It is difficult at all times to write or speak of circumstances which
though perfectly at one with Nature appear to be removed from natural
occurrences. Apart from the incredulity with which the narration of
such incidents is received, the mere idea that any one human creature
should be fortunate enough to secure some particular advantage which
others, through their own indolence or indifference, have missed, is
sufficient to excite the envy of the weak or the anger of the ignorant.
In all criticism it is an understood thing that the subject to be
criticised must be UNDER the critic, never above,--that is to say,
never above the critic's ability to comprehend; therefore, as it is
impossible that an outsider should enter at once into a clear
understanding of the mystic Spiritual-Nature world around him, it
follows that the teachings and tenets of that Spiritual-Nature world
must be more or less a closed book to such an one,--a book, moreover,
which he seldom cares or dares to try and open.
In this way and for this reason the Eastern philosophers and sages
concealed much of their most profound knowledge from the multitude,
because they rightly recognised the limitations of narrow minds and
prejudiced opinions. What the fool cannot learn he laughs at, thinking
that by his laughter he shows superiority instead of latent idiocy. And
so it has happened that many of the greatest discoveries of science,
though fully known and realised in the past by the initiated few, were
never disclosed to the many until recent years, when 'wireless
telegraphy' and 'light-rays' are accepted facts, though these very
things were familiar to the Egyptian priests and to that particular
sect known as the 'Hermetic Brethren,' many of whom used the 'violet
ray' for chemical and other purposes ages before the coming of Christ.
Wireless telegraphy was also an ordinary method of communication
between them, and they had their 'stations' for it in high towers on
certain points of land as we have now. But if they had made their
scientific attainments known to the multitude of their day they would
have been judged as impostors or madmen. In the time of Galileo men
would not believe that the earth moved round the sun,--and if anyone
had then declared that messages could be sent from one ship to another
in mid-ocean without any visible means of communication, he would
probably have been put to torture and death as a sorcerer and
deliberate misleader of the public. In the same way those who write of
spiritual truths and the psychic control of our life-forces are as
foolishly criticised as Galileo, and as wrongfully condemned.
For hundreds of years man's vain presumption and belief in his own
infallibility caused him to remain in error concerning the simplest
elements of astronomy, which would have taught him the true position of
the sphere upon which he dwells. With precisely equal obstinacy man
lives to-day in ignorance of his own highest powers because he will not
take the trouble to study the elements of that supreme and
all-commanding mental science which would enable him to understand his
own essential life and being, and the intention of his Creator with
regard to his progress and betterment. Therefore, in the face of his
persistent egotism and effrontery, and his continuous denial of the
'superhuman' (which denial is absurdly incongruous seeing that all his
religions are built up on a 'superhuman' basis), it is generally
necessary for students of psychic mysteries to guard the treasures of
their wisdom from profane and vulgar scorn,--a scorn which amounts in
their eyes to blasphemy. For centuries it has been their custom to
conceal the tenets of their creed from the common knowledge for the
sake of conventions; because they would, or might, be shut out from
such consolations as human social intercourse can give if their
spiritual attainments were found to be, as they often are, beyond the
ordinary. Thus they move through the world with the utmost caution, and
instead of making a display of their powers they, if they are true to
their faith, studiously deny the idea that they have any extraordinary
or separate knowledge. They live as spectators of the progress or decay
of nations, and they have no desire to make disciples, converts or
confidants. They submit to the obligations of life, obey all civil
codes, and are blameless and generous citizens, only preserving silence
in regard to their own private beliefs, and giving the public the
benefit of their acquirements up to a certain point, but shutting out
curiosity where they do not wish its impertinent eyes.
To this, the creed just spoken of, I, the writer of this present
narrative, belong. It has nothing whatever to do with merely human
dogma,--and yet I would have it distinctly understood that I am not
opposed to 'forms' of religion save where they overwhelm religion
itself and allow the Spirit to be utterly lost in the Letter. For 'the
letter killeth,--the spirit giveth life.' So far as a 'form' may make a
way for truth to become manifest, I am with it,--but when it is a mere
Sham or Show, and when human souls are lost rather than saved by it, I
am opposed to it. And with all my deficiencies I am conscious that I
may risk the chance of a lower world's disdain, seeing that the 'higher
world without end' is open to me in its imperishable brightness and
beauty, to live in both NOW, and for ever. No one can cast me out of
that glorious and indestructible Universe, for 'whithersoever I go
there will be the sun and the moon, and the stars and visions and
communion with the gods.'
And so I will fulfil the task allotted to me, and will enter at once
upon my 'story'--in which form I shall endeavour to convey to my
readers certain facts which are as far from fiction as the sayings of
the prophets of old,--sayings that we know have been realised by the
science of to-day. Every great truth has at first been no more than a
dream,--that is to say, a thought, or an instinctive perception of the
Soul reaching after its own immortal heritage. And what the Soul
demands it receives.
* * *
* *
*
At a time of year when the indolent languors of an exceptionally warm
summer disinclined most people for continuous hard work, and when those
who could afford it had left their ordinary avocations for the joys of
a long holiday, I received a pressing invitation from certain persons
whom I had met by chance during one London season, to join them in a
yachting cruise. My intending host was an exceedingly rich man, a
widower with one daughter, a delicate and ailing creature who, had she
been poor, would have been irreverently styled 'a tiresome old maid,'
but who by reason of being a millionaire's sole heiress was alluded to
with sycophantic tenderness by all and sundry as 'Poor Miss Catherine.'
Morton Harland, her father, was in a certain sense notorious for having
written and published a bitter, cold and pitiless attack on religion,
which was the favourite reading of many scholars and literary men, and
this notable performance, together with the well accredited reports of
his almost fabulous wealth, secured for him two social sets,--the one
composed of such human sharks as are accustomed to swim round the
plutocrat,--the other of the cynical, listless, semi-bored portion of a
so-called cultured class who, having grown utterly tired of themselves,
presumed that it was clever to be equally tired of God. I was surprised
that such a man as he was should think of including me among his
guests, for I had scarcely exchanged a dozen words with him, and my
acquaintance with Miss Harland was restricted to a few casual
condolences with her respecting the state of her health. Yet it so
chanced that one of those vague impulses to which we can give no name,
but which often play an important part in the building up of our
life-dramas, moved both father and daughter to a wish for my company.
Moreover, the wish was so strong that though on first receiving their
invitation I had refused it, they repeated it urgently, Morton Harland
himself pressing it upon me with an almost imperative insistence.
"You want rest,"--he said, peering at me narrowly with his small hard
brown eyes--"You work all the time. And to what purpose?"