Chapter 5 of 23

MESMERIC REVELATION

Whatever doubt may still envelop the rationale of mesmerism, its

startling facts are now almost universally admitted. Of these latter,

those who doubt, are your mere doubters by profession—an unprofitable

and disreputable tribe. There can be no more absolute waste of time

than the attempt to prove, at the present day, that man, by mere

exercise of will, can so impress his fellow, as to cast him into an

abnormal condition, of which the phenomena resemble very closely those

of death, or at least resemble them more nearly than they do the

phenomena of any other normal condition within our cognizance; that,

while in this state, the person so impressed employs only with effort,

and then feebly, the external organs of sense, yet perceives, with

keenly refined perception, and through channels supposed unknown,

matters beyond the scope of the physical organs; that, moreover, his

intellectual faculties are wonderfully exalted and invigorated; that

his sympathies with the person so impressing him are profound; and,

finally, that his susceptibility to the impression increases with its

frequency, while, in the same proportion, the peculiar phenomena

elicited are more extended and more pronounced.

I say that these—which are the laws of mesmerism in its general

features—it would be supererogation to demonstrate; nor shall I inflict

upon my readers so needless a demonstration; to-day. My purpose at

present is a very different one indeed. I am impelled, even in the

teeth of a world of prejudice, to detail without comment the very

remarkable substance of a colloquy, occurring between a sleep-waker and

myself.

I had been long in the habit of mesmerizing the person in question (Mr.

Vankirk), and the usual acute susceptibility and exaltation of the

mesmeric perception had supervened. For many months he had been

laboring under confirmed phthisis, the more distressing effects of

which had been relieved by my manipulations; and on the night of

Wednesday, the fifteenth instant, I was summoned to his bedside.

The invalid was suffering with acute pain in the region of the heart,

and breathed with great difficulty, having all the ordinary symptoms of

asthma. In spasms such as these he had usually found relief from the

application of mustard to the nervous centres, but to-night this had

been attempted in vain.

As I entered his room he greeted me with a cheerful smile, and although

evidently in much bodily pain, appeared to be, mentally, quite at ease.

“I sent for you to-night,” he said, “not so much to administer to my

bodily ailment, as to satisfy me concerning certain psychal impressions

which, of late, have occasioned me much anxiety and surprise. I need

not tell you how sceptical I have hitherto been on the topic of the

soul’s immortality. I cannot deny that there has always existed, as if

in that very soul which I have been denying, a vague half-sentiment of

its own existence. But this half-sentiment at no time amounted to

conviction. With it my reason had nothing to do. All attempts at

logical inquiry resulted, indeed, in leaving me more sceptical than

before. I had been advised to study Cousin. I studied him in his own

works as well as in those of his European and American echoes. The

‘Charles Elwood’ of Mr. Brownson, for example, was placed in my hands.

I read it with profound attention. Throughout I found it logical, but

the portions which were not merely logical were unhappily the initial

arguments of the disbelieving hero of the book. In his summing up it

seemed evident to me that the reasoner had not even succeeded in

convincing himself. His end had plainly forgotten his beginning, like

the government of Trinculo. In short, I was not long in perceiving that

if man is to be intellectually convinced of his own immortality, he

will never be so convinced by the mere abstractions which have been so

long the fashion of the moralists of England, of France, and of

Germany. Abstractions may amuse and exercise, but take no hold on the

mind. Here upon earth, at least, philosophy, I am persuaded, will

always in vain call upon us to look upon qualities as things. The will

may assent—the soul—the intellect, never.

“I repeat, then, that I only half felt, and never intellectually

believed. But latterly there has been a certain deepening of the

feeling, until it has come so nearly to resemble the acquiescence of

reason, that I find it difficult to distinguish between the two. I am

enabled, too, plainly to trace this effect to the mesmeric influence. I

cannot better explain my meaning than by the hypothesis that the

mesmeric exaltation enables me to perceive a train of ratiocination

which, in my abnormal existence, convinces, but which, in full

accordance with the mesmeric phenomena, does not extend, except through

its effect, into my normal condition. In sleep-waking, the reasoning

and its conclusion—the cause and its effect—are present together. In my

natural state, the cause vanishing, the effect only, and perhaps only

partially, remains.

“These considerations have led me to think that some good results might

ensue from a series of well-directed questions propounded to me while

mesmerized. You have often observed the profound self-cognizance

evinced by the sleep-waker—the extensive knowledge he displays upon all

points relating to the mesmeric condition itself; and from this

self-cognizance may be deduced hints for the proper conduct of a

catechism.”

I consented of course to make this experiment. A few passes threw Mr.

Vankirk into the mesmeric sleep. His breathing became immediately more

easy, and he seemed to suffer no physical uneasiness. The following

conversation then ensued:—V. in the dialogue representing the patient,

and P. myself.

P. Are you asleep?

V. Yes—no; I would rather sleep more soundly.

P. [After a few more passes.] Do you sleep now?

V. Yes.

P. How do you think your present illness will result?

V. [After a long hesitation and speaking as if with effort.]

I must die.

P. Does the idea of death afflict you?

V. [Very quickly.] No—no!

P. Are you pleased with the prospect?

V. If I were awake I should like to die, but now it is no

matter. The mesmeric condition is so near death as to content me.

P. I wish you would explain yourself, Mr. Vankirk.

V. I am willing to do so, but it requires more effort than I

feel able to make. You do not question me properly.

P. What then shall I ask?

V. You must begin at the beginning.

P. The beginning! But where is the beginning?

V. You know that the beginning is GOD. [_This was said in a

low, fluctuating tone, and with every sign of the most profound

veneration_.]

P. What then, is God?

V. [Hesitating for many minutes.] I cannot tell.

P. Is not God spirit?

V. While I was awake I knew what you meant by “spirit,” but now

it seems only a word—such, for instance, as truth, beauty—a

quality, I mean.

P. Is not God immaterial?

V. There is no immateriality—it is a mere word. That which is

not matter, is not at all—unless qualities are things.

P. Is God, then, material?

V. No. [This reply startled me very much.]

P. What, then, is he?

V. [After a long pause, and mutteringly.] I see—but it is a

thing difficult to tell. [Another long pause.] He is not

spirit, for he exists. Nor is he matter, as you understand it.

But there are gradations of matter of which man knows nothing;

the grosser impelling the finer, the finer pervading the grosser.

The atmosphere, for example, impels the electric principle, while

the electric principle permeates the atmosphere. These gradations

of matter increase in rarity or fineness, until we arrive at a

matter unparticled—without particles—indivisible—one; and

here the law of impulsion and permeation is modified. The

ultimate, or unparticled matter, not only permeates all things

but impels all things; and thus is all things within itself.

This matter is God. What men attempt to embody in the word

“thought,” is this matter in motion.

P. The metaphysicians maintain that all action is reducible to

motion and thinking, and that the latter is the origin of the

former.

V. Yes; and I now see the confusion of idea. Motion is the

action of mind, not of thinking. The unparticled matter, or

God, in quiescence, is (as nearly as we can conceive it) what men

call mind. And the power of self-movement (equivalent in effect

to human volition) is, in the unparticled matter, the result of

its unity and omniprevalence; how I know not, and now clearly

see that I shall never know. But the unparticled matter, set in

motion by a law, or quality, existing within itself, is thinking.

P. Can you give me no more precise idea of what you term the

unparticled matter?

V. The matters of which man is cognizant escape the senses in

gradation. We have, for example, a metal, a piece of wood, a drop

of water, the atmosphere, a gas, caloric, electricity, the

luminiferous ether. Now we call all these things matter, and

embrace all matter in one general definition; but in spite of

this, there can be no two ideas more essentially distinct than

that which we attach to a metal, and that which we attach to the

luminiferous ether. When we reach the latter, we feel an almost

irresistible inclination to class it with spirit, or with

nihility. The only consideration which restrains us is our

conception of its atomic constitution; and here, even, we have to

seek aid from our notion of an atom, as something possessing in

infinite minuteness, solidity, palpability, weight. Destroy the

idea of the atomic constitution and we should no longer be able

to regard the ether as an entity, or at least as matter. For want

of a better word we might term it spirit. Take, now, a step

beyond the luminiferous ether—conceive a matter as much more rare

than the ether, as this ether is more rare than the metal, and we

arrive at once (in spite of all the school dogmas) at a unique

mass—an unparticled matter. For although we may admit infinite

littleness in the atoms themselves, the infinitude of littleness

in the spaces between them is an absurdity. There will be a

point—there will be a degree of rarity, at which, if the atoms

are sufficiently numerous, the interspaces must vanish, and the

mass absolutely coalesce. But the consideration of the atomic

constitution being now taken away, the nature of the mass

inevitably glides into what we conceive of spirit. It is clear,

however, that it is as fully matter as before. The truth is, it

is impossible to conceive spirit, since it is impossible to

imagine what is not. When we flatter ourselves that we have

formed its conception, we have merely deceived our understanding

by the consideration of infinitely rarified matter.

P. There seems to me an insurmountable objection to the idea of

absolute coalescence;—and that is the very slight resistance

experienced by the heavenly bodies in their revolutions through

space—a resistance now ascertained, it is true, to exist in

some degree, but which is, nevertheless, so slight as to have

been quite overlooked by the sagacity even of Newton. We know

that the resistance of bodies is, chiefly, in proportion to their

density. Absolute coalescence is absolute density. Where there

are no interspaces, there can be no yielding. An ether,

absolutely dense, would put an infinitely more effectual stop to

the progress of a star than would an ether of adamant or of iron.

V. Your objection is answered with an ease which is nearly in

the ratio of its apparent unanswerability.—As regards the

progress of the star, it can make no difference whether the star

passes through the ether or the ether through it. There is no

astronomical error more unaccountable than that which reconciles

the known retardation of the comets with the idea of their

passage through an ether: for, however rare this ether be

supposed, it would put a stop to all sidereal revolution in a

very far briefer period than has been admitted by those

astronomers who have endeavored to slur over a point which they

found it impossible to comprehend. The retardation actually

experienced is, on the other hand, about that which might be

expected from the friction of the ether in the instantaneous

passage through the orb. In the one case, the retarding force is

momentary and complete within itself—in the other it is endlessly

accumulative.

P. But in all this—in this identification of mere matter with

God—is there nothing of irreverence? [_I was forced to repeat

this question before the sleep-waker fully comprehended my

meaning_.]

V. Can you say why matter should be less reverenced than

mind? But you forget that the matter of which I speak is, in all

respects, the very “mind” or “spirit” of the schools, so far as

regards its high capacities, and is, moreover, the “matter” of

these schools at the same time. God, with all the powers

attributed to spirit, is but the perfection of matter.

P. You assert, then, that the unparticled matter, in motion, is

thought?

V. In general, this motion is the universal thought of the

universal mind. This thought creates. All created things are but

the thoughts of God.

P. You say, “in general.”

V. Yes. The universal mind is God. For new individualities,

matter is necessary.

P. But you now speak of “mind” and “matter” as do the

metaphysicians.

V. Yes—to avoid confusion. When I say “mind,” I mean the

unparticled or ultimate matter; by “matter,” I intend all else.

P. You were saying that “for new individualities matter is

necessary.”

V. Yes; for mind, existing unincorporate, is merely God. To

create individual, thinking beings, it was necessary to incarnate

portions of the divine mind. Thus man is individualized. Divested

of corporate investiture, he were God. Now, the particular motion

of the incarnated portions of the unparticled matter is the

thought of man; as the motion of the whole is that of God.

P. You say that divested of the body man will be God?

V. [After much hesitation.] I could not have said this; it is

an absurdity.

P. [Referring to my notes.] You did say that “divested of

corporate investiture man were God.”

V. And this is true. Man thus divested would be God—would be

unindividualized. But he can never be thus divested—at least

never will be—else we must imagine an action of God returning

upon itself—a purposeless and futile action. Man is a creature.

Creatures are thoughts of God. It is the nature of thought to be

irrevocable.

P. I do not comprehend. You say that man will never put off the

body?

V. I say that he will never be bodiless.

P. Explain.

V. There are two bodies—the rudimental and the complete;

corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the

butterfly. What we call “death,” is but the painful

metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive,

preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate,

immortal. The ultimate life is the full design.

P. But of the worm’s metamorphosis we are palpably cognizant.

V. We, certainly—but not the worm. The matter of which our

rudimental body is composed, is within the ken of the organs of

that body; or, more distinctly, our rudimental organs are adapted

to the matter of which is formed the rudimental body; but not to

that of which the ultimate is composed. The ultimate body thus

escapes our rudimental senses, and we perceive only the shell

which falls, in decaying, from the inner form; not that inner

form itself; but this inner form, as well as the shell, is

appreciable by those who have already acquired the ultimate life.

P. You have often said that the mesmeric state very nearly

resembles death. How is this?

V. When I say that it resembles death, I mean that it resembles

the ultimate life; for when I am entranced the senses of my

rudimental life are in abeyance, and I perceive external things

directly, without organs, through a medium which I shall employ

in the ultimate, unorganized life.

P. Unorganized?

V. Yes; organs are contrivances by which the individual is

brought into sensible relation with particular classes and forms

of matter, to the exclusion of other classes and forms. The

organs of man are adapted to his rudimental condition, and to

that only; his ultimate condition, being unorganized, is of

unlimited comprehension in all points but one—the nature of the

volition of God—that is to say, the motion of the unparticled

matter. You will have a distinct idea of the ultimate body by

conceiving it to be entire brain. This it is not; but a

conception of this nature will bring you near a comprehension of

what it is. A luminous body imparts vibration to the

luminiferous ether. The vibrations generate similar ones within

the retina; these again communicate similar ones to the optic

nerve. The nerve conveys similar ones to the brain; the brain,

also, similar ones to the unparticled matter which permeates it.

The motion of this latter is thought, of which perception is the

first undulation. This is the mode by which the mind of the

rudimental life communicates with the external world; and this

external world is, to the rudimental life, limited, through the

idiosyncrasy of its organs. But in the ultimate, unorganized

life, the external world reaches the whole body, (which is of a

substance having affinity to brain, as I have said,) with no

other intervention than that of an infinitely rarer ether than

even the luminiferous; and to this ether—in unison with it—the

whole body vibrates, setting in motion the unparticled matter

which permeates it. It is to the absence of idiosyncratic organs,

therefore, that we must attribute the nearly unlimited perception

of the ultimate life. To rudimental beings, organs are the cages

necessary to confine them until fledged.

P. You speak of rudimental “beings.” Are there other rudimental

thinking beings than man?

V. The multitudinous conglomeration of rare matter into nebulæ,

planets, suns, and other bodies which are neither nebulæ, suns,

nor planets, is for the sole purpose of supplying pabulum for

the idiosyncrasy of the organs of an infinity of rudimental

beings. But for the necessity of the rudimental, prior to the

ultimate life, there would have been no bodies such as these.

Each of these is tenanted by a distinct variety of organic,

rudimental, thinking creatures. In all, the organs vary with the

features of the place tenanted. At death, or metamorphosis, these

creatures, enjoying the ultimate life—immortality—and cognizant

of all secrets but the one, act all things and pass everywhere

by mere volition:—indwelling, not the stars, which to us seem the

sole palpabilities, and for the accommodation of which we blindly

deem space created—but that SPACE itself—that infinity of which

the truly substantive vastness swallows up the

star-shadows—blotting them out as non-entities from the

perception of the angels.

P. You say that “but for the necessity of the rudimental

life” there would have been no stars. But why this necessity?

V. In the inorganic life, as well as in the inorganic matter

generally, there is nothing to impede the action of one simple

unique law—the Divine Volition. With the view of producing

impediment, the organic life and matter, (complex, substantial,

and law-encumbered,) were contrived.

P. But again—why need this impediment have been produced?

V. The result of law inviolate is perfection—right—negative

happiness. The result of law violate is imperfection, wrong,

positive pain. Through the impediments afforded by the number,

complexity, and substantiality of the laws of organic life and

matter, the violation of law is rendered, to a certain extent,

practicable. Thus pain, which in the inorganic life is

impossible, is possible in the organic.

P. But to what good end is pain thus rendered possible?

V. All things are either good or bad by comparison. A

sufficient analysis will show that pleasure, in all cases, is but

the contrast of pain. Positive pleasure is a mere idea. To be

happy at any one point we must have suffered at the same. Never

to suffer would have been never to have been blessed. But it has

been shown that, in the inorganic life, pain cannot be thus the

necessity for the organic. The pain of the primitive life of

Earth, is the sole basis of the bliss of the ultimate life in

Heaven.

P. Still, there is one of your expressions which I find it

impossible to comprehend—“the truly substantive vastness of

infinity.”

V. This, probably, is because you have no sufficiently generic

conception of the term “substance” itself. We must not regard

it as a quality, but as a sentiment:—it is the perception, in

thinking beings, of the adaptation of matter to their

organization. There are many things on the Earth, which would be

nihility to the inhabitants of Venus—many things visible and

tangible in Venus, which we could not be brought to appreciate as

existing at all. But to the inorganic beings—to the angels—the

whole of the unparticled matter is substance—that is to say, the

whole of what we term “space” is to them the truest

substantiality;—the stars, meantime, through what we consider

their materiality, escaping the angelic sense, just in proportion

as the unparticled matter, through what we consider its

immateriality, eludes the organic.

As the sleep-waker pronounced these latter words, in a feeble

tone, I observed on his countenance a singular expression, which

somewhat alarmed me, and induced me to awake him at once. No

sooner had I done this, than, with a bright smile irradiating all

his features, he fell back upon his pillow and expired. I noticed

that in less than a minute afterward his corpse had all the stern

rigidity of stone. His brow was of the coldness of ice. Thus,

ordinarily, should it have appeared, only after long pressure

from Azrael’s hand. Had the sleep-waker, indeed, during the

latter portion of his discourse, been addressing me from out the

region of the shadows?