Collected Works (Vol. II)

TIME 269 Myst. Oh never! The word “real” im- plies to us subjectivity; a thing is only real to us so far as it is known by us; even its Un- knowability is a species of knowledge of it: and, by Savitri! when I say real Zo us, I say real absolutely, since all things lie to me in the radius of my sensorium. ‘‘ To others” is a vain phrase, Scept. True; for those ‘‘ others” only exist for you inasmuch as, and in so far as, they are modifications of your own thought-stuff.! . Myst. Agreed, then; instead of looking through the glasses of the metaphysician, we will content ourselves with the simpler task of measuring our thoughts by the only stan- dard which is unquestionably valid, consciousness. Scept. But if that consciousness deceive us ? Myst. We are the more deceived! But it is after all indifferent ; for it is we who are deceived. Idle to pretend that any other standard can ever be of any use to us, since all others are referred to it ! Scept. Ah! this is equally a branch of the former argument. Myst. That is so. However, we may defer consideration of this problem, though I suspect that it will sooner or later force itself upon our notice. Scept. No doubt. This is very possibly the ultimate unknown and infinite quantity, which lurks unsuspected in all equations, and vitiates our most seeming-certain results. Myst. But, for Heaven's sake, let us post- pone it as long as possible, eh? Scept. Indeed, it is the devil of a subject. But we wander far—By the way, how old are you? You appear young, but you know much. Myst. You are too polite. I am but an ultimate truth, six world-truths, fourteen grand generalisations, eighty generalisations, sixty-two dilemmas, and the usual odd mil- lion impressions. Scept. What is all this? You are surely— Myst. No, most noble Festus. Put me 1.6. , 1 The physical basis of thought, as dis- tinguished from its physical mechanism. A Hindu conception. Sanskrit, Chittam. | to the test, and I the matter will reword: which madness would gambol from.!' How old may your honour be? Scept. Forty-five years. Myst. excuse the ignorance of a ‘‘ Babu,” but as Mr. Chesterton? well knows, we do 1 I am not mad, most noble Festus. Acts Xxvil. 25. The rest is from Hamlet. There are many other such apt or perverted quota- tions in the essay. 2 MR. CROWLEY AND THE CREEDS AND THE CREED OF MR. CHESTERTON WITH A POSTSCRIPT ENTITLED A CHILD OF EPHRAIM* CHESTERTON’S COLOSSAL COLLAPSE MR. CROWLEY AND THE CREEDS By G. Mr. Aleister Crowley publishes a work, “The Sword of Song: Called by Christians ‘The Book of the Beast,’’’ and called, I am ashamed to say, ‘‘ Ye Sword of Song” on the cover, by some singularly uneducated man. Mr, Aleister Crowley has always been, in my opinion, a good poet; his ‘‘ Soul of Osiris,” written during an Egyptian mood, was better poetry than this Browningesque rhapsody in a Buddhist mood; but this also, though very affected, is very interesting. But the main fact about it is that it is the expression of a man who has really found Buddhism more satisfactory than Christianity. Mr. Crowley begins his poem, I believe, with an earnest intention to explain the beauty of the Buddhist philosophy; he knows a great deal about it; he believes in it. But as he went on writing one thing became stronger and stronger in his soul — the living hatred of Christianity. Before he has finished he has descended to the babyish ‘‘ difficulties”’ of the Hall of Science — things about ‘‘the plain words of your sacred books,” things about “‘the panacea of belief’”—things, in short, at which any philosophical Hindoo would roll about with laughter, Does Mr, Crowley sup- pose that Buddhists do not feel the poetical nature of the books of a religion? Does he suppose that they do not realise the inmmense K.. CHESTERTON * The children of Ephraim, being armed, and carrying bows, turned them back in the day of battle.