thought, mind, and soul, I pray
to find this Highest Soul, this greater than deity, this better than
god. Give me to live the deepest soul-life now and always with this
Soul. For want of words I write soul, but I think that it is something
beyond soul.