第68章

It is amusing to note the superficial forms of reaction against scientific positivism.The triumph of Darwin was signalized by the invention of that happy word Agnostic, which had great vogue.But agnosticism, as a fashion, was far too reasonable to endure.There came a rumour of Oriental magic, (how the world repeats itself!) and presently every one who had nothing better to do gossipped about "esoteric Buddhism"--the saving adjective sounded well in a drawing-room.It did not hold very long, even with the novelists; for the English taste this esotericism was too exotic.Somebody suggested that the old table-turning and spirit-rapping, which had homely associations, might be re-considered in a scientific light, and the idea was seized upon.Superstition pranked in the professor's spectacles, it set up a laboratory, and printed grave reports.Day by day its sphere widened.Hypnotism brought matter for the marvel-mongers, and there followed a long procession of words in limping Greek--a little difficult till practice had made perfect.Another fortunate terminologist hit upon the word "psychical"--the P might be sounded or not, according to the taste and fancy of the pronouncer--and the fashionable children of a scientific age were thoroughly at ease."There MUST be something, you know; one always felt that there MUST be something." And now, if one may judge from what one reads, psychical "science" is comfortably joining hands with the sorcery of the Middle Ages.It is said to be a lucrative moment for wizards that peep and that mutter.If the law against fortune-telling were as strictly enforced in the polite world as it occasionally is in slums and hamlets, we should have a merry time.

But it is difficult to prosecute a Professor of Telepathy--and how he would welcome the advertisement!

Of course I know very well that all that make use of these words are not in one and the same category.There is a study of the human mind, in health and in disease, which calls for as much respect as any other study conscientiously and capably pursued; that it lends occasion to fribbles and knaves is no argument against any honest tendency of thought.Men whom one cannot but esteem are deeply engaged in psychical investigations, and have convinced themselves that they are brought into touch with phenomena inexplicable by the commonly accepted laws of life.Be it so.They may be on the point of making discoveries in the world beyond sense.For my own part, everything of this kind not only does not interest me; I turn from it with the strongest distaste.If every wonder-story examined by the Psychical Society were set before me with irresistible evidence of its truth, my feeling (call it my prejudice) would undergo no change whatever.No whit the less should I yawn over the next batch, and lay the narratives aside with--yes, with a sort of disgust."An ounce of civet, good apothecary!" Why it should be so with me I cannot say.I am as indifferent to the facts or fancies of spiritualism as I am, for instance, to the latest mechanical application of electricity.Edisons and Marconis may thrill the world with astounding novelties; they astound me, as every one else, but straightway I forget my astonishment, and am in every respect the man I was before.The thing has simply no concern for me, and Icare not a volt if to-morrow the proclaimed discovery be proved a journalist's mistake or invention.

Am I, then, a hidebound materialist? If I know myself, hardly that.

Once, in conversation with G.A., I referred to his position as that of the agnostic.He corrected me."The agnostic grants that there MAY be something beyond the sphere of man's knowledge; I can make no such admission.For me, what is called the unknowable is simply the non-existent.We see what is, and we see all." Now this gave me a sort of shock; it seemed incredible to me that a man of so much intelligence could hold such a view.So far am I from feeling satisfied with any explanation, scientific or other, of myself and of the world about me, that not a day goes by but I fall a-marvelling before the mystery of the universe.To trumpet the triumphs of human knowledge seems to me worse than childishness;now, as of old, we know but one thing--that we know nothing.What!

Can I pluck the flower by the wayside, and, as I gaze at it, feel that, if I knew all the teachings of histology, morphology, and so on, with regard to it, I should have exhausted its meanings? What is all this but words, words, words? Interesting, yes, as observation; but, the more interesting, so much the more provocative of wonder and of hopeless questioning.One may gaze and think till the brain whirls--till the little blossom in one's hand becomes as overwhelming a miracle as the very sun in heaven.Nothing to be known? The flower simply a flower, and there an end on't? The man simply a product of evolutionary law, his senses and his intellect merely availing him to take account of the natural mechanism of which he forms a part? I find it very hard to believe that this is the conviction of any human mind.Rather I would think that despair at an insoluble problem, and perhaps impatience with those who pretend to solve it, bring about a resolute disregard of everything beyond the physical fact, and so at length a self-deception which seems obtuseness.