This is particularly horrible, because, if one had to put one's
faith in these things one could not even die safely from disgust, as one
would long to do.
And to believe that these manifestations, which the author evidently
takes for modern miracles, will stay our tottering faith; to believe that
the new psychology has, only the other day, discovered man to be a
"spiritual mystery," is really carrying humility towards that universal
provider, Science, too far.
* * * * *
We moderns have complicated our old perplexities to the point of
absurdity; our perplexities older than religion itself. It is not for
nothing that for so many centuries the priest, mounting the steps of the
altar, murmurs, "Why art thou sad, my soul, and why dost thou trouble
me?" Since the day of Creation two veiled figures, Doubt and Melancholy,
are pacing endlessly in the sunshine of the world. What humanity needs
is not the promise of scientific immortality, but compassionate pity in
this life and infinite mercy on the Day of Judgment.
And, for the rest, during this transient hour of our pilgrimage, we may
well be content to repeat the Invocation of Sar Peladan.
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