THE EQUINOX Vol. I. No. IX 1st part of two ASCII VERSION March 5, 1991 e.v. key entry by Bill Heidrick, T.G. of O.T.O. with entry of the Bartzabel ritual by Fr. H. B. First proofreading against first edition November 13, 1991 e.v. by Bill Heidrick --- could benefit from further proof reading. Copyright (c) O.T.O. disk 1 of 2 O.T.O. P.O.Box 430 Fairfax, CA 94978 USA (415) 454-5176 ---- Messages only. Pages in the original are marked thus at the bottom: {page number} Comments and descriptions are also set off by curly brackets {} Comments and notes not in the original are identified with the initials of the source: AC note = Crowley note. WEH note = Bill Heidrick note, etc. Descriptions of illustrations are not so identified, but are simply in curly brackets. (Addresses and invitations below are not current but copied from the original text of the early part of the 20th century) All footnotes have been moved up to the place in text indexed and set off in double wedge brackets, viz. <> LIMITED LICENSE Except for notations added to the history of modification, the text on this diskette down to the next row of asterisks must accompany all copies made of this file. In particular, this paragraph and the copyright notice are not to be deleted or changed on any copies or print-outs of this file. With these provisos, anyone may copy this file for personal use or research. Copies may be made for others at reasonable cost of copying and mailing only, no additional charges may be added. ************************************************************************ "[These pages are reserved for Official Pronouncements by the Chancellor of the A.'. A.'.]" Persons wishing for information, assistance, further interpretation, etc., are requested to communicate with THE CHANCELLOR OF THE A.'. A.'. c/o THE EQUINOX, 33 Avenue Studios, 76 Fulham Road, South Kensington, S.W. Telephone: 2632 KENSINGTON, or to call at that address by appointment. A representative will be there to meet them. ====================== THE Chancellor of the A.'. A.'. wishes to warn readers of THE EQUINOX against accepting instruction in his name from an ex-Probationer, Captain J. F. C. Fuller, whose motto was "Per Ardua." This person never advanced beyond the Degree of Probationer, never sent in a record, and has presumably neither performed practices nor obtained results. He has not, and never has had, authority to give instructions in the name of the A.'. A.'.. ====================== THE Chancellor of the A.'. A.'. considers it desirable to make a brief statement of the financial position, as the time has now arrived to make an effort to spread the knowledge to the ends of the earth. The expenses of the propaganda are roughly estimated as follows --- Maintenance of Temple, and service . . Pounds200 p.a. Publications . . . . . . Pounds200 p.a. Advertising, electrical expenses, etc. . Pounds200 p.a. Maintenance of an Hermitage where poor Brethren may make retirements . . Pounds200 p.a. --------- Pounds800 p.a. ========= {ii} As in the past, the persons responsible for the movement will give the whole of their time and energy, as well as their worldly wealth, to the service of the A.'. A.'. Unfortunately, the sums at their disposal do not at present suffice for the contemplated advance, and the Chancellor consequently appeals for assistance to those who have found in the instructions of the A.'. A.'. a sure means to the end they sought. All moneys received will be applied solely for the purpose of aiding those who have not yet entered the circle of the light. The Chancellor wishes to express his gratitude to those who have so generously come forward with assistance. The full amount is, however, not yet guaranteed, and he hopes that those interested will make a special effort without delay. ====================== Owing to the unnecessary strain thrown upon Neophytes by unprepared persons totally ignorant of the groundwork taking the Oath of a Probationer, the Imperator of A.'. A.'., under the seal and by the authority of V.V.V.V.V., ordains that every person wishing to become a Probationer of A.'. A.'. must first pass three months as a Student of the Mysteries. He must possess the following books: --- 1. THE EQUINOX, from No. 1 to the current number. 2. "Raja Yoga," by Swami Vivekananda. 3. "The Shiva Sanhita," or "The Hathayoga Pradipika." 4. "Konx Om Pax." 5. "The Spiritual Guide," by Miguel de Molinos. 6. "777." 7. "Rituel et Dogme de la haute Magie," par Eliphaz Levi, or its translation, by A. E. Waite. 8. "The Goetia of the Lemegeton of Solomon the King." {iii} 9. "Tannhauser," by A. Crowley. 10. "The Sword of Song," by A. Crowley. 11. "Time," by A. Crowley. 12. "Eleusis," by A. Crowley. [These four last times are to be found in his Collected Works.] 13. "The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abra-melin the Mage." 14. The Tao Teh King and the Writings of Kwang Tzu (Sacred Books of the East, Vols. XXXIX, XL). An examination in these books will be made. The Student is expected to show a thorough acquaintance with them, but not necessarily to understand them in any deeper sense. On passing the examination he may be admitted to the grade of Probationer. ====================== With the publication of No. X of THE EQUINOX in September next the Official Pronouncements of the A.'. A.'. will cease, according to the Rule of the Order, which prescribes Five Years of Silence alternating with Five Years of Speech. This Silence was maintained from the year 0 to the year IV of this era. Speech followed, from the year V to the year IX. Silence will, therefore, be maintained from the year X to the year XIV. After this September, therefore, there will be no further open publications made by the Executive until March 1918 O.S. {iv} I.N.R.I. BRITISH SECTION OF THE ORDER OF ORIENTAL TEMPLARS O.T.O. M.'. M.'. M.'. The Premonstrator of the A.'. A.'. permits it to be known that there is not at present any necessary incompatibility between the A.'. A.'. and the O. T. O. and M.'. M.'. M.'., and allows membership of the same as a valuable preliminary training.] [This Order in no way conflicts with, or infringes the just privileges of, the United Grand Lodge of England.] {v} ORDER OF ORIENTAL TEMPLARS MYSTERIA MYSTICA MAXIMA PREAMBLE DURING the last twenty-five years, constantly increasing numbers of earnest people and seekers after truth have been turning their attention to the study of the hidden laws of Nature. The growth of interest in these matters has been simply marvellous. Numberless societies, associations, orders, groups, etc., etc., have been founded in all parts of the civilized world, all and each following some line of occult study. While all these newly organized associations do some good in preparing the minds of thoughtful people for their eventually becoming genuine disciples of the One Truth, yet there is but ONE ancient organization of Mystics which shows to the student a Royal Road to discover the One Truth. This organization has permitted the formation of the body known as the "ANCIENT ORDER OF ORIENTAL TEMPLARS." It is a modern School of Magi. Like the ancient Schools of Magi it derived its knowledge from Egypt and Chaldea. This knowledge is never revealed to {vii} the profane, for it gives immense power for either good or evil to its possessors. It is recorded in symbol, parable and allegory, requiring a Key for its interpretation. The symbols of Freemasonry were originally derived from the more ancient mysteries, as all who have travelled the burning sands know. The ritual and ceremonies, signs and passwords have been preserved with great fidelity: but the Real Key has been long lost to the crowds who have been initiated, advanced and raised in Masonry. The KEY to this knowledge can, however, be placed within the reach of all those who unselfishly desire, study and work for its possession. The Symbols of Ancient Masonry, the Sacred Art of the Ancient Chemi (Egyptians), and Homer's Golden Chain are but different aspects of the One Great Mystery. They represent but different degrees of initiation. By the Right Use of the "Key" alone the "Master Word" can be found. In order to afford genuine seekers after Hermetic Truth some information of the aims of the Ancient Order of Oriental Templars, we now print the preliminary instruction issued by the Fratres of this Order. FIRST INSTRUCTION "To all whom it may concern ---" Let it be known that there exists, unknown to the great crowd, a very ancient order of sages, whose object is the amelioration and spiritual elevation of mankind, by means of {viii} conquering error, and aiding men and women in their efforts of attaining the power of recognizing the truth. This order has existed already in the most remote and prehistoric times; and it has manifested its activity secretly and openly in the world under different names and in various forms; it has caused social and politic al revolutions, and proved to be the rock of salvation in times of danger and misfortune. It has always upheld the banner of freedom against tyranny, in whatever shape this appeared, whether as clerical or political, or social despotism or oppression of any kind. To this secret order every wise and spiritually enlightened person belongs by right of his or her nature; because they all, even if they are personally unknown to each other, are one in their purpose and object, and they all work under the guidan ce of the one light of truth. Into this sacred society no one can be admitted by another, unless he has the power to enter it himself by virtue of his own interior illumination: neither can any one, after he has once entered, be expelled, unless he should expel himself by becoming unfaithful to his principles, and forget again the truths which he has learned by his own experience. All this is known to every enlightened person; but it is known only to few that there exists also an external, visible organization of such men and women who, having themselves found the path to real self-knowledge, are willing to give to others, desirous of entering that path, the benefit of their experience and to act as spiritual guides to those who are willing to be guided. As a matter of course, those persons who are already sufficiently spiritually developed to enter into conscious communion with the great spiritual brotherhood {ix} will be taught directly by the spirit of wisdom; but those who still need external advice and support will find this in the external organization of that society. In regard to the spiritual aspect of this secret order, one of the Brothers says --- "Our community has existed ever since the first day of creation when the gods spoke the divine command: 'Let there be light!' and it will continue to exist till the end of time. It is the Society of the Children of Light, who live in the light and have attained immortality therein. In our school we are instructed directly by Divine Wisdom, the Celestial Bride, whose will is free and who selects as her disciples those who are devoted to her. The mysteries which we are taught embrace everything that can possibly be known in regard to God, Nature and Man. Every sage that ever existed in the world has graduated at our school; for without wisdom no man can be wise. We all study only one book, the Book of Nature, in which the keys to all secrets are contained, and we follow the only possible method in studying it, that of experience. Our place of meeting is the Temple of the Holy Spirit pervading the universe; easily to be found by the elect, but for ever hidden from the eyes of the vulgar. Our secrets ca nnot be sold for money, but we give them free to every one capable to receive them." As to the external organization of that society, it will be necessary to give a glance at its history, which has been one and the same in all. Whenever that spiritual society manifested itself on the outward plane and appeared in the world, it consisted at its beginning of a few able and enlightened people, forming a nucleus around which others were {x} attracted. But invariably, the more such a society grew in numbers, the more became attracted to its elements, such as were not able to understand or f ollow its principles; people who joined it for the purpose of gratifying their own ambition or for making the society serve their own ends obtained the majority over those that were pure. Thereupon the healthy portion of it retired from the field and continued their benevolent work in secrecy, while the remaining portion became diseased and disrupted, and sooner or later died disgraced and profaned. For the Spirit had departed from them. For this reason the external organization of which we speak has resolved not to reveal its name or place to the vulgar. Furthermore, for the same reason, the name of the teachers and members of this society shall remain unknown, except to such as are intimately associated with them in their common work. If it is said that in this way the society will gain only few members, it may be answered that our society has a spiritual head, and that those who are worthy of being admitted will be guided to it by m eans of their intuition; while those who have no intuition are not ripe for it and not needed. It is better to have only a comparatively small number of capable members than a great many useless ones. From the above it will be clear that the first and most necessary acquirement of the new disciple is that he will keep silent in regard to all that concerns the society to which he is admitted. Not that there is anything in that Society which needs to be afraid of being known to the virtuous and good; but it is not necessary that things which are elevated and {xi} sacred should be exposed to the gaze of the vulgar, and be bespattered by them with mud. This would only impede the society in its work. Another necessary requirement is mutual confidence between the teacher and the disciple; because a disciple who has no faith in his master cannot be taught or guided by him. There may be things which will appear strange, and for which no reasons can be given to the beginner; but when the disciple has attained to a certain state of development all will be clear to him or her. The confidence which is required will also be of little service if it is only of a short duration. The way of development of the soul, which leads to the awakening of the inner senses, is slow, and without patience and fortitude nothing will be accomplished. From all this it follows as a matter of course that the next requisite is obedience. The purpose of the disciple is to obtain the mastery over his own lower self, and for this reason he must not submit himself to the will of his lower nature, but follow the will of that higher nature, which he does not yet know, but which he desires to find. In obeying the will of the master, instead of following the one which he believes to be his own, but which is in reality only that of his lower nature, he obeys th e will of his own higher nature with which his master is associated for the purpose of aiding the disciple in attaining the conquest over himself. The conquest of the higher self over the lower self means the victory of the divine consciousness in man over that which in him is earthly and animal. Its object is a realization of true manhood and womanhood, and the attainment of conscious immortality in the realization of the highest state of existence in perfection. {xii} These few preliminary remarks may be sufficient for those who desire information concerning our order; to those who feel themselves capable to apply for admission, further instructions will be given. Address all communications to The Grand Secretary General, M.'. M.'. M.'., c/o THE EQUINOX, 33 Avenue Studios, 76 Fulham Road, South Kensington, S.W. ---------------------------------- THE FOLLOWING DISCOURSE "(Translated from the original French)" "Was lately pronounced at Brunswick (Lower Saxony) where PRINCE .......................... is GRAND MASTER of M., by COUNT T., at the Initiation of his Son." "I congratulate you on your admission into the most ancient, and perhaps the most respectable, society in the universe. To you the mysteries of M. are about to be revealed, and so bright a sun never shed lustre on you eyes. In this awful moment, when prostrate at this holy altar, do you not shudder at every crime, and have you not confidence in every virtue? May this reflection inspire you with noble sentiments; may you be penetrated with a religious abhorrence of every vice that degrades human nature ; and may you feel the elevation of soul which scorns a dishonourable action, and ever invites to the practice of piety and virtue. "These are the wishes of a father and a brother conjoined. Of you the greatest hopes are raised; let not our {xiii} expectations be deceived. You are the son of a M. who glories in the profession; and for your zeal and attachment, your silence and good conduct, your father has already pledged his honour. "You are now, as a member of this illustrious order, introduced a subject of a new country, whose extent is boundless. Pictures are opened to your view, wherein true patriotism is exemplified in glowing colours, and a series of transactions recorded, which the rude hand of Time can never erase. The obligations which influenced the first Brutus and Manilus to sacrifice their children to the love of their country are not more sacred than those which bind me to support the honour and reputation of this ve nerable order. "This moment, my son, you owe to me a second birth; should your conduct in life correspond with the principles of M., my remaining years will pass away with pleasure and satisfaction. Observe the great example of our ancient masters, peruse our history and our constitutions. The best, the most humane, the bravest, and most civilized of men have been our patrons. Though the vulgar are strangers to our works, the greatest geniuses have sprung from our order. The most illustrious characters on earth hav e laid the foundation of their most amiable qualities in M. The wisest of princes, SOLOMON, planned our institution by raising a temple to the Eternal and Supreme Ruler of the Universe. "Swear, my son, that you will be a true and faithful M. Know, from this moment, that I centre the affection of a parent in the name of a brother and a friend. May your heart be susceptible of love and esteem, and may you burn with the same zeal your father possesses. Convince the {xiv} world, by your new allegiance, you are deserving our favours, and never forget the ties which bind you to honour and to justice. "View not with indifference the extensive connections you have formed, but let universal benevolence regulate your conduct. Exert your abilities in the service of your king and your country, and deem the knowledge you have this day attained the happiest acquisition of your life. "Recall to memory the ceremony of your initiation; learn to bridle your tongue and to govern your passions: and ere long you will have occasion to say: 'In becoming a M., I truly became the man; and while I breathe will never disgrace a jewel that kings may prize.' "If I live, my son, to reap the fruits of this day's labour, my happiness will be complete. I will meet death without terror, close my eyes in peace, and expire without a groan, in the arms of a virtuous and worthy M." {xv} THE EQUINOX THE EQUINOX THE OFFICIAL ORGAN OF THE A.'. A.'. THE REVIEW OF SCIENTIFIC ILLUMINISM EDITED BY SOROR VIRAKAM SUB-EDITOR: FRA. LAMPADA TRADAM An. IX VOL. I. NO. IX Sun in Aries MARCH MCMXIII O.S. "THE METHOD OF SCIENCE---THE AIM OF RELIGION" WEILAND & CO. 33 AVENUE STUDIOS, SOUTH KENSINGTON LONDON, S.W. RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, W.D., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. CONTENTS PAGE EDITORIAL xxiii THE TEMPLE OF SOLOMON THE KING ("Continued") 1 LINES TO A YOUNG LADY VIOLINIST ON HER PLAYING IN A GREEN DRESS DESIGNED BY THE AUTHOR 13 <> ENERGIZED ENTHUSIASM 17 <> THE "TITANIC" 47 <> A LITERATOORALOORAL TREASURE-TROVE 49 <> THRENODY 65 DISCHMATAL BY NIGHT. BY ARTHUR GRIMBLE 66 A QUACK PAINTER 67 <> AT SEA 79 <> CANCER? 81 <> DUMB! 101 <> THE VITRIOL-THROWER 103 THE FAIRY FIDDLER. BY ETHEL ARCHER 115 AN EVOCATION OF BARTZABEL THE SPIRIT OF MARS 117 THE TESTAMENT OF MAGDALEN BLAIR 135 <> ERCILDOUNE. BY ALEISTER CROWLEY 175 <> ATHANASIUS CONTRA DECANUM 259 <> MY CRAPULOUS CONTEMPORARIES. NO. VII. A GALAHAD IN GOMORRAH 269 HOW I BECAME A FAMOUS MOUNTAINEER. BY PERCY W. NEWLANDS, P.R.A.S.,P.R.B.S.,P.R.C.S.,P.R.Y.S.,P.R.Z.S.,ETC.,ETC. 275 <> THE TANGO: A SKETCH. BY MARY D'ESTE AND ALEISTER CROWLEY 295 THE BIG STICK 307 REVIEWS 309 {xxi} EDITORIAL WITH the issue of the next Number in September, the present series of the "Equinox" will close until March 1918, O.S., and no further open pronouncements from the A.'. A.'. may be expected until that date. The work will be carried on privately. The "Equinox" will, however, be replaced by another publication under the same Management, of smaller size, lower price, and more frequent appearance. It will be principally devoted to Mysteria Mystica Maxima, the extraordinary growth of which has surpassed the most sanguine expectations of its founders. The first number of the new magazine will contain important pronouncements of this Body. Full particulars will be given in the Editorial pages of No. X. of the "Equinox", which will appear on September 23, 1913. Those readers who have not got complete sets are strongly advised to lose no time in making them up, as the demand is constantly increasing, and it will shortly be impossible to supply any more copies from this office. That we have been able to do so hitherto is only due to the enterprise of our agents in buying up second-hand copies all over the country. Sets of the first eight numbers made up with such {xxiii} second-hand copies have recently been sold in America for forty dollars (" Pounds"8). What spectacle is more tragically pathetic than that of a man who has done good work reduced to beggary, his only remaining capital, his brain, in state of hopeless decay? Poor Mathers never recovered from the exposure of his association with the Horos Gang. Think of him as he is at present, laboriously copying out with his own hand the silly "Looking Glass" articles and sending them to the staff of the "Equinox", who have all had their own copies for years, and were not particularly interested in them even at the time when the statements were fresh enough to be funny! When one thinks that he could have had these articles reprinted for a few shillings a thousand, what a state of penury it reveals! His own followers appear to have abandoned him, or he could not be in such distress. Considering the debt which Occultism owes him for the translation of the "Key of Solomon," the "Kabbalah Unveiled," and the "Book of the Sacred Magic of Abra-melin,"<> we have confidence in appealing to the generosity of the readers of the "Equinox" to form a Fund to enable the shattered mind and body to end its days in the comparative comfort of a "private" asylum. Another blow to Morality; one more of our guardians has fallen. Mr. De Wend Fenton will be remembered as the gentleman who took exception to the Rites of Eleusis, though he was good enough to say after publishing the first of his {xxiv} articles attacking them, that he meant no harm, and would like to meet Mr. Crowley at dinner; presumably in the hope that mild and pious persuasion would induce him to amend his ways. An invitation which was "not" accepted. It is consequently with the greatest regret t hat we reprint the following cutting from the "Daily Mail." FINE ON "PINK 'UN" EDITOR Mr. De Wend Fenton, editor of the "Sporting Times," was fined " Pounds"10 and " Pounds"5 5"s." costs at Mansion House by Alderman Sir John Knill on each of six summonses --- " Pounds"91 10"s." in all --- for sending through the post indecent articles contained in the paper. ========================= Mr. George Raffalovich is in no way connected with "The Equinox." Mr. George Raffalovich has never been connected with "The Equinox" in any way but as an occasional contributor. It cannot be too clearly understood that "the Equinox" has no connection with Mr. George Raffalovich. We have much pleasure in stating that Mr. George Raffalovich is in no way connected with "The Equinox." We have no reason to anticipate that "The Equinox" will in any way be connected with Mr. George Raffalovich. We trust that Mr. George Raffalovich will be satisfied with these statements of fact, to which we are prepared to testify on oath. {xxv} THE TEMPLE OF SOLOMON THE KING {1} THE TEMPLE OF SOLOMON THE KING THE POET WE left Frater P. at the end of 1906, acknowledged and admitted a Master of the Temple, and even more than this, as it were in perspective, and yet refusing to admit even to himself that he had obtained that Crown for which he had striven so earnestly since the beginning. Into these eight years had been concentrated the work not of one lifetime, but of many, but he felt that this work was in no sense complete. He might be entitled to the Grade without as yet being initiated into it, and we shall find t hat these eight years grew to eleven before this occurred. We must now record how these three years were occupied. We learn that in September 1906, with Frater D.D.S., he had prepared a Ritual of the Augoeides, which might serve to initiate those who had not yet made any attainment on the path. We may again quote from the History Lection: --- 19. Returning to England, he laid his achievements humbly at the feet of a certain adept D.D.S., who welcomed him brotherly and admitted his title to that grade which he had so hardly won. 20. Thereupon these two adepts conferred together, saying: May it not be written that the tribulations shall be {3} shortened? Therefore they resolved to establish a new Order which would be free from the errors and deceits of the former one. 21. Without Authority they could not do this, exalted as their rank was among adepts. They resolved to prepare all things, great and small, against that day when such Authority should be received by them, since they knew not where to seek for higher adepts than themselves, but knew that the true way to attract the notice of such was to equilibrate the symbols. The temple must be builded before the God can indwell it. 22. Therefore by order of D.D.S. did P. prepare all things by his arcane science and wisdom, choosing only those symbols which were common to all systems, and rigorously rejecting all names and words which might be supposed to imply any religious or metaphysical theory. To do this utterly was found impossible, since all language has a history, and the use (for example) of the word "spirit" implies the Scholastic Philosophy and the Hindu and Taoist theories concerning the breath of man. So was it diffic ult to avoid implication of some undesirable bias by using the words "order," "circle," "chapter," "society," "brotherhood," or any other to designate the body of initiates. 23. Deliberately, therefore, did he take refuge in Vagueness. Not to veil the truth to the Neophyte, but to warn him against valuing non-essentials. Should therefore the candidate hear the name of any God, let him not rashly assume that it refers to any known God, save only the God known to himself. Or should the ritual speak in terms (however vague) which seem to imply Egyptian, Taoist, Buddhist, Indian, Persian, Greek, Judaic, Christian, or Moslem philosophy, let him reflect that {4} this is a defec t of language; the literary limitation and not the spiritual prejudice of the man P. 24. Especially let him guard against the finding of definite sectarian symbols in the teaching of his master, and the reasoning from the known to the unknown which assuredly will tempt him. We labour earnestly, dear brother, that you may never be led away to perish upon this point; for thereon have many holy and just men been wrecked. By this have all the visible systems lost the essence of wisdom. We have sought to reveal the Arcanum; we have only profaned it. 25. Now when P. had thus with bitter toil prepared all things under the guidance of D.D.S. (even as the hand writes, while the conscious brain, though ignorant of the detailed movements, applauds or disapproves the finished work) there was a certain time of repose, as the earth lieth fallow. 26. Meanwhile these adepts busied themselves intently with the Great Work. 27. In the fullness of time, even as a blossoming tree that beareth fruit in its season, all these pains were ended, and these adepts and their companions obtained the reward which they had sought --- they were to be admitted to the Eternal and Invisible Order that hath no name among men. 28. They therefore who had with smiling faces abandoned their homes, their possessions, their wives, their children, in order to perform the Great Work, could with steady calm and firm correctness abandon the Great Work itself; for this is the last and greatest projection of the alchemist. In the spring of 1907 we consequently find Frater P. {5} living quietly his ordinary life a a man and engaged in no particular practices. His diary for this year 1907 has been lost,<> and we shall not be able to fill in the events of the year in any detail. We have, however, been able to inquire of those who had conversation with him during this period, and we hear of him as occupied mainly in reviewing the whole of his magical career --- though why should we use an adjective, since every second of that career had been understood as part of the operation of the Magic of Light? It seems to him that this career was in some ways imperfect --- as if he had jumped over some of the puddles in the path. He wished to explain to himself how this could be so, and, in particular, why. He found, for example, with regard to magical powers, that he was not able to exercise these in the way which he had originally conceived. He found, in short, that they were like all other powers, and could only be exercised as circumstance permitted. Even Herr Salchow could not cut his famous star unless there happened to be ice, and he was able to get to that ice with skates. Although he had performed so many wonders he perceived that his ability depended entirely upon some antecedent necessity. He was not a free agent. He was part of a universal scheme. Now the principal mark of the Master of the Temple was, in his opinion, that he could exercise these powers at will; that he co uld enter Samadhi at will. He now saw that these words "At will" really meant at the will of the Universe, and he could only obtain this freedom through the coincidence of his will with the Universal Will. The active and the passive must be perfectly harmonious before free-will became intelligible. Only Destiny could exercise free-will. In order to exercise free-will he must, {6} therefore, become Destiny. He was then to know sooner or later the meaning of the Thirteenth Ether, to which subject we shal l return in the proper place. We are now to consider a further passage from the History Lection: --- 29. Also one V.V.V.V.V. arose, an exalted adept of the rank of Master of the Temple (or this much He disclosed to the Exempt Adepts), and His utterance is enshrined in the Sacred Writings. 30. Such are Liber Legis, Liber Cordis Cincti Serpente, Liber Liberi vel Lapidis Lazuli and such others whose existence may one day be divulged unto you. Beware lest you interpret them either in the Light or in the darkness, for only in L.V.X. may they be understood. Of V.V.V.V.V. we have no information. We do not know, and it is of no importance that we should know, whether he is an actual person or a magical projection of Frater P., or identical with Aiwass, or anything else, for the reasons previously given when discussing the utterance of Liber Legis, "Equinox" VII, pp. 384 and 385. It is sufficient to say that all the Class A publications of the A.'. A.'. should be regarded as not only verbally and liberally inspired by Him, but that this accuracy should be ta ken to extend even to the style of the letter. If a word is unexpectedly spelt with a capital letter, it must not be thought that this is a mistake; there is some serious reason why it should be so. During this year 1907, therefore, we find a number of such books dictated by him to Frater P. Of the sublimity of these books no words can give expression. It will be noticed that they are totally different in style from Liber Legis, just as both of them are {7} different from any of the writings of Frater P . We may turn for a moment to consider the actual conditions under which he received them. We find the hint of the nature of the communication in Liber LX and Liber VII. On one or two occasions the scribe introduced his thought upon the note, in particular Liber VII, Chapter I, Verse 30, where Verse 29 suggested Verse 30 to Frater P., who wrote it consciously and was corrected in Verse 31. Frater P. is, however, less communicative about this writing than about Liber Legis. It appears that during the wh ole period of writing he was actually in Samadhi, although, strangely enough, he did not know it himself. It is a question of the transference of the Ego from the personal to the impersonal. He, the conscious human man, could not say "I am in Samadhi"; he was merely conscious that "that which was he" was in Samadhi. This came to him as a sort of consolation for the disappointment which he was experiencing, for it was in his attempt to get into Samadhi that the writing of these books occurred. Yet the co nsolation itself was in a sense a disappointment. The transference of the human conscience to the divine, the partial to the universal, was no longer an explosion, a spasm, an orgasm. It was a passing into peace unaccompanied by any of the dazzling and overwhelming phenomena with which he was familiar. He did not realize that this was an immense advance. He did not see that it meant that he had become so attuned to Samadhi that its occurrence became hardly noticeable. He was still farther from understa nding that that Samadhi is permanent, eternal, entirely beyond accident of time or place; that it was only necessary, as it were, to lean back into it to be there. He knew that by pronouncing the {8} Ineffable Name, the Universe dissolved in flame and earthquake. He was far from the point at which by the utterance of a single sigh the universe slipped into dissolution. Like Elijah in the mountain, he expected to see the Lord in the tempest and the lightnings. He did not understand the still small voice. We shall find an increasing difficulty in writing of Frater P., because from this time he is increasing that nameless and eternal Nothing of which nothing true can be said, and it sometimes seems as if the conscious man was ever diminishing, ever less important, ever much nearer to the normal human being. In reality it is that he is much less confused. He does not allow the Planes to interfere with each other. He perceives that each Plane must work out its own salvation; that it is fatally wrong to app eal to the higher. He has identified himself with the will of the higher, and that will must extend downwards, radiating upon the lower. The lower may aspire to the higher, but not in order to get help from its troubles. It may wish as a whole to unite itself with the higher, to lose itself in the higher, but it should be very wary about asking the higher to rearrange its parts. Apart from these writings, the years 1907 and nearly the whole of 1908 are quite uneventful. We do, however, find that he went into several Magical retirements, for in the spring of 1907 we hear of him at Tangier; in the winter in the English Lakes; but a great deal of his time must have been taken up by the personal matter referred to on page 44 of No. VIII of the "Equinox." That cup of bitterness, at least, he drank to the dregs. In May 1908 he was at Venice while we find that he spent August and Sep tember on a long walk through Spain. We do not learn that he did anything particular during this {9} period, but on the first of October, he began a serious Retirement of a really strenuous character of about a fortnight in duration, which has been recorded for us minute by minute in a book called "John St. John," published in "Equinox I." The ostensible object of this Retirement was to discover for certain whether by the use of the plain straightforward methods accessible to the normal man he could defin itely attain Samadhi within a reasonable time. In other words, whether the methods themselves were valuable. This was a most important experiment, for a great many people had argued that he owed his Attainment to his personal genius; that any methods would have done for him; that his methods might be useless for another. He was sufficiently satisfied with the efficacy of the methods to determine upon a course for which he had hitherto found no excuse --- that of undertaking the gigantic task of the publi cation of all these methods on the basis of pure scepticism. There is, further, no doubt that by this retirement he acquired a stock of magical energy which enabled him to carry out this work, to all intents and purposes without assistance, except of the most temporary and casual kind, from any other person. The mere quantity of this work in itself constitutes a miracle. The quality of this work is such that the word miracle is quite inadequate. It must be remembered that it was not only a question of w riting down the details of this extraordinary knowledge, though that is surprising enough. For example, Book 777 from cover to cover was written down by him from memory in a single week, at a time when he was seriously ill and in constant pain. But in addition to this, he was compelled to waste his time in overseeing the mechanical details of printing and publishing. It is better to fight with beasts at Ephesus like {10} St. Paul than with printers in London as he did. He had, moreover, to furnish pract ically the whole of the funds required for the publication. He gave not only the remains of his great fortune, but all his hope of future fortune, and he issued his publications at cost price, often very much below it. In addition to this he was continually harassed and distressed by every form of domestic affliction. The ability to endure these five years following seems cheaply purchased at the cost of a fortnight's hard work. From this moment, however, our own task becomes extremely simple. Hitherto Frater P. has been a private character, of whose life no one was competent to speak. Without his diaries it would not have been possible to write a single page of this book. But henceforward he is a public character, occupied in public work, and little, indeed, will be the content of his private life; and yet there remains the most important event to be recorded: the dissolution of that life, the losing of his name. ("To be continued") {11} LINES TO A YOUNG LADY VIOLINIST ON HER PLAYING IN A GREEN DRESS DESIGNED BY THE AUTHOR HER dress clings like a snake of emerald And gold and ruby to her swaying shape; In its constraint she sways, entranced, enthralled, Her teeth set lest her rapture should escape The parted lips --- Oh mouth of pomegranate! Is not Persephone with child of Fate? What sunlit snows of rose and ivory Her breasts are, starting from the green, great moons Filling the blue night with white ecstasy Of rippling rhythms, of tumultuous tunes. Artemis tears the gauzes from her gorge, And violates Hephaestus at his forge. Then the mad lightnings of her magic bow! They rave and roar upon the stricken wood, Swift shrieks of death, solemnities too slow For birth. Infernal lust of dragon-hued Devils, sublimest song of Angel choirs, Echo, and do not utter, her desires! I am Danae in the shower of gold This Zeus flings forth, exhausted and possessed, {13} Each atom of my being raped and rolled Beneath her car of music into rest Deeper than death, more desperate than life, The agony of primaeval slime at strife. I am the ecstasy of infamy. Tossed like a meteor when the Gods play ball, Racked like Ixion, like Pasiphae Torn by the leaping life, with myrrh and gall My throat made bitter, I am crucified Like Christ with my dead selves on either side. She stabs me to the heart with every thrust Of her wild bow, the pitiless hail of sound; Her smile is murder --- the red lips of lust And the white teeth of death! Her eyes profound As hell, and frenzied with hell's love and hate, Gleam grey as God, glare steadier than fate. She gloats upon my torture as I writhe. Her head falls back, her eyes turn back, she shakes And trembles. A sharp spasm takes the lithe Limbs, and her body with her spirit aches. The sweat breaks out on her; there bursts a flood Of shrieks; she bubbles at the mouth with blood. As Satan fell from heaven, so she crashes Upon my corpse; one long ensanguine groan Ends her; the soul has burnt itself to ashes; The spirit is incorporate with its own, The abiding spirit of life, love, and light And liberty, fixed in the infinite. {14} There is the silence, there the night. Therein Nor space nor time nor being may intrude; There is no force to move, no fate to spin, Nor God nor Satan in the solitude. O Pagan and O Panic Pentecost! Lost! lost eternally! --- for ever lost ALEISTER CROWLEY. {15} ENERGIZED ENTHUSIASM {17} ENERGIZED ENTHUSIASM A NOTE ON THEURGY I I A O the supreme One of the Gnostics, the true God, is the Lord of this work. Let us therefore invoke Him by that name which the Companions of the royal Arch blaspheme to aid us in the essay to declare the means which He has bestowed upon us! II The divine consciousness which is reflected and refracted in the works of Genius feeds upon a certain secretion, as I believe. This secretion is analogous to semen, but not identical with it. There are but few men and fewer women, those women being invariably androgyne, who possess it at any time in any quantity. So closely is this secretion connected with the sexual economy that it appears to me at times as if it might be a by-product of that process which generates semen. That some form of this doctrine has been generally accepted is shown in the prohibitions of all religions. Sanctity has been assumed to depend on chastity, and chastity has nearly always been interpreted as abstinence. But I doubt whether the relation is so simple as this would imply; for example, I {19} find in myself that manifestations o f mental creative force always concur with some abnormal condition of the physical powers of generation. But it is not the case that long periods of chastity, on the one hand, or excess of orgies, on the other, are favourable to its manifestation or even to its formation. I know myself, and in me it is extremely strong; its results are astounding. For example, I wrote "Tannhauser," complete from conception to execution, in sixty-seven consecutive hours. I was unconscious of the fall of nights and days, even after stopping; nor was there any reaction of fatigue. This work was written when I was twenty-four years old, immediately on the completion of an orgie which would normally have tired me out. Often and often have I noticed that sexual satisfaction so-called has left me dissatisfied and unfatigued, and let loose the floods of verse which have disgraced my career. Yet, on the contrary, a period of chastity has sometimes fortified me for a great outburst. This is far from being invariably the case. At the conclusion of the K 2 expedition, after five months of chastity, I did no work whatever, barring very few odd lyrics, for months afterwards. I may mention the year 1911. At this time I was living, in excellent good health, with the woman whom I loved. Her health was, however, variable, and we were both constantly worried. The weather was continuously fine and hot. For a period of about three months I hardly missed a morning; always on waking I burst out with a new idea which had to be written down. {20} The total energy of my being was very high. My weight was 10 stone 8 lb., which had been my fighting weight when I was ten years younger. We walked some twenty miles daily through hilly forest. The actual amount of MSS. written at this time is astounding; their variety is even more so; of their excellence I will not speak. Here is a rough list from memory; it is far from exhaustive: (1) Some dozen books of A.'. A.'. instruction, including liber Astarte, and the Temple of Solomon the King for "Equinox VII." (2) Short Stories: The Woodcutter. His Secret Sin. (3) Plays: His Majesty's Fiddler Elder Eel Adonis . written straight off, one The Ghouls. after the other Mortadello. (4) Poems: The Sevenfold Sacrament A Birthday. (5) Fundamentals of the Greek Qabalah (involving the collection and analysis of several thousand words). I think this phenomenon is unique in the history of literature. I may further refer to my second journey to Algeria, where my sexual life, though fairly full, had been unsatisfactory. On quitting Biskra, I was so full of ideas that I had to get off the train at El-Kantara, where I wrote "The Scorpion." Five or six poems were written on the way to Paris; "The {21} Ordeal of Ida Pendragon" during my twenty-four hours' stay in Paris, and "Snowstorm" and "The Electric Silence" immediately on my return to England. To sum up, I can always trace a connection between my sexual condition and the condition of artistic creation, which is so close as to approach identity, and yet so loose that I cannot predicate a single important proposition. It is these considerations which give me pain when I am reproached by the ignorant with wishing to produce genius mechanically. I may fail, but my failure is a thousand times greater than their utmost success. I shall therefore base my remarks not so much on the observations which I have myself made, and the experiments which I have tried, as on the accepted classical methods of producing that energized enthusiasm which is the lever that moves God. III The Greeks say that there are three methods of discharging the genial secretion of which I have spoken. They thought perhaps that their methods tended to secrete it, but this I do not believe altogether, or without a qualm. For the manifestation of force implies force, and this force must have come from somewhere. Easier I find it to say "subconsciousness" and "secretion" than to postulate an external reservoir, to extend my connotation of "man" than to invent "God." However, parsimony apart, I find it in my experience that it is useless to flog a tired horse. There are times when I am absolutely bereft of even one drop of this elixir. Nothing {22} will restore it, neither rest in bed, nor drugs, nor exercise. On the other hand, sometimes when after a severe spell of work I have been dropping with physical fatigue, perhaps sprawling on the floor, too tired to move hand or foot, the occurrence of an idea has restored me to perfect intensity of energy, and the worki ng out of the idea has actually got rid of the aforesaid physical fatigue, although it involved a great additional labour. Exactly parallel (nowhere meeting) is the case of mania. A madman may struggle against six trained athletes for hours, and show no sign of fatigue. Then he will suddenly collapse, but at a second's notice from the irritable idea will resume the struggle as fresh as ever. Until we discovered "unconscious muscular action" and its effects, it was rational to suppose such a man "possessed of a devil"; and the difference between the madman and the genius is not in the quantity but in the quality of their w ork. Genius is organized, madness chaotic. Often the organization of genius is on original lines, and ill-balanced and ignorant medicine-men mistake it for disorder. Time has shown that Whistler and Gauguin "kept rules" as well as the masters whom they were supposed to be upsetting. IV The Greeks say that there are three methods of discharging the Lyden Jar of Genius. These three methods they assign to three Gods. These three Gods are Dionysus, Apollo, Aphrodite. In English: wine, woman and song. Now it would be a great mistake to imagine that the {23} Greeks were recommending a visit to a brothel. As well condemn the High Mass at St. Peter's on the strength of having witnessed a Protestant revival meeting. Disorder is always a parody of order, because there is no archetypal disorder that it might resemble. Owen Seaman can parody a poet; nobody can parody Owen Seaman. A critic is a bundle of impressions; there is no ego behind it. All photographs are essentially alike; the works of all good painters essentially differ. Some writers suppose that in the ancient rites of Eleusis the High Priest publicly copulated with the High Priestess. Were this so, it would be no more "indecent" than it is "blasphemous" for the priest to make bread and wine into the body and blood of God. True, the Protestants say that it is blasphemous; but a Protestant is one to whom all things sacred are profane, whose mind being all filth can see nothing in the sexual act but a crime or a jest, whose only facial gestures are the sneer and the leer. Protestantism is the excrement of human thought, and accordingly in Protestant countries art, if it exist at all, only exists to revolt. Let us return from this unsavoury allusion to our consideration of the methods of the Greeks. V Agree then that it does not follow from the fact that wine, woman and song make the sailor's tavern that these ingredients must necessarily concoct a hell-broth. There are some people so simple as to think that, when {24} they have proved the religious instinct to be a mere efflorescence of the sex-instinct, they have destroyed religion. We should rather consider that the sailor's tavern gives him his only glimpse of heaven, just as the destructive criticism of the phallicists has only proved sex to be a sacrament. Consciousness, says the materialist, axe in hand, is a function of the brain. He has only re-formulated the old saying, "Your bodies are the temples of the Holy Ghost."! Now sex is justly hallowed in this sense, that it is the eternal fire of the race. Huxley admitted that "some of the lower animalculae are in a sense immortal," because they go on reproducing eternally by fission, and however often you divide "x" by 2 there is always something left. But he never seems to have seen that mankind is immortal in exactly the same sense, and goes on reproducing itself with similar characteristics through the ages, changed by circumstance indeed, but always identical in itsel f. But the spiritual flower of this process is that at the moment of discharge a physical ecstasy occurs, a spasm analogous to the mental spasm which meditation gives. And further, in the sacramental and ceremonial use of the sexual act, the divine consciousness may be attained. VI The sexual act being then a sacrament, it remains to consider in what respect this limits the employment of the organs. First, it is obviously legitimate to employ them for their natural physical purpose. But if it be allowable to use them {25} ceremonially for a religious purpose, we shall find the act hedged about with many restrictions. For in this case the organs become holy. It matters little to mere propagation that men should be vicious; the most debauched roue might and almost certainly would beget more healthy children than a semi-sexed prude. So the so-called "moral" restraints are not based on reason; thus they are neglected. But admit its religious function, and one may at once lay down that the act must not be profaned. It must not be undertaken lightly and foolishly without excuse. It may be undertaken for the direct object of continuing the race. It may be undertaken in obedience to real passion; for passion, as the name implies, is rather inspired by a force of divine strength and beauty without the will of the individual, often even against it. It is the casual or habitual --- what Christ called "idle" --- use or rather abuse of these forces which constitutes their profanation. It will further be obvious that, if the act in itself is to be the sacrament in a religious ceremony, this act must be accomplished solely for the love of God. All personal considerations must be banished utterly. Just as any priest can perform the miracle of transubstantiation, so can any man, possessing the necessary qualifications, perform this other miracle, whose nature must form the subject of a subsequent discussion. Personal aims being destroyed, it is "a fortiori" necessary to neglect social and other similar considerations. Physical strength and beauty are necessary and desirable {26} for aesthetic reasons, the attention of the worshippers being liable to distraction if the celebrants are ugly, deformed, or incompetent. I need hardly emphasize the necessity for the strictest self-control and concentration on their part. As it would be blasphemy to enjoy the gross taste of the wine of the sacrament, so must the celebrant suppress even the minutest manifestation of animal pleasure. Of the qualifying tests there is no necessity to speak; it is sufficient to say that the adepts have always known how to secure efficiency. Needless also to insist on a similar quality in the assistants; the sexual excitement must be suppressed and transformed into its religious equivalent. VII With these preliminaries settle in order to guard against foreseen criticisms of those Protestants who, God having made them a little lower than the Angels, have made themselves a great deal lower than the beasts by their consistently bestial interpretation of all things human and divine, we may consider first the triune nature of these ancient methods of energizing enthusiasm. Music has two parts; tone or pitch, and rhythm. The latter quality associates it with the dance, and that part of dancing which is not rhythm is sex. Now that part of sex which is not a form of the dance, animal movement, is intoxication of the soul, which connects it with wine. Further identities will suggest themselves to the student. {27} By the use of the three methods in one the whole being of man may thus be stimulated. The music will create a general harmony of the brain, leading it in its own paths; the wine affords a general stimulus of the animal nature; and the sex-excitement elevates the moral nature of the man by its close analogy with the highest ecstasy. It remains, however, always for him to make the final transmutation. Unless he have the special secretion which I have postulated, the result will be commonplace. So consonant is this system with the nature of man that it is exactly parodied and profaned not only in the sailor's tavern, but in the society ball. Here, for the lowest natures the result is drunkenness, disease and death; for the middle natures a gradual blunting of the finer feelings; for the higher, an exhilaration amounting at the best to the foundation of a life-long love. If these Society "rites" are properly performed, there should be no exhaustion. After a ball, one should feel the need of a long walk in the young morning air. The weariness or boredom, the headache or somnolence, are Nature's warnings. VIII Now the purpose of such a ball, the moral attitude on entering, seems to me to be of supreme importance. If you go with the idea of killing time, you are rather killing yourself. Baudelaire speaks of the first period of love when the boy kisses the trees of the wood, rather than kiss nothing. At the age of thirty-six I found myself at Pompeii, passionately {28} kissing that great grave statue of a woman that stands in the avenue of the tombs. Even now, as I wake in the morning, I sometimes fall to ki ssing my own arms. It is with such a feeling that one should go to a ball, and with such a feeling intensified, purified and exalted, that one should leave it. If this be so, how much more if one go with the direct religious purpose burning in one's whole being! Beethoven roaring at the sunrise is no strange spectacle to me, who shout with joy and wonder, when I understand (without which one cannot really be said ever to see) a blade of grass. I fall upon my knees in speechless adoration at the moon; I hide my eyes in holy awe from a good Van Gogh. Imagine then a ball in which the music is the choir celestial, the wine the wine of the Graal, or that of the Sabbath of the Adepts, and one's partner the Infinite and Eternal One, the True and Living God Most High! Go even to a common ball --- the Moulin de la Galette will serve even the least of my magicians --- with your whole soul aflame within you, and your whole will concentrated on these transubstantiations, and tell me what miracle takes place! It is the hate of, the distaste for, life that sends one to the ball when one is old; when one is young one is on springs until the hour falls; but the love of God, which is the only true love, diminishes not with age; it grows deeper and intenser with every satisfaction. It seems as if in the noblest men this secretion constantly increases --- which certainly suggests an external reservoir --- so that age loses all its bitterness. We find "Brother Lawrence," Nicholas Herman of Lorraine, at the age of eighty in continuous enjoyment of {29} union with God. Buddha at an equal age would run up and down the Eight High Trances like an acrobat on a ladder; stories not too dissimilar are told of Bishop Berkeley. Many persons have not attained union at all until middle age, and then have rarely lost it. It is true that genius in the ordinary sense of the word has nearly always showed itself in the young. Perhaps we should regard such cases as Nicholas Herman as cases of acquired genius. Now I am certainly of opinion that genius can be acquired, or, in the alternative, that it is an almost universal possession. Its rarity may be attributed to the crushing influence of a corrupted society. It is rare to meet a youth without high ideals, generous thoughts, a sense of holiness, of his own importance, which, being interpreted, is, of his own identity with God. Three years in the world, and he is a bank clerk or even a government official. Only those who intuitively understand from early boyhood that they must stand out, and who have the incredible courage and endurance to do so in the face of all that tyranny, callousness, and the scorn of inferiors can do; only these arrive at manhood uncontaminated. Every serious or spiritual thought is made a jest; poets are thought "soft" and "cowardly," apparently because they are the only boys with a will of their own and courage to hold out against the whole school, boys and masters in league as once were Pilate and Herod; honour is replaced by expediency, holiness by hypocrisy. Even where we find thoroughly good seed sprouting in favourable ground, too often is there a frittering away of the forces. Facile encouragement of a poet or painter is far {30} worse for him than any amount of opposition. Here again the sex question (S.Q. so-called by Tolstoyans, chastity-mongers, nut-fooders, and such who talk and think of nothing else) intrudes its horrid head. I believe that every boy is originally conscious of sex as sacred. But he does not know what it is. With infinite diffid ence he asks. The master replies with holy horror; the boy with a low leer, a furtive laugh, perhaps worse. I am inclined to agree with the Head Master of Eton that paederastic passions among schoolboys "do no harm"; further, I think them the only redeeming feature of sexual life at public schools. The Hindoos are wiser. At the well-watched hour of puberty the boy is prepared as for a sacrament; he is led to a duly consecrated temple, and there by a wise and holy woman, skilled in the art, and devoted to this end, he is initiated with all solemnity into the mystery of life. The act is thus declared religious, sacred, impersonal, utterly apart from amorism and eroticism and animalism and sentimentalism and all the other vilenesses that Protestantism has made of it. The Catholic Church did, I believe, to some extent preserve the Pagan tradition. Marriage is a sacrament.<> But in the attempt to deprive the act of all accretions which would profane it, the Fathers of the Church added in spite of themselves other accretions which profaned it more. They tied it to property and inheritance. They wished it to serve both God and Mammon. {31} Rightly restraining the priest, who should employ his whole energy in the miracle of the Mass, they found their counsel a counsel of perfection. The magical tradition was in part lost; the priest could not do what was expected of him, and the unexpended portion of his energy turned sour. Hence the thoughts of priests, like the thoughts of modern faddists, revolved eternally around the S.Q. A special and Secret Mass, a Mass of the Holy Ghost, a Mass of the Mystery of the Incarnation, to be performed at stated intervals, might have saved both monks and nuns, and given the Church eternal dominion of the world. IX To return. The rarity of genius is in great part due to the destruction of its young. Even as in physical life that is a favoured plant one of whose thousand seeds ever shoots forth a blade, so do conditions kill all but the strongest sons of genius. But just as rabbits increased apace in Australia, where even a missionary has been known to beget ninety children in two years, so shall we be able to breed genius if we can find the conditions which hamper it, and remove them. The obvious practical step to take is to restore the rites of Bacchus, Aphrodite and Apollo to their proper place. They should not be open to every one, and manhood should be the reward of ordeal and initiation. The physical tests should be severe, and weaklings should be killed out rather than artificially preserved. The same remark applies to intellectual tests. But such tests should be as wide as possible. I was an absolute duffer at school in all {32} forms of athletics and games, because I despised them. I held, and still hold, numerous mountaineering world's records. Similarly, examinations fail to test intelligence. Cecil Rhodes refused to employ any man with a University degree. That such degrees lead to honour in England is a sign of England's decay, though even in England they are usually the stepping-stones to clerical idleness or pedagogic slavery. Such is a dotted outline of the picture that I wish to draw. If the power to possess property depended on a man's competence, and his perception of real values, a new aristocracy would at once be created, and the deadly fact that social consideration varies with the power of purchasing champagne would cease to be a fact. Our pluto-hetairo-politicocracy would fall in a day. But I am only too well aware that such a picture is not likely to be painted. We can then only work patiently and in secret. We must select suitable material and train it in utmost reverence to these three master-methods, or aiding the soul in its genial orgasm. X This reverent attitude is of an importance which I cannot over-rate. Normal people find normal relief from any general or special excitement in the sexual act. Commander Marston, R.N., whose experiments in the effect of the tom-tom on the married Englishwoman are classical and conclusive, has admirably described how the vague unrest which she at first shows gradually assumes the sexual form, and culminates, if allowed to do so, in shameless masturbation or indecent advances. But this is a natural {33} corollary of the proposition that married Englishwomen are usually unacquainted with sexual satisfaction. Their desires are constantly stimulated by brutal and ignorant husbands, and never gratified. This fact again accounts for the amazing prevalence of Sapphism in London Society. The Hindus warn their pupils against the dangers of breathing exercises. Indeed the slightest laxness in moral or physical tissues may cause the energy accumulated by the practice to discharge itself by involuntary emission. I have known this happen in my own experience. It is then of the utmost importance to realize that the relief of the tension is to be found in what the Hebrews and the Greeks called prophesying, and which is better when organized into art. The disorderly discharge is mere waste, a wilderness of howlings; the orderly discharge is a "Prometheus unbound," or a L'age d'airain," according to the special aptitudes of the enthused person. But it must be remembered that special aptitudes are very easy to acquire if the driving force of enthusiasm be great. If you cannot keep the rules of others, you make rules of your own. One set turns out in the long run to be just as good as another. Henry Rousseau, the duanier, was laughed at all his life. I laughed as heartily as the rest; though, almost despite myself, I kept on saying (as the phrase goes) "that I felt something; couldn't say what." The moment it occurred to somebody to put up all his paintings in one room by themselves, it was instantly apparent that his "naivete" was the simplicity of a Master. Let no one then imagine that I fail to perceive or underestimate the dangers of employing these methods. The {34} occurrence even of so simple a matter as fatigue might change a LasMeninas into a stupid sexual crisis. It will be necessary for most Englishmen to emulate the self-control of the Arabs and Hindus, whose ideal is to deflower the greatest possible number of virgins --- eighty is considered a fairly good performance --- without completing the act. It is, indeed, of the first importance for the celebrant in any phallic rite to be able to complete the act without even once allowing a sexual or sensual thought to invade his mind. The mind must be as absolutely detached from one's own body as it is from another person's. XI Of musical instruments few are suitable. The human voice is the best, and the only one which can be usefully employed in chorus. Anything like an orchestra implies infinite rehearsal, and introduces an atmosphere of artificiality. The organ is a worthy solo instrument, and is an orchestra in itself, while its tone and associations favour the religious idea. The violin is the most useful of all, for its every mood expresses the hunger for the infinite, and yet it is so mobile that it has a greater emotional range than any of its competitors. Accompaniment must be dispensed with, unless a harpist be available. The harmonium is a horrible instrument, if only because of its associations; and the piano is like unto it, although, if unseen and played by a Paderewski, it would serve. The trumpet and the bell are excellent, to startle, at the crisis of a ceremony. {35} Hot, drubbing, passionate, in a different class of ceremony, a class more intense and direct, but on the whole less exalted, the tom-tom stands alone. It combines well with the practice of mantra, and is the best accompaniment for any sacred dance. XII Of sacred dances the most practical for a gathering is the seated dance. One sits cross-legged on the floor, and sways to and fro from the hips in time with the mantra. A solo or duet of dancers as a spectacle rather distracts from this exercise. I would suggest a very small and very brilliant light on the floor in the middle of the room. Such a room is best floored with mosaic marble; an ordinary Freemason's Lodge carpet is not a bad thing. The eyes, if they see anything at all, see then only the rhythmical or mechanical squares leading in perspective to the simple unwinking light. The swinging of the body with the mantra (which has a habit of rising and falling as if of its own accord in a very weird way) becomes more accentuated; ultimately a curiously spasmodic stage occurs, and then the consciousness flickers and goes out; perhaps breaks through into the divine consciousness, perhaps is merely recalled to itself by some variable in external impression. The above is a very simple description of a very simple and earnest form of ceremony, based entirely upon rhythm. It is very easy to prepare, and its results are usually very encouraging for the beginner {36} XIII Wine being a mocker and strong drink raging, its use is more likely to lead to trouble than mere music. One essential difficulty is dosage. One needs exactly enough; and, as Blake points out, one can only tell what is enough by taking too much. For each man the dose varies enormously; so does it for the same man at different times. The ceremonial escape from this is to have a noiseless attendant to bear the bowl of libation, and present it to each in turn, at frequent intervals. Small doses should be drunk, and the bowl passed on, taken as the worshipper deems advisable. Yet the cup-bearer should be an initiate, and use his own discretion before presenting the bowl. The slightest sign that intoxication is mastering the man should be a sign to him to pass that man. This practice can be easily fitted to the ceremony previously de scribed. If desired, instead of wine, the elixir introduced by me to Europe may be employed. But its results, if used in this way, have not as yet been thoroughly studied. It is my immediate purpose to repair this neglect. XIV The sexual excitement, which must complete the harmony of method, offers a more difficult problem. It is exceptionally desirable that the actual bodily movements involved should be decorous in the highest sense, and many people are so ill-trained that they will be unable to regard such a ceremony with any but critical or lascivious {37} eyes; either would be fatal to all the good already done. It is presumably better to wait until all present are greatly exalted before risking a profanation. It is not desirable, in my opinion, that the ordinary worshippers should celebrate in public. The sacrifice should be single. Whether or no ... XV Thus far had I written when the distinguished poet, whose conversation with me upon the Mysteries had incited me to jot down these few rough notes, knocked at my door. I told him that I was at work on the ideas suggested by him, and that --- well, I was rather stuck. He asked permission to glance at the MS. (for he reads English fluently, though speaking but a few words), and having done so, kindled and said: "If you come with me now, we will finish your essay." Glad enough of any excuse to stop worki ng, the more plausible the better, I hastened to take down my coat and hat. "By the way," he remarked in the automobile, "I take it that you do not mind giving me the Word of Rose Croix." Surprised, I exchanged the secrets of I.N.R.I. with him. "And now, very excellent and perfect Prince," he said, "what follows is under this seal." And he gave me the most solemn of all Masonic tokens. "You are about," said he, "to compare your ideal with our real." He touched a bell. The automobile stopped, and we got out. He dismissed the chauffeur. "Come," he said, "we have a brisk half-mile." We walked through thick woods to {38} an old house, where we were greeted in silence by a gentleman who, though in court dress, wore a very "practicable" sword. On satisfying him, we were passed through a corridor to an anteroom, where another armed guardian awaited us. He, after a further examination, proceeded to offer me a court dress, the insignia of a Sovereign P rince of Rose Croix, and a garter and mantle, the former of green silk, the latter of green velvet, and lined with cerise silk. "It is a low mass," whispered the guardian. In this anteroom were three or four others, both ladies and gentlemen, busily robing. In a third room we found a procession formed, and joined it. There were twenty-six of us in all. Passing a final guardian we reached the chapel itself, at whose entrance stood a young man and a young woman, both dressed in simple robes of white silk embroidered with gold, red and blue. The former bore a torch of resinous wood, the latter sprayed us as we passed with attar of roses from a cup. The room in which we now were had at one time been a chapel; so much its shape declared. But the high altar was covered with a cloth that displayed the Rose and Cross, while above it were ranged seven candelabra, each of seven branches. The stalls had been retained; and at each knight's hand burned a taper of rose-coloured wax, and a bouquet of roses was before him. In the centre of the nave was a great cross --- a "calvary cross of ten squares," measuring, say, six feet by five --- painted in red upon a white board, at whose edge were rings through which passed gilt staves. At each corner was a banner, bearing lion, bull, eagle and man, and from the top of their {39} staves sprang a canopy of blue, wherein were figured in gold the twelve emblems of the Zodiac. Knights and Dames being installed, suddenly a bell tinkled in the architrave. Instantly all rose. The doors opened at a trumpet peal from without, and a herald advanced, followed by the High Priest and Priestess. The High Priest was a man of nearly sixty years, if I may judge by the white beard; but he walked with the springy yet assured step of the thirties. The High Priestess, a proud, tall sombre woman of perhaps thirty summers, walked by his side, their hands raised and touching as in the minuet. Their trains were borne by the two youths who had admitted us. All this while an unseen organ played an Introit. This ceased as they took their places at the altar. They faced West, waiting. On the closing of the doors the armed guard, who was clothed in a scarlet robe instead of green, drew his sword, and went up and down the aisle, chanting exorcisms and swinging the great sword. All present drew their swords and faced outward, holding the points in front of them. This part of the ceremony appeared interminable. When it was over the girl and boy reappeared; bearing, the one a bowl, the other a censer. Singing some litany or other, apparently in Greek, though I could not catch the words , they purified and consecrated the chapel. Now the High Priest and High Priestess began a litany in rhythmic lines of equal length. At each third response they touched hands in a peculiar manner; at each seventh they kissed. The twenty-first was a complete embrace. The bell tinkled in the architrave; and they parted. The High Priest {40} then took from the altar a flask curiously shaped to imitate a phallus. The High Priestess knelt and presented a boat-shaped cup of gold. He knelt opposite her, and did not pour from the flask. Now the Knights and Dames began a long litany; first a Dame in treble, then a Knight in bass, then a response in chorus of all present with the organ. This Chorus was: EVOE HO, IACCHE! EPELTHON, EPELTHON, EVOE, IAO! Again and again it rose and fell. Towards its close, whether by "stage effect" or no I could not swear, the light over the altar grew rosy, then purple. The High Priest sharply and suddenly threw up his hand; instant silence. He now poured out the wine from the flask. The High Priestess gave it to the girl attendant, who bore it to all present. This was no ordinary wine. It has been said of vodki that it looks like water and tastes like fire. With this wine the reverse is the case. It was of a rich fiery gold in which flames of light danced and shook, but its taste was limpid and pure like fresh spring water. No sooner had I drunk of it, however, that I began to tremble. It was a most astonishing sensation; I can imagine a man feel thus as he awaits his executioner, when he has passed through fear, and is all excitement. I looked down my stall, and saw that each was similarly affected. During the libation the High Priestess sang a hymn, again in Greek. This time I recognized the words; they were those of an ancient Ode to Aphrodite. The boy attendant now descended to the red cross, stooped and kissed it; then he danced upon it in such a way that he {41} seemed to be tracing the patterns of a marvellous rose of gold, for the percussion caused a shower of bright dust to fall from the canopy. Meanwhile the litany (different words, but the same chorus) began again. This time it was a duet between the High Priest and Priestess. At each chorus Knights and Dames bowed low. The girl moved round continuously, and the bowl passed. This ended in the exhaustion of the boy, who fell fainting on the cross. The girl immediately took the bowl and put it to his lips. Then she raised him, and, with the assistance of the Guardian of the Sanctuary, led him out of the chapel. The bell again tinkled in the architrave. The herald blew a fanfare. The High Priest and High Priestess moved stately to each other and embraced, in the act unloosing the heavy golden robes which they wore. These fell, twin lakes of gold. I now saw her dressed in a garment of white watered silk, lined throughout (as it appeared later) with ermine. The High Priest's vestment was an elaborate embroidery of every colour, harmonized by exquisite yet robust art. He wore also a breastplate corresponding to the canopy; a sculptured "beast" at each corner in gold, while the twelve signs of the Zodiac were symbolized by the stones of the breastplace. The bell tinkled yet again, and the herald again sounded his trumpet. The celebrants moved hand in hand down the nave while the organ thundered forth its solemn harmonies. All the knights and Dames rose and gave the secret sign of the Rose Croix. It was at this part of the ceremony that things began to {42} happen to me. I became suddenly aware that my body had lost both weight and tactile sensibility. My consciousness seemed to be situated no longer in my body. I "mistook myself," if I may use the phrase, for one of the stars in the canopy. In this way I missed seeing the celebrants actually approach the cross. The bell tinkled again; I came back to myself, and then I saw that the High Priestess, standing at the foot of the cross, had thrown her robe over it, so that the cross was no longer visible. There was only a board covered with ermine. She was now naked but for her coloured and jewelled head-dress and the heavy torque of gold about her neck, and the armlets and anklets that matched it. She began to sing in a soft strange tongue, so low and smoothly that in my partial bewilderment I could not hear all; but I caught a few words, Io Paian! Io Pan! and a phrase in which the words Iao Sabao ended emphatically a sentence in which I caught the words Eros, Thelema and Sebazo. While she did this she unloosed the breastplate and gave it to the girl attendant. The robe followed; I saw that they were naked and unashamed. For the first time there was absolute silence. Now, from an hundred jets surrounding the board poured forth a perfumed purple smoke. The world was wrapt in a fond gauze of mist, sacred as the clouds upon the mountains. Then at a signal given by the High Priest, the bell tinkled once more. The celebrants stretched out their arms in the form of a cross, interlacing their fingers. Slowly they revolved through three circles and a half. She then laid him down upon the cross, and took her own appointed place. {43} The organ now again rolled forth its solemn music. I was lost to everything. Only this I saw, that the celebrants made no expected motion. The movements were extremely small and yet extremely strong. This must have continued for a great length of time. To me it seemed as if eternity itself could not contain the variety and depth of my experiences. Tongue nor pen could record them; and yet I am fain to attempt the impossible. 1. I was, certainly and undoubtedly, the star in the canopy. This star was an incomprehensibly enormous world of pure flame. 2. I suddenly realized that the star was of no size whatever. It was not that the star shrank, but that it (= I) became suddenly conscious of infinite space. 3. An explosion took place. I was in consequence a point of light, infinitely small, yet infinitely bright, and this point was "without position." 4. Consequently this point was ubiquitous, and there was a feeling of infinite bewilderment, blinded after a very long time by a gush of infinite rapture (I use the word "blinded" as if under constraint; I should have preferred to use the words "blotted out" or "overwhelmed" or "illuminated"). 5. This infinite fullness --- I have not described it as such, but it was that --- was suddenly changed into a feeling of infinite emptiness, which became conscious as a yearning. 6. These two feelings began to alternate, always with suddenness, and without in any way overlapping, with great rapidity. 7. This alternation must have occurred fifty times --- I had rather have said an hundred. {44} 8. The two feelings suddenly became one. Again the word explosion is the only one that gives any idea of it. 9. I now seemed to be conscious of everything at once, that it was at the same time "one" and "many." I say "at once," that is, I was not successively all things, but instantaneously. 10. This being, if I may call it being, seemed to drop into an infinite abyss of Nothing. 11. While this "falling" lasted, the bell suddenly tinkled three times. I instantly became my normal self, yet with a constant awareness, which has never left me to this hour, that the truth of the matter is not this normal "I" but "That" which is still dropping into Nothing. I am assured by those who know that I may be able to take up the thread if I attend another ceremony. The tinkle died away. The girl attendant ran quickly forward and folded the ermine over the celebrants. The herald blew a fanfare, and the Knights and Dames left their stalls. Advancing to the board, we took hold of the gilded carrying poles, and followed the herald in procession out of the chapel, bearing the litter to a small side-chapel leading out of the middle anteroom, where we left it, the guard closing the doors. In silence we disrobed, and left the house. About a mile through the woods we found my friend's automobile waiting. I asked him, if that was a low mass, might I not be permitted to witness a High Mass? "Perhaps," he answered with a curious smile, "if all they tell of you is true." In the meanwhile he permitted me to describe the ceremony and its results as faithfully as I was able, charging me only to give no indication of the city near which it took place. {45} I am willing to indicate to initiates of the Rose Croix degree of Masonry under proper charter from the genuine authorities (for there are spurious Masons working under a forged charter) the address of a person willing to consider their fitness to affiliate to a Chapter practising similar rites. XVI I consider it supererogatory to continue my essay on the Mysteries and my analysis of "Energized Enthusiasm." {46} THE "TITANIC" FORTH flashed the serpent streak of steel, Consummate crown of man's device; Down crashed upon an immobile And brainless barrier of ice. Courage! The grey gods shoot a laughing lip: --- Let not faith founder with the ship! We reel before the blows of fate; Our stout souls stagger at the shock. Oh! there is Something ultimate Fixed faster than the living rock. Courage! Catastrophe beyond belief Harden our hearts to fear and grief! The gods upon the Titans shower Their high intolerable scorn; But no god knoweth in what hour A new Prometheus may be born. Courage! Man to his doom goes driving down; A crown of thorns is still a crown! {47} No power of nature shall withstand At last the spirit of mankind: It is not built upon the sand; It is not wastrel to the wind. Courage! Disaster and destruction tend To taller triumph in the end. ALEISTER CROWLEY. {48} A LITERATOORALOORAL TREASURE-TROVE A LITERATOORALOORAL TREASURE-TROVE THE happiest of literary discoveries would presumably be the complete works of Sappho. In the meantime we have got along wonderfully well with the masterpiece of "G. Ragsdale M'Clintock" which Mark Twain unearthed in his matchless "Cure for the Blues." (He does not specify Oxford or Cambridge.) The phrase that chiefly sticks in my memory is one of which Mark Twain makes especial fun: "the topmast topaz of an ancient tower." But this is not funny, it is superb; it is pure early Maeterlinck, and better than the Belgian imitation at that. I admit, however, that the rest of the book is quite as absurd as Mark Twain makes out. But after all this is no funnier than the "St. Irvine; or, The Rosicrucian," and the "Zastrozzi" of Percy Bysshe Shelley; and I may modestly claim recognition as the finder of a rarer and more exquisite treasure. Modestly, for my treasure-trove was not the result of research; I followed up no clues; I deciphered no cryptogram. I claim only this degree of insight and moral courage: the minute I found it, I stole it. I feel sure it was the author's own copy; for I cannot believe that any one else would have had one. My atonement be to give him belated recognition! On the approved principles, let me describe my booty. It is a small 4to about 6 1/2" x 4 1/2, quietly bound in black cloth. It is printed on very bad paper, and the edges have been cut and marbled. {51} Unassuming, indeed, is this slim booklet of 207 pages. But the author knew his business; for on the front cover appear these words --- it is like an obscure grey battleship suddenly belching her broadside --- SONNETICAL NOTES ON PHILOSOPHY By WM. HOWELL WILLIAMS. The first shot struck me between wind and water. Sonnetical! There's glory for you! A beautiful new adjective; a perfect adjective; so simple, and yet nobody ever thought of it before. Get smoked glasses and look at it! No good; one cannot comment or criticize or weave a word picture (as the D------ M------ might say) about it. One can only bow down in reverent silence and adore. But that is not all. That is only external barbaric splendour. There is more behind. Think of all the things that "might" be sonnetical --- why, there isn't one. Nothing is sonnetical but a sonnet. Aha! that is where your great mind droops; where you stop, Wm. Howell Williams begins. Notes on Philosophy are to be sonnetical. Now one can think of many things about which sonnets have been written; there is just one which you would never think of --- Philosophy. That is where Wm. Howell Williams has you every time. In a stunned manner one opens the book. The author pours in his second broadside, and leaves you but a laughter-logged derelict. What "might" these Sonnetical Notes on Philosophy be? It suggests Rousseau and Shelley, in a kind {52} of way. One might think of Bertram Dobell --- a mildly atheistic set of sonnets. Oh dear no! There is one thing that could not be there --- and there it is. It is a reproduction of Holman Hunt's picture of the Saviour with a stable lantern trying to look like Nana Sahib in his more cynically cruel moments. (I understand that the original of this picture has been acquired by Manchester; and from what I am told of Manchester, the penalty fits the crime.) And opposite that is the text, "Behold, I stand at the door and knock," etc. You now begin to wonder if two books have not got mixed up; but no. The title-page then appears. SONNETICAL NOTES ON PHILOSOPHY BY WM. HOWELL WILLIAMS. No date; no publisher; no price. But on the reverse we find, very small --- Copyrighted by Wm. Howell Williams April 1901. (It was in May 1906 that I stole this copy.) {53} Now one would like a preface, something to explain the astounding choice of form, and so on. Or to give some idea of the scope and purpose of the treatise. No; nothing of the sort. He buts right in with INTRODUCTION And no sooner does this begin that you see what the author is driving at. He is out to prove that no matter how simple language may seem, in his master hands it can be made absolutely unintelligible. He begins: "Philosophy must knowledge be, Hence knowledge is philosophy." Ponder that "hence." At least it must lead to something else. No. He continues: "It matters not what savant say If somehow knowledge comes man's way." You now see the beginning of his first great rule of grammar: "Never inflect a verb!" But wait! he is going to lay a trap for the unwary. He is going to give us three couplets which seem consecutive, and possess a meaning --- "Supposing can be only fun, And knowledge never so begun. With supposition's wand laid by Hume, Berkley ("sic"), Kant and Hegel fly. Nay! single, several, or all, Together taken they appall." The spelling of "appall" is perhaps intended to spur the relaxed attention; for the next couplet wants it. "Philosophers need not agree, Still is philosophy to be." {54} The comma is a very subtle weapon! And when you discover (by and by) that his Seventh great Rule is "Never use relative pronouns!" a return to this sublime Sphinx-verse leaves you worse off than you are at the first reading. "All knowledge is on being cast: The being first and knowledge last." Quite so: you must "be" before you can know. Wait. "But note --- 'The first shall be the last And last shall be the first' ere cast." How's that, umpire? Perhaps the next couplet will clear things up. No: it only serves to introduce a point ---- of etiquette rather than of law --- which deprecates sentences containing a principal verb. "Such knowledge only consciousness In case of being under stress." White resigned. Wm. Howell Williams, however, has now got on to his mashie. Every couplet within a foot of the hole. "All other were mere vanity, Save, sadly, 'tis profanity." And, a little later, for I cannot quote the whole twenty-three pages of this lucid introduction: "In consciousness experience Is manifesting prescience. In prescience experience Establishes thought permanence. Nor need eventuation solve All prescience assume to prove. Beginning nor the end of time Eventuation need not chime. Time being but persistency Of some conditionality." {55} These, as Sherlock Holmes would say, are indeed deep waters, Watson. However, Wm. gets irritated, I think, on page 13, when he says: "Each perfectly see it is so And yet the fool to logic go." But in the next verse he explains: "He only taking in as sent Away will reason increment." Still on the bullying tack! Still using words of three syllables to hide his meaning in! But the master will rise to the heights yet. "Not faith but knowledge would lead man, Did he himself but see as can." There's the true gold. Until the very last word you think it's going to mean something: and then --- smash! Very rarely, however, he tries a simpler method yet. He writes you a couplet which does mean something, though of course out of all connection with the context, and that something is the maddest nonsense. "To give mankind a consciousness Lived Jesus Christ of Nazareth." This sentence is not written merely to show off his ability as a rimester; no, the master wants you to think, "Well, Wm. means something else when he writes 'consciousness.'" Then he has you. Because never will he give you a glimmer of his meaning. He will unsettle you about simple terms in this way, and then leave you to perish miserably. {56} Again: "Ere was condition manifest, The unconditioned was at rest." Yes, certainly. That I did know before. "Relations of rest with unrest Hence did conditions manifest." Um. Seems to skate over the difficulty a little. But go on. "To such relation specify We use the word velocity." Do we? "Velocity sole history Of uncondition's mystery." ! .. ! .. ! We may leave the introduction with the surmise: "Specific trouble history Of introduction's mystery." I think I have fairly caught the style! But this is only introduction; this is all mere mashie chips on the green: come and see what he can do with a wooden club, this plus four Wm. Howell Williams. On page 24 he just gives you one more flick of the mashie, and reprints four couplets of the Introduction --- not consecutive, and of course not coherent. Then comes the half-title "Sonnetical Notes on Philosophy" and the Magnum Opus starts. There are One Hundred and Eighty-two "Sonnets," and the master rapidly introduces some important and novel rules. The Octet "must" end with a colon. A sonnet should if possible contain one sentence only. That sentence should have no subject, predicate or object. But the reader should be led to think that they are there, and gently undeceived as the sonnet unfolds. {57} Sonnet I exhibits these qualities in maddening perfection. I must quote it in full. Another writer might have led one up to this, might have feared a falling-off. But not so Wm. Howell Williams. Just as the Introduction went calmly on, never hesitating, never turning aside, rolling over the difficulties as if they were not there, so he begins and so he ends, never one seed of doubt in his mind. "While man trains up the child in way men go, It goes without the saying that man's way In life convention only will display, As each one by himself can surely know; Hence may these notes that light of rush-light throw Where glares so-called, civilization's day, Without night's darkness chasing once away, Perchance as simple truth for some one glow." Now I have studied Wm. as reverently as Mr. Frank Harris has studied the other Wm. and I would almost swear I know what these lines mean. The secret is that line 8 belongs to line 5. The "Hence" is my real difficulty. Education leads to conventionality (lines 1-4), therefore these notes may glow as simple truth for some one. I'm afraid "Each perfectly see it is so And yet the fool to logic go" is one on me. But all speculations are futile, for the sonnet continues as follows: "If seen the curse, if be a curse, on man Is taxing self to understand, amid Environment that ever keeps its place, What shape may take his life, if any can, That haunting foolishness alone not bid Him to endure, with pain, but for disgrace." {58} Where's your subject now? Where's your principal sentence? Where's any vestige of connection with anything? You can find a meaning of sorts if you pick out any line or two, and are allowed to supply all sorts of those cheap and nasty little words that the master has discarded: "e.g." --- If (it be) seen (that) the curse, if (it) be a curse, on man is (that he is obliged to be) taxing (him) self to understand (the universe) amid (his) environment that ever keeps its place ---- There's enough conjecture there to endear me more than ever to my dear old tutor, Dr. A. W. Verrall (since I wrote this article, alas! he has joined Agamemnon) --- but anyhow, there it stops. I cannot imagine in my wildest moments any nexus with the last three lines of the sestet. I cannot see the merest germ of an apodosis for that majestic protasis. The second sonnet is not quite equal to this, in my opinion. The method is not the same --- perhaps, though, this is the master's plan, to give us the same effect in a totally different fashion. But I call it sheerly meretricious to "spoil" the sonnet by a full stop after four lines. "Man's place is truth that makes no sign, but is, Which man, who seek a sign where is no sign Will ever overlook till forced repine In dumb despair since nothingness is his." Put "seeks" for "seek," and "to" before "repine," and it makes sense. An! but there's a "for" coming! "For other than what is may not say 'tis But to impose on blind a fool's design As thorns about the brow of Christ define Not him, but those who mock, with emphasis: Less puncto see and pundit silent pass Mankind from truth will ever wander on ---" {59} and so on, almost intelligibly. With a single word he knocks down our castle of cards. Who or what is "puncto"? I'm not sure about "less," it may be Wm.ese for lest. It occurs again in line 13. "Less absolute, as absolute, be gone ------" There is a fine passage in Sonnet III: "Whence knowledge once a sensibility Of a present conditionality, Mus helpless self-persistence enterprise." These lines are rather important, as they bunch the Dramatis Personae of these sonnets. He rings the changes on Sensibility Sahib and Count Conditionality and Sir Self-Persistence all through the book. But the Principal Boy is called "propositional"; he is introduced to us in the wonderful 29th sonnet. "A proposition: propositional To imagery of persence in sense felt Of actuality: is ever spelt, By consciousness as abstract actual, Persisting unperceived as well, withal, As when perceived: an image nothing pelt Against without itself is backward dealt As if by something quite perpetual" Whence seen non-actual relation come As mystery unveiled to simulate In imagery that actual won't deal: And budding thence has blossomed forth till dome Of all creation cannot estimate Imaginary being that existence steal." I regard this as one of the very finest sonnets in the book. I like "pelt"; it baffles conjecture entirely. And the final "steal," which suddenly checkmates the aspiring intellect that {60} thought the last three lines were going to mean something, is a supreme touch of Wm.'s art. But one cannot select; the whole is so stupendous a piece of perfection. The absolute balance of phrases which mean something (if taken in watertight compartments) with those which mean nothing, and can mean nothing; the miraculous skill shown in avoiding even a suggestion of a subject, the expectation of which is so compelled by the beginning "A proposition": the admirable steam-roller obsquatulation of grammar and syntax --- all these things and many more make this sonnet unique in the language. I am afraid the rest of our investigations (said I) will be anti-climax. Dear, no! Wm. Howell Williams is not so poor in pride. Whenever you stop, whenever you think he must stop, just there he begins. In Sonnet XXXV, for example: "A propositional abstractional Remain, that proposition may include An indisputable, as well exclude Disputable, in sphere provisional To stand immovable conditional, Whence comprehension never to conclude But ever know what thereto did intrude Lest venturing become habitual: As in imaginary personage Usurp the functionality bestowed On creature by a providential hand, And rashly venturing themselves engage To journey through their lives without a road That they can see or guide they can command." This is sublime art. To the last five lines one could put a beginning to make sense; and it seems to refer to the fear (of Providence) lest venturing should become habitual. With {61} one single line "as in imaginary personage" the whole idea is reduced to ruin. That line is a mammoth. Note; it is the first line of the sestet. And the first line of the octet is that dinosaur "A propositional abstractional" with the lovely verb "remain" following it, lest any "habitual venturer" should conjecture that one or both of the adjectives was a noun. He is evidently pleased with it himself; for XXXVI begins: "Abstractional, as propositional." Here is another very charming method. It consists of repeating words with different verbs and things, a sort of weaving. The only limitation of course is that of meaning. Try Sonnet LXX: "Philosophy, as quantity, be less When knowledge as a quantity be more Than quantity, philosophy can score; Hence quantity less quality possess, Sensation never can put under stress; Since semblance of condition cannot store Shades protean as quality before Proportionate of quantity duress: Since semblance of condition unity Possess by holding unit under stress, As quantity, however, change will stay; While quality as mere diversity, Stress more or less of quality, more or less Enforced, with dying force will melt away." One can only say Look! Ecce Wm.! Another very pretty plan is to use constantly words which {62} may be either nouns or verbs, and "that" where it may be either relative or demonstrative. In Sonnet X, for example, he begins: "Though aggregation form, as semblance place, Where mere sensation will substantial find Unseen relation force conditioned mind Form aggregation ever set to face Perception shall be as fixed for the case." Remember that Wm. has suppressed prepositions. Then "form," "place," "find," "Unseen," "force," "mind," "Form," may any of them be either nouns or verbs; and of course in no case can sense be made of the sentence. Take also the passage in Sonnet CIX: "Example: Huxley nihil bonum screen; How:" Parse screen! And what can it mean, this Fragment of Ozymandias? It stands there, absolutely isolated from any reference to Huxley; as an "example," but of what who can say? on all sides, boundless and bare, the lone and level sonnets stretch far away. Did Huxley put a screen on the market called the nihil bonum? Did he give shelter to "nothing good"? or did "nothing good" save him from exposure? Or was Huxley's screen no good? Or it is no good to screen Huxley? It makes me feel what he feels in No. CXIII: {63} "Creation absolute by absolute Of absolute for absolute imply What self-pride primes mere mortals to deny; Nor other fluting for its fluting flute, But idle tooting idle fancy toot That never any being satisfy But leaves all hungering, ------" And in his last sonnet, CLXXXII, he most surely utters the supreme wish of every would-be reader: "O Lord, arise, help and deliver us For Thy name's sake." But it was time to stop: his eagle pinions droop; the last quatrain of the octet becomes sense, grammar, almost poetry. "O Lord, arise, help and deliver us From pride and foolish faith and idle fears That baseless phantom Hope in man uprears Since Eos woke his eons dolorous." It is his first slip;, but he accepts Nature's warning, and retires into private life. This "henchman stout To blow imagination's windy flute That aggregations wantoning en route To thin Attenuation whistles out: returns to his propositional abstractional unconditioned absolute consciousness quality less quantity require like a mere Newton temple Rimmon "To be or not to be" "Fools, liars, hypocrites" brigade flut, and leaves us who have certainly "stood at the door, and knocked" long enough to our dormant deride aggregated imagination eradicate; until "attenuation properly, withal, Semblantic manifestation repossess," "all sensation notes is vacancy." LEMUEL S. INNOCENT. {64} THRENODY POETS die because they find Words too petty to express All the things they have in mind. Rime and rhythm only dress All their naked loveliness. Poets die because their love Grows too great for life to stem; Death alone can soar above Limits that encircle them. Poets die because --- but why Should divine ones be divined? Let the sleeping secret lie! It suffices --- poets die. {65} DISCHMATAL BY NIGHT THERE is a dirge of cataracts that fall Far far away up in the shadowed glen. A faint wind moans among the pines, and then Shudders away to silence. The deep pall Of snow lies chill and voiceless over all. And through the mist the moon peers down as when By the veiled light of lanthorns speechless men Gaze on some sheeted corpse's funeral. Savagely mute; remotely merciless, There is a Presence here that awes and chills, A Stillness aged and inviolate. It is the Spirit of the wilderness, The everlasting Silence of the hills Who shroud themselves in Solitude: and wait. {66} A QUACK PAINTER A QUACK PAINTER ALGERNON AGRIPPA DOOLEY was the Only-begotten Son of the Reverend Archibald Agrippa Dooley. The unusual capitals are intended to indicate the importance of this fact to our petty cosmos. The Reverend Archibald was a fussily feeble old soul who would have been in his place in a hunting shire; his purchase of a fat metropolitan living was a tragic joke for his parishioners. Utterly incapable of intellectual movement himself, he bitterly resented intellect in others, regarding not only its display but it s reputed possession as a direct insult to himself. "A fine morning, Mr. Dooley!" was met by an action described in the family circle as "pluffing," which resembled the gathering rage of the turkey, with purpler effects. It culminated in a splutter, "You're a very impudent young fellow." And why? Because the freely expressed contempt of his son and heir had in the course of years drilled into him that very stupid people spoke of the weather. Ergo, when a reputedly clever person spoke to him if it, the implication was that it was a shaft of satire. Individuals, unlike nations, do not always get the government they deserve. Nothing in Mr. Dooley's character called for such punishment as the wife the gods had given him. A secret drinker and a cunning adulteress, she concealed both defects and the infinite malignity of a hell-hound under the {69} most odious and consummate hypocrisy of conduct and the most saintly and venerable exterior. She was perhaps in all this not blameworthy. Her entire family was epileptic, her sister Amelia a hopeless mela ncholic whom --- it is a characteristic trait of the family --- they imprisoned in the house rather than face the publicity of a certificate, despite of the young children who were thus brought up in earshot of her screams. Original taints weaken if the stock survive; and what in one sister was insanity, and the other vice, became in one daughter dipsomania, in another viraginity, and in our hero "petit mal" and a taste for art. Algernon gave no early sign of his eventual P.R.A.; he passed scatheless through dame's school and Harrow. It was the talk made in undergraduate circles by the decadents that caught his puberty, and thrust it in that direction. And of original genius or capacity he had none. Of all essentials he had none. But, on the other hand, of inessentials, of all superficial qualities, he had all. His mimetic faculty was fine, almost incredibly fine. Fortunately for my credit, my collection comprises not only borders and initials of which probably no expert would care to swear that they were not the work of William Morris, but pencil sketches of Rossetti girls and Burne-Jones girls done with equal excellence and Beardsleyesque drawings imitating even the miraculous fineness of that great draughtsman's execution. Some one had said to him the Beardsley's line showed no rough edge under a glass. He satisfied himself of the fact, and in a few weeks came near to rival the master. But there was a limitation. He could copy these masters --- the only masters, except Watts, of whom he had not yet {70} heard --- only by copying their work directly. He could not sketch from Nature at all, only from the reproductions that he possessed, and from imagination. Nor could he treat a Beardsley subject in a Rossetti style, or "vice versa." This faculty of imitation possessed his mind in every detail. He projected a press "like the Kelmscott Press," a periodical "like the Yellow Book." He could not even get near enough to originality to propose a Morris periodical! Of course something very like this stage is common to all artists. Nothing is more pitiable and slavish than Shelley's early plagiarisms of Mrs. Aphra Behn, Keats's efforts to reproduce Moore at his worst --- by "Moore at his worst" I do not here seek a euphemism for "George Moore." In fact, the sensitiveness and receptivity which is one side of genius makes this inevitable. So that one might have hoped to see the stem of Dooley spring from roots which drew sustenance from these many masters. It was some three years before I had another opportunity of observing this youth; but no stem had yet appeared; it was the tangle still. Here was a fan painted exquisitely on silk in Conder's own technique, though (with a better artist as his model) Dooley had not made quite such a success. It was not Conder at his best; but it was not Conder plus anything or anybody. Such as it was, it was pure Conder. On an easel was the portrait of a girl by Rembrandt-Dooley; against the wall another girl by Whist ler-Dooley; the big easel held a vast Velasquez-Dooley which was not going very well. By this time (observe!) Dooley had learnt to paint from Nature, but he could not reach the Velasquez-conception, the {71} Whistler point-of-view; and to this extent he failed --- and oh! how glaring and how ghastly was the failure! --- to reproduce their style. But in all the inessentials he was there all the time. Theme, brush-work, treatment, tone, composition, all that was imitable he imitated admirably; and he had none of his own. It was very amusing to hear him explain his failure --- which he occasionally realized, for in some ways he was a fine critic, though with no real standard of balance. Painting he declared to be a lost art, in the same sense as the manufacture of gunpowder might be. He thought the old masters had "amber in their varnish." He bought a truck-load of books on chemistry to find out what was wrong with his colours; a task joyfully undertaken and rigorously prosecuted with that degree of success which might have been prognosticated by any scientific person who happened to be cognizant of the fact that he knew absolutely no chemistry --- or even any other exact science to help him a little with the terminology. However, he made endless experiments; he ground up his own colours and used all kinds of oils, and in every other way exhibited the indomitable perseverance which does indeed bring one to the top of a Sunday-school, but is unfortunately useless to the alchemist of silk-purse from sow's ear. He tried many another plan. No draughtsman, he photographed his models with the assistance of a bald ratcatcher in a Norfolk jacket who had a perpetual snuffle and was named Mowles; pantagraphed the photo on to a canvas "Double Bishop," and proceeded to paint it in! I do not think that many geniuses do this at twenty-five! {72} He had, too, a great deal of trouble with his Whistler, because of Whistler's "low tone." As he had no real idea of harmony and balance, this was quite beyond him. But somebody told him that Whistler used black as a harmonizer; so he mixed everything with black. I saw him mix paint the colour of London mud for the high light on the cheek of a blonde. These pictures were scarcely discernible in the light of day, especially after --- in spite of chemistry! --- the paint had sunk in. In fact he told me himself a year ago that he started to paint over an old canvas, thinking it was only a background, to recognize (too late!) his favourite portrait of the Honourable Mavourneen Jones. Any real advance that he may have made at this time was due to various friends who really could paint, or rather, who had something to paint, and couldn't paint it to their liking. (Dooley had nothing to paint; "there never was a Dooley.") But the only visible result was a number of very creditable J. W. Morrice landscapes. And, unfortunately, there was an American among these good folk of Paris; like Gilbert, "his name I shall not mention," but he really was a discontented sugar broker, if ever there was one. He was Pinkerton of "The Wrecker" come to life. He started with newspapers in the gutters of Chicago, and was earning Pounds 2,000 a year by his gift of suggesting an American girl to any person who had never seen one by a representation of a spider's web struck by lightning. This youth fell under the influence of Dooley, whose manner was bluster and bounce "a l'Americaine," but more so, and thus eminently calculated to subjugate the Yank, who cannot suspect an effete European of drawing two ca rds to three little clubs. Dooley inspired {73} him with a higher mawrl code, and in three weeks he was trying to imitate Dooley! So admirably did he succeed that nobody could tell the difference --- each being always mud --- and the supreme jest was that he exhibited the picture in the Salon, on the strength of his name! His gratitude to Dooley was great, and he pointed out, just like Pinkerton, that artists must advertise, and proceeded to boom him in the Transatlantic press. Another evil influence was a very old friend, a surgeon whose sole claim to distinction was his beautiful bedside manner, and his deference to the heads of his profession. I remember Dooley criticizing him one night in Lavenue's for this very fault. "When you see him with the big man," he said, "it's --- damn it, it's almost like this." With his perfect art of mimicry, he gave the smile and the hand-rub of the shop-walker. In twelve months, he was doing the same thing himself! Yet a third; a medical failure who fancied himself as a playwright, and by adapting 15-year old Palais Royal farces captured the English stage. He also had the impudence to publish novels page after page of which was stolen almost verbatim from various other books.<> His only other qualifications were his stutter, and his incapacity to conceive of greatness of any kind. That Dooley should have taken this cre ature seriously, even thought him an artist, exhibits the melancholy ruin into which his critical faculty had followed his aspirations. I am sorry about this: Dooley had always been a gentleman of high ideals. He had honestly wished to achieve art, and toiled like a man to attain. Now he began to criticize Milton: {74} "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and sits aloft in those pure eyes And perfet witness of all-judging Jove: As He pronounces lastly on each deed Of so much fame in Heaven accept thy meed." He found that there was "no money in France"; "England is the market"; so to England he went, and sat down to paint in an atmosphere which would have turned Titian into a maker of coloured illustrations for society novels. Ultimately even he revolted, and furnished a studio in the most fashionable part of the West End at the cost of some thousand pounds or so with works of art of every nation. But still no Dooleys. In default of these, he set seriously to work to obtain commissions, through the social influence of his family and his friends. The seats of the mighty, he learnt, were amicably stirred by the titillation of a tongue; the brush became a secondary instrument in his armoury. His very conversation forgot art; he began to prate of "gentlemen" and "his social position." He began to reproach me one day for knowing painters who could paint. "There are bad painters who are gentlemen," he said, "and there ar e bad painters who are not gentlemen. Now "my" friends are gentlemen." I had humbly to confess that I did know one bad painter who was not a gentleman! His ideals were by now wholly commercial. He no longer asked himself "Who are the greatest painters? Let me paint like they did!" but "What is the most paying branch of Art?" and being answered on all hands "Portrait painting," continued, "Who are the best-paid portraitists to-day? Let me {75} paint like they do!" He then proceeded to produce Sargents and Shannons, so as to deceive the very elect. His attitude to his older friends was now very beautiful. "Yes," he would say, "I'm painting rubbish. I'm painting pot-boilers, frankly. But no artist attains complete mastery of his method till he is sixty; by then I shall have made a fortune, and can afford to paint what I like!" This from the owner of No. 1, Vanderbilt Studios, Astor Place, Rockefeller Street, Park Lane! Another typical tragedy is the Affair of Lady X. This excellent lady was of such blood that she could afford to regard the Plantagenet part of her ancestry as rather a blot on her 'scutcheon. Dooley cadged a commission, and made her look like her own housekeeper. This circumstance attracting comment, the great Dooley suddenly shifted his ground. It now appeared that he was not painting the particular, but the general. It was not Lady X.; it was "The Perfect Lady," or "Quite the Lady." Not a camel, but a whale --- and oh! how like a whale! When a man reaches this state, he is beyond hope. You cannot call the righteous, but sinners to repentance. "Why is your face so dirty?" "Do you cast stones at the poor?" "Then why do you wear a frock coat?" "I hope I am a gentleman." Dooley had discovered the secret of epithets, that you can make any one of them sound praise or dispraise as you will. He was therefore beyond criticism. "Quel est le philosophe fransais qui disait, 'Je suis un dieu qui ai mal dine?" --- 'Cette ironie ne mordrait pas sur un esprit enleve par le haschisch,' il repondrait tranquillement. 'Il est possible que j'ai mal dine, mais je suis un dieu.'" Dooley's vanity could give a stroke a hole to hashish; he {76} would reply that he had dined badly in order to mortify his flesh. Such degradation can hardly go further; it only remains to set the seal upon it. As valour is not increased, but only recognized, by the Victoria Cross, so nothing can be done for Dooley but to make him A.R.A. A QUILLER, JR. {77} AT SEA AS night hath stars, more rare than ships In ocean, faint from pole to pole, So all the wonder of her lips Hints her innavigable soul. Such lights she gives as guide my bark; But I am swallowed in the swell Of her heart's ocean, sagely dark, That holds my heaven and holds my hell. In her I live, a mote minute Dancing a moment in the sun: In her I die, a sterile shoot Of nightshade in oblivion. In her my elf dissolves, a grain Of salt cast careless in the sea; My passion purifies my pain To peace past personality. Love of my life, God grant the years Confirm the chrism --- rose to rood! Anointing loves, asperging tears In sanctifying solitude! {79} Man is so infinitely small In all these stars, determinate. Maker and moulder of them all, Man is so infinitely great! ALEISTER CROWLEY. {80} CANCER? CANCER? A STUDY IN NERVES<> BERTIE BERNARD, Societaire of the Salon des Beaux Arts, and officer of the Legion d'Honneur, looked at the world from the window of his favourite cafe. In front, behold the hideous fasade of the Gare Montparnasse and the clattering devastation of the Place de Rennes! It was a chill summer morning; a thin rain fell constantly. Great columns of ice came into the restaurant on men's backs; waiters with napkins knotted round their necks sprinkled the sandy boards with water, laid the tables for lunch, bor e great basins piled with slabs of sugar here and there; in short, began the day. Behind a small bar, perched, the lady cashier performed mysterious evolutions with a book of green tickets and counterfoils; a small blind puppy nestled into the crook of her elbow. There was a greyness in everything. Without the good sun's kiss, or the glare of the lights and the kaleidoscope of the demi-monde, Paris is a sad city. Nowhere, I think, are the distances so great, the communications so bad. Nowhere do the pavements tempt so, and tire so. Nor, as it happened, was Bernard full of that internal sunlight which transforms the world. For four months he had worked like a demon. Six pictures --- 'twas his right --- hung on the walls of the Salon, excellent in a wilderness of {83} mediocrity or worse --- nay, nothing is worse! but one cannot live on a reputation alone, and the American Slump had hit the painters hard. His was a solitary life at the best of times, and, when one works, that life offers indeed the best of times. But when work is over, when one has worked so hard that there is no longer energy to play --- a gloomy world for the solitary! So here he sat in the Cafe de Versailles and droned through the inanities of the Overseas (as distinguished from the Half-Seas-Over) "Daily Wail." His eye caught a sudden paragraph: "Death of a Well-known Baronet." "He had been complaining," said the paper "of his throat for some time, but had not thought it worth while to consult a doctor. On Saturday last he saw Sir Herpes Zoster, who took so serious a view of the matter that he advised an immediate operation. Unhappily, pneumonia supervened, and d eath ensued early on Tuesday morning. ..." Cancer! read Bernard between the lines. At the word a whole cohort of ancient thoughts, armed and angry, swept up the glacis that defended his brain, and entering put the defenders to the sword. Cancer! The one great memory of his boyhood; his mother's illness. They had shown him --- idiots! --- the dreadful tumour that was --- uselessly, of course --- to be cut away from the breast that, eight years before, had been his life. The bedside, the cold cleanliness of things, the false-smiling faces that failed to hide their fear, his mother's drawn face and staring eyes, the hideous disease itself --- all this stood out in his mind, clear-cut and vivid as it had been yesterday; a violence done to his childhood. {84} Then, his face already blanched, rose in his memory certain episodes of youth. Once in Switzerland, sleeping out on the mountains, a stone had bruised his side as he lay on it, and two days after, having forgotten the origin of the blue-brown stain, he had thought it cancer, and been laughed at by a medical friend in the hotel. But again the thought, "Is it hereditary?" leapt at him. Nobody knows --- that is the trouble! Nobody knows anything at all about the cause of cancer. There are no precaution s, no prognoses, no diathesis except (as some said) the negative one of incompatibility with tubercle. Bernard would have liked a little tubercle. There's Luxor, Davos, Australia --- but for cancer? Cancer is everywhere. Cancer takes no account of conditions. Now Bernard was a brave man. For sheer devilment he had gone over and taken a hand in the Cuban mix-up. He had shot tigers on foot in Burmah, and was indeed so afraid of fear that he had always refused to take the least care of his health. Better die facing death! One must die. It is no good running away. One may as well live a man's life. So he fished for salmon without waders, and found by immunity that the doctors know as little about rheumatism as about anything else. But on this morning at the Cafe de Versailles things went ill with his thoughts. All that he had ever read about cancer; all the people he had ever heard of who had died of it; all the false wicked bombast of the newspapers (once a week on an average) that an "eminent Scientist" --- whatever a "scientist" may be --- had discovered a perfect cure --- puppy's livers, roseleaves, tomato-juice, strange serums, {85} anything and everything. All Ignorance! Ignorance!! Ignorance!!! He dropped the paper with listless anger, rapped on the marble, threw down his franc, and rose. And as he caught the sharp air of the street a little cough took his throat. "God! God!" he cried, "I have it at last!" And the precise parallelism between his symptoms and those of the dead baronet hit him, as it were a giant with a club. He, too, had been troubled for a long while. He, too, had not thought it worth while to consult a doctor. Then the healthy reaction surged up in him. "You're a hysterical fool, my lad, and I'll teach you a lesson. You shall go and see a doctor, and be laughed at, and pay ten francs for your cowardice!" Up sprang the assailing thought. "On Saturday he saw Sir Herpes Zoster, who took so serious a view of the matter that ..." "I daren't! I daren't!" he cried inwardly, with bitter anguish. Bowed and old, his face wrinkled and blue-grey with fear, he faltered and turned back. He sat down on a little cane chair outside the cafe, and drove his nails into the palms of his hands. Abject indecision had him by the throat. He would do this, he would do that. He would go to Italy, to New York, to ride horseback through Spain, to shoot in Morocco, to --- half a hundred schemes. ... Each impulse was inhibited. He half rose from his chair again and again, and always fell back as the terrible reply beat him down. For New York he must have a new trunk, and the idea of going into a shop and buying one seemed as {86} insanely impossible as if he had needed a live dodo. For Spain, the terrors of the Custom House on the frontier smote him back. Trifle after trifle, fierce and menacing, beat upon him, and the cry of his sane self: "Don't be a fool, it's only nerves, get away anywhere; eat, sleep, amuse yourself and you'll be all right in a day or so!" grew feebler and feebler as the dominant demon swung his fell spear, "Go away? you've got cancer --- cancer --- cancer --- you can't go away from cancer!" He knew, too, that did he but once decide to do anything, the cloud would clear. But decide he could not. If only a good hearty stupid Briton had come along and taken him out of himself for a moment! But he was a solitary; and the early morning is not the time for meeting such few acquaintances as he possessed. He might have called on one or two friends, but he dared not. Laden with his terrible secret, he could not confront them. At last he rose, still purposeless, driven by physical disquietude. The muscles, irritated by the anguish of the nerves, became uneasy, sent jerky, meaningless messages to the brain. He walked and walked, feebly and foolishly, everywhere and yet nowhere --- the muscles of his back ached. Cancer of the kidney! he thought, and was swept into a whirlpool of fear. He had once been supposed to have weak kidneys. "The seat of a previous lesion" was a likely spot. He put his hand to his neck to adjust his collar. There was a small "blackhead" half formed. Cancer! He remembered how the previous evening --- no! last week, last year --- what did it matter? --- one of his friends had told of a man in South America who had died of a cancer on the neck, caused, he thought, but the irritation of his collar. {87} Bernard wrenched at his collar to tear it off. "Useless! too late!" cried one interior voice. "Nothing is known of the cause," whispered the consoler, common-sense. Then, louder: "My dear good ass, every man wears a collar; only one man in twenty-one dies of cancer, and probably not one in twenty-one of those have cancer of the neck." Louder, for the physical violence of his wrench had sent his blood faster, pulled him together a little. In the new-found courage he began again to contemplate a change, for it was only too clear that his nerves were wrong. But the enemy had an answer to this: "One of the most painful features of the disease is the dreadful anxiety ------" he remembered from some old medical book. It had begun to rain more heavily; he was wet. The physical discomfort braced him; he looked up. He was in the Rond-Point des Champs-Elysees, not a hundred yards from his doctor's house. In a flash his mind was made up. He strode at six miles an hour to the physician, an old friend, one Dr. Maigrelette, and was shown into the consulting room. If the doctor had happened to see him as he entered, he would not have had to wait, as was the case. Waiting, he could not tolerate the alleged amusing journals. He looked for the poison that was eating out his soul. Soon he happened on the "Lancet," and found to his taste an authoritative article on "Cancer of the Ileum," urging speedy operation before --- so he gathered --- the appearance of any symptoms whatever. "Unfortunately," wrote the great surgeon, "cancer is a painless disease for many months." {88} God! God! "He, too, had no pain!" He did not know where the ileum might be; he never even knew that he "had" an ileum. And what an awakening! He had got cancer of it. For many, many months he had had no pain! His perception of the absurd was utterly snowed under. With clenched teeth, the sweat rolling from his brow, he rushed from the house. What followed he never really knew. The agony of the mind had gone a step too far, and dropped below the human into a dull animal consciousness of fear. He was being hunted for his life. The instinct of flight became dominant. He found himself feverishly packing his bag; he found himself at the Gare de Lyon, with no very clear conception of how he came there. Hunger brought him to. Luckily the restaurant of the station --- one of the best in Paris --- was full of the cheeriest memories. Time and again he had left the station for Italy, Switzerland, Algiers, always with high hope, good courage, pleasurable anticipation. Almost himself again for the moment, he feasted superbly on a Caneton Rouennais au Sang, with a bottle of the ripe red Burgundy. A peace stole over him. "I have had a bad attack of nerves;" he thought, "I will go away and rest. Worry and overwork, that's what it is. Where's the laziest place on earth? Venice." And to Venice he went, almost gaily, in a wagon-lit. Gaily? At the back of his consciousness was a dull sphere of some forgotten pain, some agony in abeyance. The exhaustion of the day and the last benediction of the {89} good wine together drove him down the slopes of sleep into the Valley of deepest Anaesthesia. Almost trance. II The dull viewless journey up the Rhone Valley, with its everlasting hint of great things beyond, did Bernard good. More than a touch of mountain freshness in the air, nay! the very loathsomeness of the Swiss --- that nation with the Frenchman's meanness without his insouciance, the German's boorishness without his profundity, the Italian's rascality without his picturesqueness, all these things reminded him of his happy youth spent among the glaciers. At lunch he ordered a bottle of Swiss champagne, dr ank that infamous concoction with a certain relish piercing through the physical disgust at its nauseousness, as remembering the joy of the opened bottle on some peak yet unclimbed by the particular ridge he had chosen. Life seemed very different now-a-days. He would hardly have taken the trouble to climb Mount Everest, had a Jinnee borne him to its foot upon a magic carpet. Fame, love, wealth, friendship --- these things seemed valueless. He knew now what he wanted --- rest --- rest. Death would have pleased him. He thought of the Buddhist Nibbana, and almost determined to become an Arahat, or at least a Bhikkhu, the stage preliminary. So the long day went by; at its end, Venice, a vulgar approach, a dead level of shapeless houses with insignificant church spires scarce visible. Then the sudden wonder of the gondola, gliding between the tall jagged subtly coloured palaces, the surprise of the {90} moon, glittering down some unexpected alley. And again the sleep of utmost fatigue, only accentuated by the violent stimulus of the wonderful city, its undeniable romance, its air of dream, of enchantment. In the morning he rose early. The Grand Canal was stirring, lively, with the pail gold of sunrise kindling it. He hailed a gondola, and until lunch-time drifted about in the narrow waterways, seeking to discover by some subtle mental process the secret which he imagined, as one is compelled to imagine, that each tall house contains. Yet, lost as he was in the dream, there was ever present in the background of his mental picture, the waking life. What he conceived as the waking life was but that formless mass of horror, the disease whose fear was yet upon him. In short, he was drugged with Venice, as with an opiate. There would come a reckoning. Life itself was poisoned. The mask matters little; the face behind the mask is all. And for Bernard, behind the mask of Venice, glittered the eyes of Cancer --- Cancer --- Cancer! But as health came back, he consciously fought the demon. One may as well die of cancer as anything else, he would think. He insisted on the word; he said it aloud, watching his voice to detect the tremor of fear. He would contemplate death itself --- the worst (after all!) that would come, and discovered death to be but a baseless illusion. He made a dilemma for death. If consciousness ceases, he argued, there is no death, for one is not conscious of it, and nothing exists for the individual of which he is not conscious. If consciousness does not cease -- - why, that is life! {91} And so on, making a brave show of the feeble weapon of intellect, as one sees a frightened insect try to appear terrible. Or as a guardsman struts with moustache and busby. But this same bold analysis was, as he soon saw, but another shape of fear. It was courage, true! but courage implies fear. There was but one cure, absorption in work. So, as he rested the capacity for work returned. He began, first sketches, then fair-sized picture of the ever-changing, ever-identical beauty of Venice. He spent an altogether joyous morning buying materials for his art. He met a charming child of Venice in black shawl, with Madonna's face and Venus's body; he painted her into all his foregrounds. In the evening, sitting together in the cafe of the Rialto Inn, he sketched her. He projected a large and sacred picture, full of the sensual strength of Rubens. His tired soul took her virgin vigour into itself; he became like a boy; he idealized, adored his mistress. He would learn a little Italian, so that they might talk together easily, no longer in broken French-Itali an. So one morning he strolled down to the old Dandolo Palace, glorious with memories of Georges Sand and de Musset, and consulted the jolly bearded blonde beautiful hall porter about lessons in Italian. The porter gave him an address. Would he had added, "Venice is the most relaxing city in the five continents. A week will cure you, a fortnight kill you!" So our friend was soon knocking at the door of the Signora who taught English. She was a faded widow, her dyed blonde hair eked out with an improbable fringe, roughed and wrinkled, intensely {92} respectable, Scotch, Presbyterian, sentimental, scented. The room was musty and ill-sized, an imported lodging-house from Ramsgate! The decorations in keeping. Undusted furniture, portraits of "Victoria the Good," and of the lady's "poor dear husband," a Bible, English and Italian novels and grammars. All frivolities, all dullnesses, all inessentials. The very piano had the air of an accident. Poor tired woman! Long since all hope, all purpose, is lost for you, he thought. And "Am I otherwise?" Vital scepticism tinged his disgust with the teacher as, mastering his repulsion, he arranged for a series of lessons. It was on the third day of these lessons that he saw Germanica Visconti. She was a few minutes early at the teacher's, and intruded on his hour. Paler than death, and clad in deepest mourning, she had yet beauty rare and rich, a charm irresistible. The great sense of beauty that had made him the famous painter that he was allured him. "Voila une belle idee" --- he scented intrigue. All night he dreamt of her, gliding as a gondola glides into the room. (For so do all Venetian women glide.) The next day he began --- the cunning fellow! --- with a little apology. Had he overstayed his hour? She was rather a pretty girl (no Don Juan would openly say that; it was a clever subterfuge). The old-young widow rose easily to the bait. The Visconti had just lost her father. Poor man, he had suffered terribly for two years. Smokers' cancer, they called it. You can operate twice, but the third time he must die. Oh, yes! it is very, very common in Venice. The pipe in his pocket burnt him like a red-hot coal. {93} The whole horror came flooding back, tenfold stronger for its week of abeyance. Good God! he had come to the very place of all places where he was sure to get it. Yet he was master of himself enough to sit out the lesson, to bow gracefully to Germanica as she came up the stairs. Thence he went shaking into Florian's, and thought filth of all the world. The city, ever a positive impression, unlike most other cities, which one can ignore, hurt him. Very common here, he mused --- and his throat, really a little irritated by the slackness and the sirocco, became dominant and menacing. He put his hand to his larynx, imagined a tumour. The word "induration" afflicted him, throbbed in his brain. He could not bear society: he got rid of his model, cruelly and crudely. Nothing but his stubborn courage saved him from throwing his pipe into the canal. By br avado, he smoked double his usual allowance. His throat naturally got worse, and his distress correspondingly increased. He simply could not stand Venice any longer. Two days of speechless agony, and he went suddenly back to Paris, the dust of the journey aggravating his sore throat, and its misery dragging him ever lower into the abyss of despair. His indecision increased, invaded the smallest details of life. He walked miles, unable to find a restaurant to suit his whim. He would reach the door, perhaps enter, suddenly remember that the coffee was never good there, go out again, walk, walk, walk, repeat the folly aga in and again, until perhaps he would go to bed foodless. His sore throat (always a depressing influence on all of us) grew worse, and his soul sagged in sympathy. {94} He could not work, he could not read, he could do nothing. He went out to play Pelota at Neuilly one afternoon, and his very natural failure to play decently increased his misery. I am no more good, he thought, I am getting old. Thirty-six, he mused, and a sob came to his throat --- the very age when cancer most begins to claim its prey. He engaged a model, and discovered that he could no longer draw. He tried everything, and gave up after an ineffectual hour. His throat grew worse: it pained him really very badly. The follicles of his tongue, too, inflamed sympathetically, and the horrid vision of a bottled cancerous tongue that he had once seen at the College of Surgeons stood luminous in his mind --- an arched monstrous tongue of a hideous brown colour, with the ulcer just visible in the dorsum. It looked too big to be a human tongue at all, he had thought. Would his own tongue be bottled in a year from now? He was afraid to go to a doctor; he could hear the diagnosis; the careful preparation to break it gently to him, the furtive eye that would assure itself of the presence of some necessary stimulant; the --- His thought shot on prophetic to the operation. Would he sink under it? He hoped so. "Early and successful operations afford a respite of from three to five years," he had read. Think of the waiting through those years for its recurrence! Think of Carriere --- he, too, dead of throat-cancer --- who had said after operation, "If it comes back I'll shoot myself" --- Carriere --- his colleague --- his friend. He had once had an operation, a minor affair. He could picture everything --- "extirpate the entire triangle," the {95} surgeon would say --- and do. He did not know what would be left of himself. Would he be able to speak, to swallow, during those horrible three, four, five years while he waited (in Hell!) for "recurrence"? Liability to recurrence! he sneered angrily; they know it means always, the dogs! He thought of the title of a book he had seen advertised, "How Surgery blocks the way to the cure of cancer." and foamed against the folly of the surgeon, than against the blatant quackery of the alternatives. He hated mankind. He hated God, who had made such a world. Why not have ----? and discovered that it is not as easy as it sounds to devise a genuine undeniable improvement upon the universe. He fought against the notion that his throat was cancerous, did it good with a simple gargle, made it worse again by smoking; finally the shocking anxiety of the terror that he dared not reveal operated to make him really ill. Only his magnificent constitution had saved him from being very ill indeed long before this. As it was, the genuine physical suffering took his mind to some extent off his supposed disease, and in a fit of annoyance he determined to put an end of the matter one way or the other. He got into a fiacre, and drove off --- idiot! --- to the great Cancer Specialist, Dr. Pommery. III It was the very worst thing he --- or any one --- could have {96} done. Dr. Pommery was famous as having --- regardless of expense --- grafted the skin of a pig's belly on to the face and hands of a negress, who was thereby enabled to marry a crazy Vicomte, whose parents objected to black blood in the family. True, she had died. He, too, had discovered the bacillus of cancer, the only flaw in his experiments being that the said bacillus was to be found in all known organic substances except sterilized agar-agar. He had prepared a curative serum which killed cancer patients before the disease got half a chance, and he had received the record fee of Pounds5,000 sterling for killing the actress wife of an English Duke --- or so the Duke's friends laughed over his Grace's cigars and '47 port in his Grace's smoking-room. He welcomed Bernard with a kindling eye. "Dear me!" (in his kindest professional manner) "Don't worry! don't worry, my dear young friend! I think we shall be able to help the little trouble. At the same time, I must ask you to realize that it is somewhat serious, not at all a matter to neglect. In fact, I ought to tell you --- you are a man, and should be well able to bear a little shock --- that --- that -------" Bernard had heard him with set face, afraid no more but of showing the white feather. Now as he caught the expression of the great specialist's eyes, the long strain broke. He burst into a torrent of glad tears, caught the doctor's hands in his, and wrung them hard. "I know!" he cried. "It's cancer --- cancer! Thank God! Thank God! His fear was over. He sobered himself, arranged to go the next day to Dr. Pommery's private hospital for the treatment, and went off. His throat was better already. Almost joyfully, he went {97} about his affairs. He bade good-bye to his one good friend at lunch, not wishing to sadden her by telling her the truth. He found a sombre pleasure in keeping the secret. "The next she hears of me, I shall be dead. She will remember this lunch, think kindly of me that I would not spoil her pleasure." Then --- "Poor girl, how will she live when I am gone?" Bernard had a small regular income; he had no relations; he would leave it to her. So off he went to the Rive Droite to make his will. The lawyer was an old friend, was grievously shocked at his story, made the usual attempts to minimize the affair, told a long story of how he too had been condemned to death by a doctor -- "Twenty years ago, Herbert, and --- well, I feel sure I shall die, you know, if I have to wait another forty years for it." Bernard laughed duly, and was cheered; yet the lawyer's sympathy jarred. He detected a professionalism, an insincerity, in the good cheer. He was quite wrong; his friend did think him scared, and was honestly trying to give him courage. He asked him to come back to tea. Bernard accepted. Now who should chance to drop in but Maigrelette, that same old medical friend of Bernard's, from whose consulting-room he had fled in terror a month before! They were four at tea, Jobbs the lawyer and his wife, Maigrelette and the dying man. At the proper moment Bernard began his sad story; it was necessary to say farewell. Maigrelette heard him with patient impatience. To his look, that asked for sympathy, he said but one explosive word, "Pommery!" It sounded like an oath! {98} "Come here!" he said, catching Bernard by the shoulder and dragging him to the window. He thrust a spoon, snatched from the tea-table, into his mouth. "Say R!" "R-R-R-R-R," said Bernard obediently, wondering whether to choke or vomit. "You d----d ass!" thundered Maigrelette, shaking him to and fro till his teeth chattered, "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Jobbs --- what you've got is a very mild go of tonsillitis, and a very bad go of funk. What you're going to do is to go away with my brother Jack to-morrow morning for a month. He'll teach you what speed means. No nonsense, now! Hold up!" But Bernard went limp, fainted. While he lay unconscious, "You can tear up that will, Jobbs," said Maigrelette, "but it's a bad nervous case, as bad as I want to see. I don't think we'll trust him to go home alone, do you know!" Bernard came to. The doctor took him back to his studio, packed his bag for him, carried him off to dinner. "Jack," he said to his brother, in a swift aside, "take the big Panhard, and L for leather all the way to Madrid! Let him out of your sight, day or night, for the next week, and I won't answer for it! After that, if he stop brooding --- well, I'll have a look at him myself before you relax." Jack nodded comprehension, and after the cigars had been converted into ash and contentment, he went of f with Bernard pounding through the night in a great journey to the south. Bernard, exhausted, dozed uneasily in the tonneau, the wind driving out of his brain the phantoms of its disorder. All day they raced through the haze and heat; {99} fed like giants here and there. The patient grew visibly sleek, his face got blood, his eyes brightness, the furtive inwardness of them sucked out by the good sun, the wild fresh air. They stopped their headlong course at a small town in the Pyrenees. Bernard was honestly sleepy, as a tired man is, not as an exhausted man. As for Jack, he thought he could never get enough sleep. He had held the wheel nearly all day. They dined, smoked, took a tentative walk cut short by the eagerness of the air and their own great fatigue. Bernard threw himself upon his bed, and slept instantly. Jack, with a glad sigh, "Safe till the mourning!" imitated him. So abode the utter stillness of the night upon them; so the dawn arose. A shaft of sunlight came through the mountain cleft, and fell obliquely upon Bernard's face. He half woke, wondered. His memory played him false. Where was he? The strange room baffled him. And suddenly his face whitened. "I have got cancer," he thought. And again: "It is I that have got cancer. It is I." The emphasis of egoity rose to a perfect shriek of nerve, dominated all other chords in the brain, once and for all. He rose calm and smiling, like a little child, went on tiptoe to the window, kissed his hand to the sun, whose orb now rose clear of the mountain and looked full upon him. "What a ripping score off old Jack!" he said in a soft voice, laughing, and after a minute's search in his dressing-case, drew his razor with one firm sweep across his throat. As he turned and fell, the bright blood sprang, a slim swift jet, and fell bubbling upon the face of the sleeper. ALEISTER CROWLEY. {100} DUMB! GABRIEL whispered in mine ear His archangelic poesie. How can I write? I only hear The sobbing murmur of the sea. Raphael breathed and bade me pass His rapt evangel to mankind; I cannot even match, alas! The ululation of the wind. The gross grey gods like gargoyles spit On every poet's holy head; No mustard-seed of truth or wit In those curst furrows, quick or dead! A tithe of what I know would cleanse The leprosy of earth; and I --- My limits are like other men's. I must live dumb, and dumb must die! {101} THE VITRIOL-THROWER "To" "Kathleen Scott." THE VITRIOL-THROWER THE Boulevard Edgar Quinet is convenient for life and death. There is a squalid toil and squalid pleasure, represented by the Gare Montparnasse and the Rue de la Gaiete; at the other end is the exotic struggle of the quaint little colony of English artists. The boulevard itself hangs between these extremes; but, sinister and terrible omen! the whole of one side is occupied by that vast cemetary of Montparnasse which Charles Baudelaire has honoured by his bones. I like to think that Baudelaire, brooding like an unquiet fiend above his carrion, may laugh, though it be but the laugh of hell, at this my tale. A man who has deliberately taken human life on no responsibility but his own enjoys some of the immunities of a God. The habit acting first and thinking afterwards is surely divine, or how can we explain the universe? Among civilized people few such men are to be found; they may be known by the grave courage of their steadfast eyes. Would you like to meet one! The first place to search is most certainly the Boulevard Edgar Quinet. At least this is certain, that if you had been strolling down by the cemetery on Monday night before Mardi-Gras, twelve years ago, you would have had your opportunity. Clement Seton was a tiny little man with a pale face. {105} One would have said that he suffered from a wasting illness. On his finger flashed a single ruby. Very unwise of you, young man! for the boulevard, deserted and leading no whither in particular, is the haunt of the greatest ruffians in Paris. The two Apaches in the shadow laughed. Silent and swift, they leapt. But the Scot was swifter yet. Ten feet away he stood with a Colt levelled in the gloom, demanding "Your pleasure, gentlemen?" The began some stammering excuse; the boy's light laugh trilled out, and he lightly replaced his weapon, turned on his heel, and left them to follow if they dared. There is almost opposite the end of the boulevard an impasse miscalled the Rue Boissonade. A road it would have been, save for the obstinate leases in the midst thereof. A road it one day surely will be, but at present it is certainly trying that from No. N. to No. N + 1 is a circuitous journey of nearly upon half a mile. On the right as you enter is a small low house, roofed for a studio, old-fashioned, with its ugly modern neighbours sneering over it. It had a bad name, too, even among the easy-goi ng folk of Bohemian Paris. Is your face the face of a cat or of a pig, strange dweller in that desolate house? Where did you get that shaggy mane of fire? Your face is covered with fine down, every tip whereof stings like a nettle. You have eyes that must devour the soul of a man ere they can sleep. You have long and heavy lips ever twitching; one thinks of an octopus waiting for its prey. Is that your blood that makes them scarlet, or the blood of all those who would not be warned in time? How is it, too, that all men own you beautiful? How, surer test! that all women deny you beauty? {106} For beautiful you are. Your face is the face of some divine beast, adored of the Egyptians or the Mexicans. What of your soul? Is that, too, the soul of a God and a beast? Does your face that warns us, and in vain, tell truth? People are afraid of you, Mirabelle! they cross the road to avoid passing over the pavements you have trod. Who was that poor Hungarian boy that men cut down one morning from your gate? and the pianist who poisoned himself in Vienna? What did the painter see in your eyes that he slashed your finished face from his canvas, and drew the second stroke across his throat? Is there any gate of death, Mirabelle, that some man has not passed --- for you? Why, too, do you tire your hair so carefully to-night? You only lift your finger, and they die for you. Why, then, do you struggle? There is anxiety, not only pride, in the thrice-gazed-on mirror. You have swathed yourself close like a corpse; the amber silk clings to your beautiful body. After all, you have taken down your hair; it flows over your breasts like a river of hell. How is it that you are waiting? Others should wait, surely; it is not for you to wait. You are in danger, Mirabelle; there is a God in heaven after all. Yes, and you will have him in your arms. II Clement Seton shrugged his shoulders and threw his cigar away with a gesture of weariness. Life in Paris seemed {107} tame after his exploits in Somaliland, where he had won the Victoria Cross standing over a wounded comrade half the day, while the survivors of what had been a very smart little outpost scrimmage tried in vain to come to terms with that waterless warrior. "Most cowardly thing I ever did," he would explain. "The poor beggars couldn't get at us for the rocks. When a head appeared one put a bullet through it. Like bally clay pigeons, by Jove!" and then he would go on, in his talkative nonsensical way, with some absurd paradox in ethics or metaphysics. Yet what good was to come of Paris? Bitter scorn of the sneaking Apaches ate up his soul. To come to grips with a devil were worth the pains. Murderers, he mused, are the salt of the earth. And lo! the salt hath lost its savour. And he laughed sourly. At the gate of the lonely house he flung away his cigar, and his hand was on the latch. Suddenly, a noiseless touch upon the arm, and a low, hurried pleading voice. "Clement, my old friend, listen a moment." He turned, and saw dear, fat, good-natured old Miss Aitken. What was there in this woman to make her (as she had been) the friend of Swinburne, Carriere, and Verlaine? Artists hate artists, not for envy, but because there can be no companionships among the Gods. Eternally silent in himself, a God sees all, knows all; yet nothing touches him. He can learn nothing from another such, while his study is mankind. So true friendship is their prize; Miss Aitken could not guess their detachment; she thought them human. {108} Maybe this flattered the poor Gods. In their weak hours they accept devotion gladly. Miss Aitken stood, white to the lips; her terror shining about her visibly. "That house is fatal, Clement," she moaned. "Go anywhere but there!" Patient and smiling, Clement heard her out. Half was he fain to put her off with a lie --- some folly about God in heaven. Then truth urged him to sing the song he had made of Mirabelle --- "The world for a whore! The sky for a harlot! All life --- at your door --- For a Woman of Scarlet! A bitter exchange? A bad bargain to strike? It May seem to you strange --- The fact is --- I like it! You offer me gold, Place, power, and pleasure To have and to hold --- Inexhaustible treasure! I'll give it and more In this planet of boredom For a girl that's a whore And is proud of her whoredom." He reflected that such truth might seem to her but a sneer. So in the end he pressed her hand, thanked her, bade her be of good cheer, passed in. III Like a frail ghost, poor worn-out Sylvie glided from the graveyard, and confronted Clement Seton. Three months had passed since his first visit to Mirabelle {109} the wonderful and beautiful, and still daily he strolled down the boulevard to his destiny. Thin and pale are you growing, my fine fool? Is it the air of Paris that robs you of your blood? We know better. Are you quite besotted? Or would you rather die thus than live otherwise? This we cannot think; he cannot be absorbed body and soul in the contemplation of Mirabelle's perfections; for when poor worn-out Sylvie, with her harsh cough and hectic cheek, addresses him, he hears. She took him to a corner of the graveyard, eagerly, with her worn face all fire, ever looking back. For he followed sedately. Clement would run nor to nor fro. She paused by a low grave. "Here," she said, "lies Sergius, whom I loved --- ah God! She took him from me; she threw him away, and laughed when he pistolled himself at her doorstep. You are her lover, monsieur. She will serve you so. I swear it. She lives for nothing else. God! God! to have these fingers but one moment at her throat." She burst into a passion of weeping anger. Seton lit a pipe. This Mirabelle! he mused. She leads me to Pisgah, he thought, she feeds me with milk and honey from the Promised Land. But to enter in and to possess it? No. She knows possession is but the prelude to the Captivity, the Exile to great Babylon. But who am I, to waste the months? I have said: Easy to write the curtain-raiser, but few who can pen five pungent acts. Yet, why should I wait? Why not make drama myself? Tragedy, no! for I am God, and must laugh at everything. Well! Well! "I will kill her, kill her," sobbed the girl, kissing the cross upon the tomb. {110} Seton smiled, bent down caressingly, and whispered in her ear. Then swiftly turning he bent no undecided step towards the Gardens of his Armida. * * * * * * * Trembling in each other's arms with the violence of their repressed passion, Clement and Mirabelle still lay. Now he put forth all his force; always she easily eluded it. "For your sake, O goddess!" he exclaimed. "You are not utterly high, because you have not touched humanity. I sacrifice the splendour of our passion to initiate you." "Not you then, but another!" she laughed wildly. "You are the only one that can play the Game; I will not use you up." He looked at her doubtfully; then he knew she lied. Hers was a real prudery. "Galilean!" he cried, "thou hast conquered!" But so shocking was the irony of his voice that for a moment she feared him. Then, rising up, they talked of many indifferent things; yet, being gods, all language was hieroglyphic to their intimacy; so that she marked a change. "Am I adream?" she said; "did not I win the bout?" "At the odds," he said. And again a chill passed over her. Some premonition of things utterly forlorn? Some intimate fear of the soul, struck bare and cold in the presence of its God? "Tire yourself carefully to-night," wooed Clement in his velvet voice. She thought of Jezebel, and a third time she shuddered. {111} Nevertheless, right comely was she, and golden in sheen of gossamer silk. In the Boulevard Edgar Quinet the wear is not silk, O Mirabelle the beautiful! Rather a shroud. The desolate trees of the boulevard do not rustle like silk; rather do they whisper like murderers in league. The stones of the boulevard do not rustle like silk; they clatter foolishly. It is not as the tears of your false passion on the adamantine hearts of men? Mystic and doubtful, from behind a tree leaps out a ghost. With one hoarse word, poor worn-out Sylvie flings her vitriol, and speeds laughing down the boulevard. Full in the face it splashed her; the great curse rose to a shriek and sank to a moan. Clement Seton carried her back to the studio. IV Jolly fat old Miss Aitken! What treasure you are in a world of sorrow! Mirabelle's sins, which were many, were forgiven; especially as she could sin no more, thought she. So she and Clement nursed her back to life; the face no more a face. One blind scar, more fearful to look upon than death. Her hands had escaped; one could judge by her hands what her beauty must have been. But we are interested in her soul. In her weakness she grew human; and Clement, loving her through the flesh, loved her yet more. Why did he make her his mistress? You shall judge. But why did she comply? Who shall {112} judge that? Judge not too easily; I myself, who am the great God who made these, dare not say. So in the closest intimacy for more than a year they lived; and good-natured Miss Aitken like a mother to them. Now was a new life stirred in Mirabelle; when Seton heard it, he called Miss Aitken aside privily, and said to her: "Dear friend, you may guess what she and I have always known: Love at its climax must decay thence. Such is the common lot; nothing escapes. I have given Mirabelle a child; let her seek the for new worlds to conquer. For me, I have studied her enough. Sylvie is dying; her consumption draws her to a close. I shall go live with her, and feast upon her end. "She loves me, since I helped her vengeance; and hates me, since I have lifted her victim to such heights of joy. You never guessed? Yes, Sylvie loved Sergius, whom Mirabelle stole from her. 'Twas I that bade her throw the acid. Anon." And he went whistling off. But to Miss Aitken, whose excellent memory broke this atrocious speech to Mirabelle, replied that expressionless mask of horror: "I knew it. I went to the death of myself that night; I went willingly, wittingly. It was Ananke and the Moirai. Moreover, I have had much joy of Clement; I leap with joy, breeding this child to him. "Let him go to Sylvie: it is a woman's part to see her husband go away on strange errands. Was not Juno foolish, with her gadfly?" In fact, when Sylvie died, Clement came back to her, brotherly. He had chosen the right moment to break off the {113} tie; Socrates suicide is finer than Socrates turned dotard. So they remained fast friends. The child was twelve years old last week. In him we see the seeds of miraculous thoughts, things to transcend all limitations mortal and immortal, common to man. The Overman is surely come; in the second generation is he established. {114} THE FAIRY FIDDLER AWAY in the misty moorland glen Where the Elf-Folk dance with the Wee Brown Men, And the rowan-berry burns haughtily As she tells of the wind's inconstancy --- 'Tis there I am bound by the far faint rune Of the Fairy Fiddler's silver shoon! Where the harebell waves from the tufted grass, There never the foot of a man may pass; For the painted fireflies glance and gleam Like the golden thoughts in a goblin's dream, And the ghostly coppice of oak and pine Holds a legion of imps from the Moonbeam Mine. When I lay me down in their wondrous car I travel so quickly from star to star, That the Earth and the Moon are as glowworm lights That flash o'er the field of the blurred blue heights: For it's where I am bound by the far faint rune Of the Fairy Fiddler's silver shoon! ETHEL ARCHER. {115} AN EVOCATION OF BARTZABEL THE SPIRIT OF MARS AN EVOCATION OF BARTZABEL THE SPIRIT OF MARS THE FORMULAE OF THE MAGICK OF LIGHT, let them be puissant in the EVOCATION of the SPIRIT HB:BRTzBAL The Ceremony consists of Five Parts: 1. The Banishings and Consecrations. 2. The Special Preparation of the Material Basis. 3. The Particular Invocations of the Forces of Mars. 4. The Dealings with Bartzabel, that mighty Spirit. 5. The Closing. Gloria Deo Altissimo Ra Hoor Khuit in nomine Abrahadabra et in hoc signo Pentagram The Circle has an inscribed Pentagon, and a Tau within that. Without are 5 pentagrams with 5 ruby lamps. There is an Altar with the Square of Mars and the Seal of Mars. The triangle has the names Primeumaton, Anaphaxeton, {119} Anapheneton and Mi-ca-el within. Also the Sigil of Bartzabel, and his name. About the Circle is the name ALHIM. -------------------- The Chief Magus wears the robe of a Major Adept, and the Uraeus crown and nemmes. He bears the Lamen of the Hiereus and the 1st Talisman of Mars. He bears as weapons the Spear and Sword, also the Bell. -------------------- The Assistant Magus wears the Robe of a Probationer and a nemmes of white and gold. He attends to the suffumigations of Art. He bears the 3rd Talisman of Mars (from the Key of Solomon), and the consecrated Torch. The Magus Adjuvant is robed as his brother, but wears the 5th Talisman of Mars. He attends to the Lustrations of Art. He bears the Book and Pen. Upon the Altar is the Image of Ra Hoor Khuit, Isis is the East his Mother, Khem is the West facing him. In the South is the Censer, in the North the Cup. The Material Basis is masked, and robed in red. On the Altar are also the rope, the burin, the oil, and the Lamen of Mars for the Material Basis. The Lamps are all alight. PART I C.M. "At altar, kneeling in humility." 2 M. "With sword of C.M." 3 M. "In other chamber with M.B." C.M. HB:V 2 M. Performs Banishing Rituals of Pentagram and Hexagram {120} around whole room, and replaces Sword on Altar. 3 M. Washes M.B. with pure water, saying: .eam. Asperge : : Domine hyssopo et mundabitur; .eum. .eam. lavabis : : et super nivem dealbabitur. .eum. .her. He masks : : with the mask and robe of Mars, saying: .him. By the figurative mystery of these holy vestures of concealment, doth the Lord cloak thee in the Shroud of Mystery in the strength of the Most High ANCOR AMACOR AMIDES THEODONIAS ANITOR that our desired end may be effected through thy strength, Adonai, unto whom be the Glory in Saecula saeculorum A M E N. .her. .her. He leads : : to : : place in the Triangle. .him. .his. The Chief Magus now rises from his knees, and takes the Spear from the Altar. -------------------- C.M. Hail unto Thee, Ra Hoor Khuit, who art the Lord of the Aeon! Be this consecrated Spear A thing of cheer, a thing of fear! Cheer to me who wield it! --- My heart, its vigour shield it! Fear to them who face it --- Their force, let fear disgrace it! {121} Be a ray from the Most High, A glance of His unsleeping eye! Arm me, arm me, in the fray That shall be fought this dreadful day! "He hands Spear to 2nd Magus to hold." "The Chief Magus takes the Sword." C.M. Hail unto Thee, Ra Hoor Khuit, who art the Lord of the Aeon! Be this consecrated Sword Not abhorred before the Lord! A guard of Steel, a tongue of flame Writing in adamant His Name! Puissant against the Hosts of Evil! A mighty fence against the Devil! A snake of lightning to destroy Them that work Mischief and Annoy! Arm me, arm me, in the fray That shall be fought this dreadful day! "He hands Sword to 3rd Magus to hold." "The Chief Magus raises his hands above the Altar." C.M. Hail unto Thee, Ra Hoor Khuit, who art the Lord of the Aeon! Be this consecrated Altar A sign of sure stability! Will and Courage never falter, Thought dissolve in Deity! Let thy smile divinely curving, Isis, bless our dark device! {122} Holy Hawk, our deed unswerving Be thy favoured sacrifice! Holy Khem, our vigour nerving, We have paid the priestly price. Hail, Ra Hoor, thy ray forth-rolling Consecrate the instruments, Thine Almighty power controlling To the Event the day's events! Arm me, arm me, in the fray That shall be fought this dreadful day! C.M. "Takes Spear from 2nd M. and gives him the Censer and Torch; Sword" "from 3rd M. and gives him the Cup, Book and Pen." C.M. "Goes to apex of triangle. The others support him at the base. He" "takes the cord from the altar." .Frater. C.M. : :N! As thou art blindfolded save for that light and sight which .Soror . I can give thee, so do I now bind thee, so that thou mayst be for a space subject to my will and mine alone. ("Ties hands and feet." "Takes Spear from altar.") And since thou art without the circle in the place of the triangle, with this Spear do I invoke upon thee the protection of Ra Hoor Khuit, so that no force either of Heaven or of Earth, or from under the earth, may act upon thee, save only that force that I shall invoke within thee. Bahlasti! Ompehda! So then, I being armed and exalted to the Power of the Most High, place upon thy head this drop of {123} consecrated oil, so that the ray of Godhead may illumine thee. And I place this holy kiss upon thy neck, so that thy mind may be favourable unto us, open to our words, sensible of the power of our conjurations. And with this burin do I draw from thy breast five drops of blood, so that thy body may be the Temple of Mars. Wherefore also I command thee to repeat after me: I submit myself to thee and to this operation; I invoke the Powers of Mars to manifest within me. ("done") ."his". ("C.M. places about: :neck the Lamen of Mars.") ."her". "Magi return to circle, face east." C.M. Now, Brethren, since we are about to engage in a Work of so great danger, it is fitting that we make unto ourselves a fortress of defence in the name of the Most High, Elohim. Frater Adjuvant Magus, I command thee to purify the place with water. ("3rd M. sprinkles thrice around circle walking widdershins.") C.M. Thus, therefore, first the Priest who governeth the works of Fire, must sprinkle with the waters of the loud-resounding sea. Frater Assistant Magus, I command thee to consecrate the place with Fire. ("2nd M. censes the circle thrice around, walking widdershins.") C.M. So when all the phantoms are vanished, and {124} through the Universe darts and flashes that holy and formless Fire --- Hear Thou the Voice of Fire! ("C.M. takes Sword.") The Lord is my fortress and my deliverer; my God in whom I will trust. I will walk upon the lion and adder; the young lion and the scorpion will I tread under my feet. Because he hath set his Love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known My Name. ("C.M. circumambulates thrice widdershins with sword.") Hail unto Thee, Ra Hoor Khuit, who art the Lord of the Aeon! Be this consecrated Tower A place of power this fearful hour! May the Names of God that gird us Be our sign that he hath heard us! By the five unsleeping Stars Ward us from the wrath of Mars! By the rood of God erect Be He perfect to protect! Arm me, arm me, in the fray That shall be fought this dreadful day! ("He now conjures the Dog of Evil.") Arise, Dog of Evil, that I may instruct thee in thy present duties. In the name of Horus, I say unto thee, Arise. Thou art imprisoned. Confess thou that it is so. {125} I have done this in the name and in the might of Horus. Except thou set thy face in my defence, thou art blind, and dumb, and paralysed: but thou shalt hear the curses of thy Creator, and thou shalt feel the torments of my avenging wrath. Therefore be thou obedient unto me, as a guard against them that hate me. Let thy jaws be terrible as the storm-parted sky. Let thy face be as a whirlwind of wrath and fury against the enemy. Arise, I say, and aid and guard me in this Work of Art. O thou! whose head is of coal-black fire! Thou, whose eyes are as columns of smoke and flame! Thou, from whose nostrils goeth forth the breath of destruction! Thou whose body is of iron and brass, bound with exceeding strength: girt with the power of awful blind avenging force --- under my control, and mine alone! Thou, whose claws are as shafts of whirling steel to rip the very bowels of my adversaries. Thee, thee, I summon to mine aid! In the name of Horus: rise: move: appear: And aid and guard me in this Work of Art! Rise, Dog of Evil, to guard the Abyss of Height! Rise, I say, to guard the Four Quarters: the Abyss of the North; the Abyss of the South; the Abyss of the East; the Abyss of the West. Rise, I say, to guard the Abyss of the Great Deep. Horus it is that hath given this commandment. {126} Be thou terrible against all them that hate me! Be thou mighty to defend me from the Evil Ones! At the confines of Matter: at the Threshold of the Invisible: be thou my Watcher and my Guardian! Before the face of the Dwellers of the Abodes of Night! As a flaming sword turning every way to keep the gates of my Universe: let thy teeth flash forth! Nothing shall stop thee while thou settest thyself in my defence. In the name of Horus: Rise, Move, and Appear: Be thou obedient unto me: for I am the Master of the Forces of Matter: the Servant of the Same thy God is my Name: true Worshipper of the Highest. ("Much incense is now burnt, and there is a pause.") THE INVOCATIONS ("C.M. first performs the Invoking Ritual of Mars.") ("The Adepts stand at the points of the Tau.") C.M. Even as of old there came three Magi from the ends of the earth to adore the Fivefold Star, so come we, O Lord, armed for the holy work of an Evocation of Bartzabel the spirit of Mars, that is obedient unto the Intelligence Graphiel, chosen from the Seraphim who follow Kamael the Great Archangel that serveth God under his name of Elohim Gibor, a spark from Thine intolerable light, Ra Hoor Khuit! Therefore hear Thou the Oath of the Obligation that we assume before Thee. {127} ("The Chief Magus points the Sword downward upon the apex of the" "Triangle of R.H.K. and the other Magi place their hands upon the" "hilt.") We, Perdurabo, a Neophyte of the A.'. A.'., All for Knowledge, a Probationer of A.'. A.'., and GR:Alpha-gamma-alpha-theta-alpha, a Probationer of A.'. A.'., swear unto Thee, O Lord God, by Thine own almighty power, by Thy force and fire, by Thy glittering Hawk's eye and Thy mighty sweeping wings: that we all here in this place and now at this time do utterly devote ourselves, mind, body, and estate, at all times and in all places soever to the establishment of Thy holy Kingdom. And if we fail herein, may we be burnt and consumed by the Red Eye of Mars! ("Magi return to stations.") And this our purpose is fivefold: Firstly, that the Kingdom of Ra Hoor Khuit may be established in the Aeon. Secondly, that we may succeed in that particular design of which it is not lawful to speak, even before Thee. Thirdly, that we may have power to help the weak. Fourthly, that we may be filled with the Courage and Energy of Mars for the Prosecution of the Great Work. And, lastly, that we may obtain the service of Bartzabel that he may be obedient unto us thy servants, that between him and us there may be peace, and that he may always be ready to come whensoever he is invoked and called forth. {128} Now because in such a work it is not possible for us to do anything at all of ourselves, we have humble recourse unto Thine Almighty power, beseeching upon our knees Thy favour and Thine aid. ("The Magi kneel at three sides of altar, all clasping spears in the" "proper manner.") I adore Thee in the Song: I am the Lord of Thebes, and I The inspired forth-speaker of Mentu; For me unveils the veiled sky, The self-slain Ankh-f-n-Khonsu Whose words are truth. I invoke, I greet Thy presence, O Ra Hoor Khuit! Unity uttermost shewed! I adore the might of Thy breath, Supreme and terrible God Who makest the Gods and death To tremble before Thee: I, I adore Thee! Appear on the throne of Ra! Open the ways of the Khu! Lighten the ways of the Ka! The ways of the Khabs run through To stir me or still me! Aum! let it fill me! "All say, repeatedly:" A Ka dua Tuf ur biu {129} Bi a'a chefu Dudu ner af an nuteru! "When the Chief Magus is satisfied with the Descent of the God, let" "all rise and let C.M. say:" So that Thy light is in me; and its red flame is as a sword in my hand to push thy order. There is a secret door that I shall make to establish thy way in all the quarters ... as it is said: The light is mine; its rays consume Me: I have made a secret door Into the house of Ra and Tum, Of Khephra, and of Ahathoor. I am thy Theban, O Mentu, The prophet Ankh-f-n-Khonsu! By Bes-na-Maut my breast I beat; By wise Ta-Nech I weave my spell. Show thy star-splendour, O Nuith! Bid me within thine House to dwell, O winged snake of light, Hadith! Abide with me, Ra Hoor Khuit! ("Magus faces "Fire", and others support him.") Hail! Hail! Hail! Hail! Hail! Send forth a spark of thine illimitable light and force, we beseech Thee, that it may appear in the Heaven of Mars as the God Elohim Gibor. O winged glory of gold! O plumes of justice and stern brows of majesty! O warrior armed with {130} spear and shield! O virgin strength and splendour as of spring! That ridest in thy Chariot of Iron above the Storm upon the Sea! Who shootest forth the Arrows of the Moon! Who wieldest the Four Magick Weapons! Who art the Master of the Pentagram and of the blazing fury of the Sun! Come unto me, thou great God Elohim Gibor, and send thy Angel Kamael, even Kamael the mighty, the Leader of thine Armies the fiery Serpents, the Seraphim, that he may answer my behests. O purple flame that is like unto the whirling wheel of Life! O strong shoulders and virginal breasts and dancing limbs! Kamael! Kamael! Kamael! Kamael! I see thee before me, O thou great Archangel! Art thou not the Leader of the armies of the Lord? Of the grey snakes upon whose heads are triple crowns of spiritual light, and whose tongues are triply forked with judgment? Whose bodies are like the Sun in his strength, whose scales are of the adamant of Vulcan, who are slim and splendid and virginal as they rush flaming over the lashed sea? Come unto me, Kamael, thou archangel almighty, and send to me Graphiel that great intelligence of thine, that he may answer my behest. O moon, that sailest on the shoulders of the Sun! Whose warrior body is like white-hot steel! Whose virgin limbs and golden wings move like ripe corn at the caress of the thunderstorm! {131} O thou that wieldest the Sword and Balances of Power! Graphiel! Graphiel! Graphiel! Graphiel! Graphiel! Graphiel! Come unto us, thou bright intelligence of Mars, and answer my behest. In the name of Kamael thy Lord, I say: Compel the spirit Bartzabel that is under thy dominion to manifest within this triangle of Art, within the Ruach of the material basis that is consecrated to this work, within this pure and beautiful human form that is prepared for his habitation. And now I see thee, O thou dull deceitful head, that I shall fill with wit and truth; thou proud heart that I shall humble and make pure; thou cold body that I shall fashion into a living flame of amethyst. Thou sexless being of whom I shall make the perfect child of Hermes and Aphrodite that is God; thou dull ox that I shall turn into the Bull of Earth; thou house of idleness wherein I shall set up the Throne of Justice. Bartzabel! Bartzabel! Bartzabel! Bartzabel! Bartzabel! Bartzabel! Come forth, and manifest beyond the bars! Forth from the palace of seraphic stars! Come, O thou Bartzabel, the sprite of Mars! Come: I unbind thee from the chains of Hell, Come: I enclose thee in the invisible To be my slave, thou spirit Bartzabel! {132} By the spear, the sword, the spell, Come unto me, Bartzabel! By the word that openeth Hell! Come unto me, Bartzabel! By the power o' th' panther's pell, Come unto me, Bartzabel! By the circling citadel, Come unto me, Bartzabel! By this mind of miracle Come unto me, Bartzabel! By Ra Hoor Khuit, by Elohim Gibor, By Kamael and the Seraphim; by Hoor, Khem, and Mentu, and all the Gods of War, Ares and Mars and Hachiman and Thor, And by thy master, Graphiel, Come unto me, Bartzabel! And if he come not, let the Chief Magus and his assistants humble themselves mightily, and repeat these holy invocations, even unto thrice. And if still he be obdurate and disobedient unto the Words of Power, the Chief Magus shall assume the dignity of Khem, and conjure him and curse him as his own ingenium shall direct. Yet, if the rites have been duly performed, he will assuredly have manifested before this. And these will probably be the tokens of the manifestation: A ruddy light will play about the form of the Material Basis; or even a dark lustre beetle-brown or black. And the Face thereof will be suffused with blood, {133} and the Heart beat violently, and its words will be swift and thick and violent. The voice thereof must be entirely changed; it may grow deep and hoarse, or at least strained and jerky, and it may be that it will suffer the torment of burning. On the appearance of the Spirit much incense is thrown upon the Censer. THE CHARGE Hail, Bartzabel, and welcome, thou mighty spirit of Madim! Welcome unto us art thou who comest in the name of Graphiel and of Kamael and of Elohim Gibor, and of Ra Hoor Khuit the Lord of the Aeon. I charge thee to answer and obey. 1. How shall the Kingdom of the Aeon be established? 2. Will success attend that particular design of which it is not lawful to speak? 3. We shall obtain power to aid the weak; in what manner? Give us a sign. 4. Give us a sign of the Courage and Energy of Mars that floweth and shall ever flow through us by virtue of this ceremony. 5. Lastly, O thou Spirit Bartzabel, lay thine hands upon this sword, whose point I then place upon thine head, and swear faith and obedience unto me by Ra Hoor Khuit, the Lord of the Aeon, saying after me: {134} I, Bartzabel, the Spirit of Mars, do swear by the glory of Him that is Lord of the Aeon, and by the Might of Elohim Gibor, and by the Fear of Kamael and the Hosts of Fiery Serpents, and by Graphiel whose hand is heavy upon me --- before which names I tremble every day --- that I will punctually fulfil this present charge, not perverting the sense thereof, but obedient to the inmost thought of the Chief Magus; that I will be ever the willing servant of thee and thy companions, a spirit of Truth in Force a nd Fire; that in departing I will do no hurt to any person or thing, and in particular that the Material Basis shall not suffer through this ceremony, but shall be purified and fortified thereby; that I will be at peace with thee and seek never to injure thee, but to defend thee against all thine enemies, and to work eternally for thy welfare; finally, that I will be ready to come unto thee to serve thee whensoever I am invoked and called forth, whether by a word, or a will, or by this great and potent conj uration of Magick Art. A M E N. THE BENEDICTION Let Ra Hoor Khuit bless thee! Let His light shine perpetually in thy darkness! Let His force eternally brace up thy weakness! Let His blessing be upon thee for ever and for ever! Yea, verily and Amen, let His blessing be upon thee for ever and ever! {135} THE LICENSE TO DEPART Now, O thou Spirit Bartzabel, since thou didst come at my behest and swear faith and fealty unto me by the Lord of the Aeon, I license thee to depart in peace with the blessing of the Lord until such time as I have need of thee. THE CLOSING Let the Chief Magus perform the Banishing Ritual of Mars, give great Thanks unto the Lord of the Aeon, and perform the Lesser Rituals of the Pentagram and Hexagram. {136} THE TESTAMENT OF MAGDALEN BLAIR "To" "My Mother" THE TESTAMENT OF MAGDALEN BLAIR Part I I IN my third term at Newnham I was already Professor Blair's favourite pupil. Later, he wasted a great deal of time praising my slight figure and my piquant face, with its big round grey eyes and their long black lashes; but the first attraction was my singular gift. Few men, and, I believe, no other women, could approach me in one of the most priceless qualifications for scientific study, the faculty of apprehending minute differences. My memory was poor, extraordinarily so; I had the utmost trouble t o enter Cambridge at all. But I could adjust a micrometer better than either students or professor, and read a vernier with an accuracy to which none of them could even aspire. To this I added a faculty of subconscious calculation which was really uncanny. If I were engaged in keeping a solution between (say) 70 Degree and 80 Degrees I had no need to watch the thermometer. Automatically I became aware that the mercury was close to the limit, and would go over from my other work and adjust it without a t hought. More remarkable still, if any object were placed on my {139} bench without my knowledge and then removed, I could, if asked within a few minutes, describe the object roughly, especially distinguishing the shape of its base and the degree of its opacity to heat and light. From these data I could make a pretty good guess at what the object was. This faculty of mine was repeatedly tested, and always with success.Extreme sensitiveness to minute degrees of heat was its obvious cause. I was also a singularly good thought-reader, even at this time. The other girls feared me absolutely. They need not have done so; I had neither ambition nor energy to make use of any of my powers. Even now, when I bring to mankind this message of a doom so appalling that at the age of twenty-four I am a shrivelled, blasted, withered wreck, I am supremely weary, supremely indifferent. I have the heart of a child and the consciousness of Satan, the lethargy of I know not what disease; and yet, thank --- oh! there can be no God! --- the resolution to warn mankind to follow my example, and then to explode a dynamite cartridge in my mouth. II In my third year at Newnham I spend four hours of every day at Professor Blair's house. All other work was neglected, gone through mechanically, if at all. This came about gradually, as the result of an accident. The chemical laboratory has two rooms, one small and capable of being darkened. On this occasion (the May term of my second year) this room was in use. It was {140} the first week of June, and extremely fine. The door was shut. Within was a girl, alone, experimenting with the galvanometer. I was absorbed in my own work. Quite without warning I looked up. "Quick!" said I, "Gladys is going to faint." Every one in the room stared at me. I took a dozen steps towards the door, when the fall of a heavy body sent the laboratory into hysterics. It was only the heat and confined atmosphere, and Gladys should not have come to work that day at all, but she was easily revived, and then the demonstrator acquiesced in the anarchy that followed. "How did she know?" was the universal query; for that I knew was evident. Ada Brown ("Athanasia contra mundum") pooh-poohed the whole affair; Margaret Letchmere thought I must have heard something, perhaps a cry inaudible to the others, owing to their occupied attention; Doris Leslie spoke of second sight, a nd Amy Gore of "Sympathy." All the theories, taken together, went round the clock of conjecture. Professor Blair came in at the most excited part of the discussion, calmed the room in two minutes, elicited the facts in five, and took me off to dine with him. "I believe it's this human thermopile affair of yours," he said. "Do you mind if we try a few parlour tricks after dinner?" His aunt, who kept house for him,protested in vain, and was appointed Grand Superintendent in Ordinary of my five senses. My hearing was first tested, and found normal, or thereabouts. I was then blindfolded, and the aunt (by excess of precaution) stationed between me and the Professor. I found that I could describe even small movements that he made, so {141} long as he was between me and the western window, not at all when he moved round to the other quarters. This is in conformity with the "Thermopile" theory; it was contradicted completely on other occasions. The results (in short) were very remarkable and very puzzl ing; we wasted two precious hours in futile theorizing. In the event the aunt (cowed by a formidable frown) invited me to spend the Long Vacation in Cornwall. During these months the Professor and I assiduously worked to discover exactly the nature and limit of my powers. The result, in a sense, was "nil." For one thing, these powers kept on "breaking out in a new place." I seemed to do all I did by perception of minute differences; but then it seemed as if I had all sorts of different apparatus. "One down, t'other come on," said Professor Blair. Those who have never made scientific experiments cannot conceive how numerous and subtle are the sources of error, even in the simplest matters. In so obscure and novel a field of research no result is trustworthy until it has been verified a thousand times. In our field we discovered no constants, all variables. Although we had hundreds of facts any one of which seemed capable of overthrowing all accepted theories of the means of communication between mind and mind, we had nothing, absolutely nothing, which we could use as the basis of a new theory. It is naturally impossible to give even an outline of the course of our research. Twenty-eight closely written notebooks referring to this first period are at the disposal of my executors. {142} III In the middle of the day, in my third year, my father was dangerously ill. I bicycled over to Peterborough at once, never thinking of my work. (My father is a canon of Peterborough Cathedral.) On the third day I received a telegram from Professor Blair, "Will you be my wife?" I had never realized myself as a woman, or him as a man, till that moment, and in that moment I knew that I loved him and had always loved him. It was a case of what one might call "Love at first absence." My father recovered rapidly; I returned to Cambridge; we were married during the May week, and went immediately to Switzerland. I beg to be spared any recital of so sacred a period of my life: but I must record one fact. We were sitting in a garden by Lago Maggiore after a delightful tramp from Chamounix over the Col du Geant to Courmayeur, and thence to Aosta, and so by degrees to Pallanza. Arthur rose, apparently struck by some idea, and began to walk up and down the terrace. "I was quite suddenly impelled to turn my head to assure myself of his presence." This may seem nothing to you who read, unless you have true imagination. But think of yourself talking to a friend in full light, and suddenly leaning forward to touch him. "Arthur!" I cried, "Arthur!" The distress in my tone brought him running to my side. "What is it, Magdalen?" he cried, anxiety in every word. I closed my eyes. "Make gestures!" said I. (He was directly between me and the sun.) He obeyed, wondering. {143} "You are ------ your are" ------ I stammered ------ "no! I don't know what you are doing. I am blind!" He sawed his arm up and down. Useless; I had become absolutely insensitive. We repeated a dozen experiments that night. All failed. We concealed our disappointment, and it did not cloud our love. The sympathy between us grew even subtler and stronger, but only as it grows between all men and women who love with their whole hearts, and love unselfishly. IV We returned to Cambridge in October, and Arthur threw himself vigorously into the new year's work. Then I fell ill, and the hope we had indulged was disappointed. Worse, the course of the illness revealed a condition which demanded the most complete series of operations which a woman can endure. Not only the past hope, but all future hope, was annihilated. It was during my convalescence that the most remarkable incident of my life took place. I was in great pain one afternoon, and wished to see the doctor. The nurse went to the study to telephone for him. "Nurse!" I said, as she returned, "don't lie to me. He's not gone to Royston; he's got cancer, and is too upset to come." "Whatever next?" said the nurse. "It's right he can't come, and I was going to tell you he had gone to Royston; but I never heard nothing about no cancer." This was true; she had not been told. But the next morning we heard that my "intuition" was correct. {144} As soon as I was well enough, we began our experiments again. My powers had returned, and in triple force. Arthur explained my "intuition" as follows: "The doctor (when you last saw him) did not know consciously that he had cancer; but subconsciously Nature gave warning. You read this subconsciously, and it sprang into your consciousness when you read on the nurse's face that he was ill." This, farfetched as it may seem, at least avoids the shallow theories about "telepathy." From this time my powers constantly increased. I could read my husband's thoughts from imperceptible movements of his face as easily as a trained deaf-mute can sometimes read the speech of a distant man from the movements of his lips. Gradually as we worked, day by day, I found my grasp of detail ever fuller. It is not only that I could read emotions; I could tell whether he was thinking 3465822 or 3456822. In the year following my illness we made 436 experiments of this kind, each extending over several hours; in all 9363, with only 122 failures, and these all, without exception, partial. The year following, our experiments were extended to a reading of his dreams. In this I proved equally successful. My practice was to leave the room before he woke, write down the dream that he had dreamt, and await him at the breakfast-table, where he would compare his record with mine. Invariably they were identical, with this exception, that my record was always much fuller than his. He would nearly always, however, purport to remember the details supplied by me; but this detail has (I think) no real scientific value. But what does it all matter, when I think of the horror impending? {145} V That my only means of discovering Arthur's thought was by muscle-reading became more than doubtful during the third year of our marriage. We practised "telepahty" unashamed. We excluded the "muscle-reader" and the "super-auditor" and the "human thermopile" by elaborate precautions; yet still I was able to read every thought of his mind. On our holiday in North Wales at Easter one year we separated for a week, at the end of that week he to be on the leeward, I on the windward side of Tryfan, at an appo inted hour, he there to open and read to himself a sealed packet given him by "some stranger met at Pen-y-Pass during the week." The experiment was entirely successful; I reproduced every word of the document. If the "telepathy" is to be vitiated, it is on the theory that I had previously met the "stranger" and read from him what he would write in such circumstances! Surely direct communication of mind with mind is an easier theory! Had I known in what all this was to culminate, I suppose I should have gone mad. Thrice fortunate that I can warn humanity of what awaits each one. The greatest benefactor of his race will be he who discovers and explosive indefinitely swifter and more devastating than dynamite. If I could only trust myself to prepare Chloride of Nitrogen in sufficient quantity. ... VI Arthur became listless and indifferent. The perfection of love that had been our marriage failed without warning, and yet by imperceptible gradations. {146} My awakening to the fact was, however, altogether sudden. It was one summer evening; we were paddling on the Cam. One of Arthur's pupils, also in a Canadian canoe, challenged us to race. At Magdalen Bridge we were a length ahead --- suddenly I heard my husband's thought. It was the most hideous and horrible laugh that it is possible to conceive. No devil could laugh so. I screamed, and dropped my paddle. Both the men thought me ill. I assured myself that it was not the laugh of some townee on th e bridge, distorted by my over-sensitive organization. I said no more; Arthur looked grave. At night he asked abruptly after a long period of brooding, "Was that my thought?" I could only stammer that I did not know. Incidentally he complained of fatigue, and the listlessness, which before had seemed nothing to me, assumed a ghastly shape. There was something in him that was not he! The indifference had appeared transitory; I now became aware of it as constant and increasing. I was at this time twent y-three years old. You wonder that I write with such serious attitude of mind. I sometimes think that I have never had any thoughts of my own; that I have always been reading the thoughts of another, or perhaps of Nature. I seem only to have been a woman in those first few months of marriage. VII The six months following held for me nothing out of the ordinary, save that six or seven times I had dreams, vivid and terrible. Arthur had no share in these; yet I knew, I cannot say how, that they were his dreams and not mine; or rather {147} that they were in his subconscious waking self, for one occurred in the afternoon, when he was out shooting, and not in the least asleep. The last of them occurred towards the end of the October term. He was lecturing as usual, I was at home, lethargic after a too heavy breakfast following a wakeful night. I saw suddenly a picture of the lecture-room, enormously greater than in reality, so that it filled all space; and in the rostrum, bulging over it in all directions, was a vast, deadly pale devil with a face which was a blasphemy on Arthur's. The evil joy of it was indescribable. So wan and bloated, its lips so loose and bloodless; f old after fold of its belly flopping over the rostrum and pushing the students out of the hall, it leered unspeakably. Then dribbled from its mouth these words: "Ladies and gentlemen, the course is finished. You may go home." I cannot hope even to suggest the wickedness and filth of these simple expressions. Then, raising its voice to a grating scream, it yelled: "White of egg! White of egg! White of egg!" again and again for twenty minutes. The effect on me was shocking. It was as if I had a vision of Hell. Arthur found me in a very hysterical condition, but soon soothed me. "Do you know," he said at dinner, "I believe I have got a devilish bad chill?" It was the first time I had known him to complain of his health. In six years he had not had as much as a headache. I told him my "dream" when we were in bed, and he seemed unusually grave, as if he understood where I had failed in its interpretation. In the morning he was feverish; I made him stay in bed and sent for the doctor. The same afternoon I {148} learnt that Arthur was seriously ill, had been ill, indeed, for months. The doctor called it Bright's disease. VIII I said "the last of the dreams." For the next year we travelled, and tried various treatments. My powers remained excellent, but I received none of the subconscious horrors. With few fluctuations, he grew steadily worse; daily he became more listless, more indifferent, more depressed. Our experiments were necessarily curtailed. Only one problem exercised him, the problem of his personality. He began to wonder "who he was." I do not mean that he suffered from delusions. I mean that the problem of the true Ego took hold of his imagination. One perfect summer night at Contrexeville he was feeling much better; the symptoms had (temporarily) disappeared almost entirely under the treatment of a very skilful doctor at that Spa, a Dr. Barbezieux, a most kind and thoughtful man. "I am going to try," said Arthur, "to penetrate myself. Am I an animal, and is the world without a purpose? Or am I a soul in a body? Or am I, one and indivisible in some incredible sense, a spark of the infinite light of God? I am going to think inwards: I shall possibly go into some form of trance, unintelligible to myself. You may be able to interpret it." The experiment had lasted about half an hour when he sat up gasping with effort. "I have seen nothing, heard nothing," I said. "Not one thought has passed from you to me." {149} But at that very moment what had been in his mind flashed into mine. "It is a blind abyss," I told him, "and there hangs in it a vulture vaster than the whole starry system." "Yes," he said, "that was it. But that was not all. I could not get beyond it. I shall try again." He tried. Again I was cut off from his thought, although his face was twitching so that one might have said that any one might read his mind. "I have been looking in the wrong place," said he suddenly, but very quietly and without moving. "The thing I want lies at the base of the spine." This time I saw. In a blue heaven was coiled an infinite snake of gold and green, with four eyes of fire, black fire and red, that darted rays in every direction; held within its coils was a great multitude of laughing children. And even as I looked, all this was blotted out. Crawling rivers of blood spread over the heaven, of blood purulent with nameless forms --- mangy dogs with their bowels dragging behind them; creatures half elephant, half beetle; things that were but a ghastly bloodshot eye, set about with leathery tentacles; women whose skins heaved and bubbled like boiling sulphur, giving off clouds that condensed into a thousand other shapes, more hideous than their mother; these were the least of the denizens of these hateful rivers. The most were things impossible to name or to describe. I was brought back from the vision by the stertorous and strangling breath of Arthur, who had been seized with a convulsion. From this he never really rallied. The dim sight grew {150} dimmer, the speech slower and thicker, the headaches more persistent and acute. Torpor succeeded to his old splendid energy and activity; his days became continual lethargy ever deepening towards coma. Convulsions now and then alarmed me for his immediate danger. Sometimes his breath came hard and hissing like a snake in anger; towards the end it assumed the Cheyne-Stokes type in bursts of ever-increasing duration and severity. In all this, however, he was still himself; the horror that was and yet was not himself did not peer from behind the veil "So long as I am consciously myself," he said in one of his rare fits of brightness, "I can communicate to you what I am consciously thinking; as soon as this conscious ego is absorbed, you get the subconscious thought which I fear --- oh how I fear! --- is the greater and truer part of me. You have brought unguessed explanations from the world of sleep; you are the one woman in the world --- perhaps there may never be another --- who has such an opportunity to study the phenomena of death." He charged me earnestly to suppress my grief, to concentrate wholly on the thoughts that passed through his mind when he could no longer express them, and also on those of his subconsciousness when coma inhibited consciousness. It is this experiment that I now force myself to narrate. The prologue has been long; it has been necessary to put the facts before mankind in a simple way so that they may seize the opportunity of the proper kind of suicide. I beg my readers most earnestly not to doubt my statements: the notes {151} of our experiments, left in my will to the greatest thinker now living, Professor von Buhle, will make clear the truth of my relation, and the great and terrible necessity of immediate, drastic, action. Part II I THE stunning physical fact of my husband's illness was the immense prostration. So strong a body, as too often the convulsions gave proof; such inertia with it! He would lie all day like a log; then without warning or apparent cause the convulsions would begin. Arthur's steady scientific brain stood it well; it was only two days before his death that delirium began. I was not with him; worn out as I was, and yet utterly unable to sleep, the doctor had insisted on my taking a long motor drive. In the fresh air I slumbered. I awoke to hear an unfamiliar voice saying in my ear, "Now for the fun of the fair!" There was no one there. Quick on its heels followed my husband's voice as I had long since known and loved it, clear, strong, resonant, measured: "Get this down right; it is very important. I am passing into the power of the subconsciousness. I may not be able to speak to you again. But I am here; I am not to be touched by all that I may suffer; I can always think; you can always read my ------ " The voice broke off sharply to inquire, "But will it ever end?" as if some one had spoken to it. And then I heard the laugh. The laugh that I had heard by Magdalen Bridge was heavenly music beside that! The face of Calvin (even) as {152} he gloated over the burning of Servetus would have turned pitiful had he heard it, so perfectly did it express quintessence of damnation. Now then my husband's thought seemed to have changed places with the other. It was below, within, withdrawn. I said to myself, "He is dead!" Then came Arthur's thought, "I had better pretend to be mad. It will save her, perhaps; and it will be a change. I shall pretend I have killed her with an axe. Damn it! I hope she is not listening>" I was now thoroughly awake, and told the drive to get home quickly. "I hope she is killed in the motor; I hope she is smashed into a million pieces. O God! hea r my one prayer! let an Anarchist throw a bomb and smash Magdalen into a million pieces! especially the brain! and the brain first. O God! my first and last prayer: smash Magdalen into a million pieces!" The horror of this thought was my conviction --- then and now --- that it represented perfect sanity and coherence of thought. For I dreaded utterly to think what such words might imply. At the door of the sick-room I was met by the male nurse, who asked me not to enter. Uncontrollably, I asked, "Is he dead?" and though Arthur lay absolutely senseless on the bed I read the answering thought "Dead!" silently pronounced in such tones of mockery, horror, cynicism and despair as I never thought to hear. There was a something or somebody who suffered infinitely, and yet who gloated infinitely upon that very suffering. And that something was a veil between me and Arthur. The hissing breath recommenced; Arthur seem to be {153} trying to express himself --- the self I knew. He managed to articulate feebly, "Is that the police? Let me get out of the house! The police are coming for me. I killed Magdalen with an axe." The symptoms of delirium began to appear. "I killed Magdalen" he muttered a dozen times, than changing to "Magdalen with" again and again; the voice low, slow, thick, yet reiterated. Then suddenly, quite clear and loud, attempting to rise in the bed: "I smashed Magdalen into a million pieces with an axe." After a moment's pause: "a million is not very many now-a-days." From this --- which I now see to have been the speech of a sane Arthur --- he dropped again into delirium. "A million pieces," "a cool million," "a million million million million million million" and so on: then abruptly: "Fanny's dog's dead." I cannot explain the last sentence to my readers; I may, however, remark that it meant everything to me. I burst into tears. At that moment I caught Arthur's thought, "You ought to be busy with the note-book, not crying." I resolutely dried my eyes, took courage, and began to write. II The doctor came in at this moment and begged me to go and rest. "You are only distressing yourself, Mrs. Blair," he said; "and needlessly, for he is absolutely unconscious and suffers nothing." A pause. "My God! why do you look at me like that?" he exclaimed, frightened out of his wits. I think my face had caught something of that devil's, something of that sneer, that loathing, that mire of contempt and stark despair. {154} I sank back into myself, ashamed already that mere knowledge --- and such mean vile knowledge --- should so puff one up with hideous pride. No wonder Satan fell! I began to understand all the old legends, and far more ------ I told Doctor Kershaw that I was carrying out Arthur's last wishes. He raised no further opposition; but I saw him sign to the male nurse to keep an eye on me. The sick man's finger beckoned us. He could not speak; he traced circles on the counterpane. The doctor (with characteristic intelligence) having counted the circles, nodded; and said: "Yes, it is nearly seven o'clock. Time for your medicine, eh?" "No," I explained, "he means that he is in the seventh circle of Dante's Hell." At that instant he entered on a period of noisy delirium. Wild and prolonged howls burst from his throat; he was being chewed unceasingly by "Dis"; each howl signalled the meeting of the monster's teeth. I explained this to the doctor. "No," said he, "he is perfectly unconscious." "Well," said I, "he will howl about eighty times more. Doctor Kershaw looked at me curiously, but began to count. My calculation was correct. He turned to me, "Are you a woman?" "No," said I, "I am my husband's colleague." "I think it is suggestion. You have hypnotized him?" "Never: but I can read his thoughts." "Yes, I remember now; I read a very remarkable paper in "Mind" two years ago." "That was child's play. But let me go on with my work." {155} He gave some final instructions to the nurse, and went out. The suffering of Arthur was at this time unspeakable. Chewed as he was into mere pulp that passed over the tongue of "Dis," each bleeding fragment kept its own identity and his. The papillae of the tongue were serpents, and each one gnashed its poisoned teeth upon that fodder. And yet, though the sensorium of Arthur was absolutely unimpaired, indeed hyperaesthetic, his consciousness of pain seemed to depend upon the opening of the mouth. As it closed in mastication, oblivion fell upon him like a thunderbolt. A merciful oblivion? Oh! what a master stroke of cruelty! Again and again he woke from nothing to a hell of agony, of pure ecstasy of agony, until he understood that this would continue for all his life; the alternation was but systole and diastole, the throb of his en venomed pulse, the reflection in consciousness of his blood-beat. I became conscious of his intense longing for death to end the torture. The blood circulated ever slower and more painfully; I could feel him hoping for the end. This dreadful rose-dawn suddenly greyed and sickened with doubt. Hope sank to its nadir; fear rose like a dragon, with leaden wings. Suppose, thought he, that after all death does not end me! I cannot express this conception. It is not that the heart sank, it had nowhither to sink; it knew itself immortal, and immortal in a realm of unimagined pain and terror, unlighted by one glimpse of any other light than that pale glare of hate and of pestilence. This thought took shape in these words: I AM THAT I AM. {156} One cannot say that the blasphemy added to the horror; rather it was the essence of the horror. It was the gnashing of the teeth of a damned soul. III The demon-shape, which I now clearly recognized as that which had figured in my last "dream" at Cambridge, seemed to gulp. At that instant a convulsion shook the dying man and a coughing eructation took the "demon." Instantly the whole theory dawned on me, that this "demon" was an imaginary personification of the disease. Now at once I understood demonology, from Bodin and Weirus to the moderns, without a flaw. But was it imaginary or was it real? Real enough to swallow up the "sane" thought! At that instant the old Arthur reappeared. "I am not the monster! I am Arthur Blair, of Fettes and Trinity. I have passed through a paroxysm." The sick man stirred feebly. A portion of his brain had shaken off the poison for the moment, and was working furiously against time. "I am going to die. "The consolation of death is Religion. "There is no use for Religion in life. "How many atheists have I not known sign the articles the sake of fellowships and livings! Religion in life is either an amusement and a soporific or a sham and a swindle. "I was brought up a Presbyterian "How easily I drifted into the English Church! {157} "And now where is God? "Where is the Lamb of God? "Where is the Saviour? "Where is the Comforter? "Why was I not saved from that devil? "Is he going to eat me again? To absorb me into him? O fate inconceivably hideous! It is quite clear to me --- I hope you've got it down, Magdalen! --- that the demon is made of all those that have died of Bright's disease. There must be different ones for each disease. I thought I once caught sight of a coughing bog of bloody slime. "Let me pray." A frenzied appeal to the Creator followed. Sincere as it was, it would read like irreverence in print. And then there came the cold-drawn horror of stark blasphemy against this God --- who would not answer. Followed the bleak black agony of the conviction --- the absolute certitude --- "There is no God!" combined with a wave of frenzied wrath against the people who had so glibly assured him that there was, an almost maniac hope that they would suffer more than he, if it were possible. (Poor Arthur! He had not yet brushed the bloom off Suffering's grape; he was to drink its fiercest distillation to the dregs.) "No!" thought he, "perhaps I lack their 'faith.' "Perhaps if I could really persuade myself of God and Christ ------ Perhaps if I could deceive myself, could make believe ------" Such a thought is to surrender one's honesty, to abdicate one's reason. It marked the final futile struggle of his will. {158} The demon caught and crunched him, and the noisy delirium began anew. My flesh and blood rebelled. Taken with a deathly vomit, I rushed from the room, and resolutely, for a whole hour, diverted my sensorium from thought. I had always found that the slightest trace of tobacco smoke in a room greatly disturbed my power. On this occasion I puffed cigarette after cigarette with excellent effect. I knew nothing of what had been going on. IV Arthur, stung by the venomous chyle, was tossing in that vast arched belly, which resembled the dome of hell, churned in its bubbling slime. I felt that he was not only disintegrated mechanically, but chemically, that his being was loosened more and more into its parts, that these were being absorbed into new and hateful things, but that (worst of all) Arthur stood immune from all, behind it, unimpaired, memory and reason ever more acute as ever new and ghastlier experience informed them. It seemed to me as if some mystic state were super-added to the torment; for while he was not, emphatically not, this tortured mass of consciousness, yet that was he. There are always at least two of us! The one who feels and the one who knows are not radically one person. This double personality is enormously accentuated at death. Another point was that the time-sense, which with men is usually so reliable --- especially in my own case --- was decidedly deranged, if not abrogated altogether. We all judge of the lapse of time in relation to our daily {159} habits or some similar standard. The conviction of immortality must naturally destroy all values for this sense. If I am immortal, what is the difference between a long time and a short time? A thousand years and a day are obviously the same thing from the point of view of "for ever." There is a subconscious clock in us, a clock wound up by the experience of the race to go for seventy years or so. Five minutes is a very long time to us if we are waiting for an omnibus, an age if we are waiting for a lover, nothing at all if we are pleasantly engaged or sleeping.<> We think of seven years as a long time in connection with penal servitude; as a negligibly small period in dealing with geology. But, given immortality, the age of the stellar system itself is nothing. This conviction had not fully impregnated the consciousness of Arthur; it hung over him like a threat, while the intensification of that consciousness, its liberation from the sense of time natural to life, caused each act of the demon to appear of vast duration, although the intervals between the howls of the body on the bed were very short. Each pang of torture or suspense was born, rose to its crest, and died to be reborn again through what seemed countless aeons. Still more was this the case in the process of his assimilation {160} by the "demon." The coma of the dying man was a phenomenon altogether out of Time. The conditions of "digestion" were new to Arthur, he had no reason to suppose, no data from which to calculate the distance of, an end. It is impossible to do more than sketch this process; as he was absorbed, so did his consciousness expand into that of the "demon"; he became one with all its hunger and corruption. Yet always did he suffer as himself in his own person the tearing asunder of his finest molecules; and this was confirmed by a most filthy humiliation of that part of him that was rejected. I shall not attempt to describe the final process; suffice it that the demoniac consciousness drew away; he was but the excrement of the demon, and as that excrement he was flung filthily further into the abyss of blackness and of night whose name is death. I rose with ashen cheeks. I stammered: "He is dead." The male nurse bent over the body. "Yes!" he echoed, "he is dead." And it seemed as if the whole Universe gathered itself into one ghastly laugh of hate and horror, "Dead!" V I resumed my seat. I felt that I must know that all was well, that death had ended all. Woe to humanity! The consciousness of Arthur was more alive than ever. It was the black fear of falling, a dumb ecstasy of changeless fear. There were no waves upon that sea of shame, no troubling of those accursed waters by any thought. There was no hope of any {161} ground to that abyss, no thought that it might stop. So tireless was that fall that even acceleration was absent; it was constant and level as th e fall of a star. There was not even a feeling of pace; infinitely fast as it must be, judging from the peculiar dread which it inspired, it was yet infinitely slow, having regard to the infinitude of the abyss. I took measures not to be disturbed by the duties that men --- oh how foolishly! --- pay to the dead: and I took refuge in a cigarette. It was now for the first time, strangely enough, that I began to consider the possibility of helping him. I analysed the position. It must be his thought, or I could not read it. I had no reason to conjecture that any other thoughts could reach me. He must be alive in the true sense of the word; it was he and not another that was the prey of this fear ineffable. Of this fear it was evident that there must be a physical basis in the constitution of his brain and body. All the other phenomena had been shown to correspond exactly with a physical condition; it was the reflection in a consciousness from whic h human limitation had fallen away of things actually taking place in the body. It was a false interpretation perhaps; but it was his interpretation; and it was that which caused suffering so beyond all that poets have ever dreamt of the infernal. I am ashamed to say that my first thought was of the Catholic Church and its masses for the repose of the dead. I went to the Cathedral, revolving as I went all that had ever been said --- the superstitions of a hundred savage tribes. At bottom I could find no difference between their barbarous rites and those of Christianity. {162} However that might be, I was baffled. The priests refused to pray for the soul of a heretic. I hurried back to the house, resumed my vigil. There was no change, except a deepening of the fear, an intensification of the loneliness, a more utter absorption in the shame. I could but hope that in the ultimate stagnation of all vital forces, death would become final, hell merged into annihilation. This started a train of thought which ended in a determination to hasten the process. I thought of blowing out the brains, remembered that I had no means of doing so. I thought of freezing the body, imagined a story for the nurse, reflected that no cold could excite in his soul aught icier than that illimitable void of black. I thought of telling the doctor that he had wished to bequeath his body to the surgeons, that he had been afraid of being buried alive, anything that might induce him to remove the brain. At that moment I looked into the mirror, I saw that I must not speak. My hair was white, my face drawn, my eyes wild and bloodshot. In utter helplessness and misery I flung myself on the couch in the study, and puffed greedily at cigarettes. The relief was so immense that my sense of loyalty and duty had a hard fight to get me to resume the task. The mingling of horror, curiosity, and excitement must have aided. I threw away my fifth cigarette, and returned to the death chamber. VI Before I had sat at the table ten minutes a change burst out with startling suddenness. At one point in the void the {163} blackness gathered, concentrated, sprang into an evil flame that gushed aimlessly forth from nowhere to nowhere. This was accompanied by the most noxious stench. It was gone before I could realize it. As lightning precedes thunder, it was followed by a hideous clamour that I can only describe as the cry of a machine in pain. This recurred constantly for an hour and five minutes, then ceased as suddenly as it began. Arthur still fell. It was succeeded after the lapse of five hours by another paroxysm of the same kind, but fiercer and more continuous. Another silence followed, age upon age of fear and loneliness and shame. About midnight there appeared a grey ocean of bowels below the falling soul. This ocean seemed to be limitless. It fell headlong into it, and the splash awakened it to a new consciousness of things. This sea, though infinitely cold, was boiling like tubercles. Itself a more or less homogeneous slime, the stench of which is beyond all human conception (human language is singularly deficient in words that describe smell and taste; we always refer our sensations to things generally known)<> it constantly budded into greenish boils with angry red craters, whose {164} jagged edges were of a livid white; and from these issued pus formed of all things known of man --- each one distorted, degraded, blasphemed. Things innocent, things happy, things holy! every one unspeakably defiled, loathsome, sickening! During the vigil of the day following I recognized one group. I saw Italy. First the Italy of the map, a booted leg. But this leg changed rapidly through myriad phases. It was in turn the leg of every beast and bird, and in every case each leg was suffering with all diseases from leprosy and elephantiasis to scrofula and syphilis. There was also the consciousness that this was inalienably and for ever p art of Arthur. Then Italy itself, in every detail foul. Then I myself, seen as every woman that has ever been, each one with every disease and torture that Nature and man have plotted in their hellish brains, each ended with a death, a death like Arthur's, whose infinite pangs were added to his own, recognized and accepted as his own. The same with our child that never was. All children of all nations, incredibly aborted, deformed, tortured, torn in pieces, abused by every foulness that the imagination of an arch-devil could devise. And so for every thought. I realized that the putrefactive changes in the dead man's brain were setting in motion every memory of his, and smearing them with hell's own paint. I timed one thought: despite its myriad million details, each one clear, vivid and prolonged, it occupied but three seconds of earthly time. I considered the incalculable array of the thoughts in his {165} well-furnished mind; I saw that thousands of year would not exhaust them. But, perhaps, when the brain was destroyed beyond recognition of its component parts ------ We have always casually assumed that consciousness depends upon a proper flow of blood in the vessels of the brain; we have never stopped to think whether the records might not be excited in some other manner. And yet we know how tumour of the brain begets hallucinations. Consciousness works strangely; the least disturbance of the blood supply, and it goes out like a candle, or else takes monstrous forms. Here was the overwhelming truth; "in death man lives again, and lives for ever." Yet we might have thought of it; the phantasmagoria of life which throng the mind of a drowning man might have suggested something of the sort to any man with a sympathetic and active imagination. Worse even than the thoughts themselves was the apprehension of the thoughts ere they arose. Carbuncles, boils, ulcers, cancers, there is no equivalent for these pustules of the bowels of hell, into whose seething convolutions Arthur sank deeper, ever deeper. The magnitude of this experience is not to be apprehended by the human mind as we know it. I was convinced that an end must come, for me, with the cremation of the body. I was infinitely glad that he had directed this to be done. But for him, end and beginning seemed to have no meaning. Through it all I seemed to hear the real Arthur's thought. "Though all this is I, yet it is only an accident of me; I stand behind it all, immune, eternal." {166} It must not be supposed that this in any way detracted from the intensity of the suffering. Rather it added to it. To be loathsome is less than to be linked to loathsomeness. To plunge into impurity is to become deadened to disgust. But to do so and yet to remain pure --- every vileness adds a pang. Think of Madonna imprisoned in the body of a prostitute, and compelled to acknowledge "This is I," while never losing her abhorrence. Not only immured in hell, but compelled to partake of its sacraments ; not only high priest at its agapae, but begetter and manifestor of its cult; a Christ nauseated at the kiss of Judas, and yet aware that the treachery was his own. VII As the putrefaction of the brain advanced, the bursting of the pustules occasionally overlapped, with the result that the confusion and exaggeration of madness with all its poignancy was superadded to the the simpler hell. One might have thought that any confusion would have been a welcome relief to a lucidity so appalling; but this was not so. The torture was infused with a shattering sense of alarm. The images rose up threatening, disappeared only by blasting themselves into the pultaceous coprolite which was, as it were, the main body of the army which composed Arthur. Deeper and deeper as he dropped the phenomena grew constantly in every sense. Now they were a jungle in which the obscurity and terror of the whole gradually overshadowed even the abhorrence due to every part. The madness of the living is a thing so abominable and {167} fearful as to chill every human heart with horror; it is less than nothing in comparison with the madness of the dead! A further complication now arose in the destruction irrevocable and complete of that compensating mechanism of the brain, which is the basis of the sense of time. Hideously distorted and deformed as it had been in the derangement of the brain, like a shapeless jelly shooting out, of a sudden, vast, unsuspected tentacles, the destruction of it cut a thousandfold deeper. The sense of consecution itself was destroyed; things sequent appeared as things superposed or concurrent spatially; a new dimension un folded; a new destruction of all limitation exposed a new and unfathomable abyss. To all the rest was added the bewilderment and fear which earthly agaraphobia faintly shadows forth; and at the same time the close immurement weighed upon him, since from infinitude there can be no escape. Add to this the hopelessness of the monotony of the situation. Infinitely as the phenomena were varied, they were yet recognized as essentially the same. All human tasks are lightened by the certainty that they must end. Even our joys would be intolerable were we convinced that they must endure, through irksomeness and disgust, through weariness and satiety, even for ever and for evermore. In this inhuman, this praeterdiabolic inferno was a wearisome repetition, a harping on the same hateful discord, a continuous nagging whose intervals afforded no relief, only a suspense brimming with the anticipation of some fresh terror. For hours which were to him eternities this stage continued as each cell that held the record of a memory underwent the degenerative changes which awoke it into hyperbromic purulence. {168} VIII The minute bacterial corruption now assumed a gross chemistry. The gases of putrefaction forming in the brain and interpenetrating it were represented in his consciousness by the denizens of the pustules becoming formless and impersonal --- Arthur had not yet fathomed the abyss. Creeping, winding, embracing, the Universe enfolded him, violated him with a nameless and intimate contamination, involved his being in a more suffocating terror. Now and again it drowned that consciousness in a gulf which his thought could not express to me; and indeed the first and least of his torments is utterly beyond human expression. It was a woe ever expanded, ever intensified, by each vial of wrath. Memory increased, and understanding grew; the imagination had equally got rid of limit. What this means who can tell? The human mind cannot really appreciate numbers beyond a score or so; it can deal with numbers by ratiocination, it cannot apprehend them by direct impression. It requires a highly trained intelligence to distinguish between fifteen and sixteen matches on a plate without counting them. In death this limitation is entirely removed. Of the infinite content of the Universe every item was separately realized. The brain of Arthur had become equal in power to that attributed by theologians to the Creator; yet of executive power there was no seed. The impotence of man before circumstance was in him magnified indefinitely, yet without loss of detail or of mass. He understood that The Many was The One without losing or fusing {169} the conception of either. He was God, but a God irretrievably damned: a being infinite, yet limited by the nature of things, and that nature solely compact of loathliness. IX I have little doubt that the cremation of my husband's body cut short a process which in the normally buried man continues until no trace of organic substance remains. The first kiss of the furnace awoke an activity so violent and so vivid that all the past paled in its lurid light. The quenchless agony of the pang is not to be described; if alleviation there were, it was but the exultation of feeling that this was final. Not only time, but all expansions of time, all monsters of time's womb were to be annihilated; even the ego might hope some end. The ego is the "worm that dieth not," and existence the "fire that is not quenched." Yet in this universal pyre, in this barathrum of liquid lava, jetted from the volcanoes of the infinite, this "lake of fire that is reserved for the devil and his angels," might not one at last touch bottom? Ah! but time was no more, neither any eidolon thereof! The shell was consumed; the gases of the body, combined and recombined, flamed off, free from organic form. Where was Arthur? His brain, his individuality, his life, were utterly destroyed. As separate things, yes: Arthur had entered the universal consciousness. And I heard this utterance: or rather this is my translation {170} into English of a single thought whose synthesis is "Woe." Substance is called spirit or matter. Spirit and matter are one, indivisible, eternal, indestructible. Infinite and eternal change! Infinite and eternal pain! No absolute: no truth, no beauty, no idea, nothing but the whirlwinds of form, unresting, unappeasable. Eternal hunger! Eternal war! Change and pain infinite and unceasing. There is no individuality but in illusion. And the illusion is change and pain, and its destruction is change and pain, and its new segregation from the infinite and eternal is change and pain; and substance infinite and eternal is change and pain unspeakable. Beyond thought, which is change and pain, lies being, which is change and pain. These were the last words intelligible; they lapsed into the eternal moan, Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! in unceasing monotony that rings always in my ears if I let my thought fall from the height of activity, listen to the voice of my sensorium. In my sleep I am partially protected, and I keep a lamp constantly alight to burn tobacco in the room: but yet too often my dreams throb with that reiterated Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! X The final stage is clearly enough inevitable, unless we believe the Buddhist theories, which I am somewhat inclined {171} to do, as their theory of the Universe is precisely confirmed in every detail by the facts here set down. But it is one thing to recognize a disease, another to discover a remedy. Frankly, my whole being revolts from their methods, and I had rather acquiesce in the ultimate destiny and achieve it as quickly as may be. My earnest preoccupation is to avoid the preliminary tortures, a nd I am convinced that the explosion of a dynamite cartridge in the mouth is the most practicable method of effecting this. There is just the possibility that if all thinking minds, all "spiritual beings," were thus destroyed, and especially if all organic life could be annihilated, that the Universe might cease to be, since (as Bishop Berkeley has shown) it can only exist in some thinking mind. And there is really no evidence (in spite of Berkeley) for the existence of any extra-human consciousness. Mat ter in itself may think, in a sense, but its monotony of woe is less awful than its abomination, the building up of high and holy things only to drag them through infamy and terror to the old abyss. I shall consequently cause this record to be widely distributed. The note-books of my work with Arthur (Vols, I-CCXIV) will be edited by Professor von Buehle, whose marvellous mind may perhaps discover some escape from the destiny which menaces mankind. Everything is in order in these note-books; and I am free to die, for I can endure no more, and above all things I dread the onset of illness, and the possibility of natural or accidental death. {172} NOTE I am glad to have the opportunity of publishing, in a journal so widely read by the profession, the MS. of the widow of the late Professor Blair. Her mind undoubtedly became unhinged through grief at her husband's death; the medical man who attended him in his last illness grew alarmed at her condition, and had her watched. She tried (fruitlessly) to purchase dynamite at several shops, but on her going to the laboratory of her late husband, and attempting to manufacture Chloride of Nitrogen, obviously for the purpose of suicide, she was seized, certified insane, and placed in my care. The case is most unusual in several respects. (1) I have never known her inaccurate in any statement of veritable fact. (2) She can undoubtedly read thoughts in an astonishing manner. In particular, she is actually useful to me by her ability to foretell attacks of acute insanity in my patients. Some hours before they occur she can predict them to a minute. On an early occasion my disbelief in her power led to the dangerous wounding of one of my attendants. (3) She combines a fixed determination of suicide (in the extraordinary manner described by her) with an intense fear of death. She smokes uninterruptedly, and I am obliged to allow her to fumigate her room at night with the same drug. (4) She is certainly only twenty-four years old, and any competent judge would with equal certainty declare her sixty. (5) Professor von Buehle, to whom the note-books were {173} sent, addressed to me a long and urgent telegram, begging her release on condition that she would promise not to commit suicide, but go to work with him in Bonn. I have yet to learn, however, that German professors, however eminent, have any voice in the management of a private asylum in England, and I am certain that the Lunacy Commissioners will uphold me in my refusal to consider the question. It will then be clearly understood that this document is published with all reserve as the lucubration of a very peculiar, perhaps unique, type of insanity. V. ENGLISH, M.D. {174}