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As to Porphyry it was doubtless his more practical temperament that
led him to modify the doctrine of Plotinus concerning ecstasy. With
Porphyry the mind does not lose, in that state of exaltation, its
consciousness of personality. He calls it a dream in which the soul,
dead to the world, rises to an activity that partakes of the divine. It is
an elevation above reason, above action, above liberty, and yet no
annihilation, but an ennobling restoration or transformation of the
individual nature.[27]
Gower. One of Porphyry’s notions about the spirits of the air, of
which you told me in our walk yesterday, quite haunted me
afterwards. It contains a germ of poetry.
Kate. By all means let us have it.
Gower. Our philosopher believed in a certain order of evil genii who
took pleasure in hunting wild beasts,—dæmons, whom men
worshipped by the title of Artemis and other names, falsely
attributing their cruelty to the calm and guiltless gods, who can never
delight in blood. Some of these natures hunted another prey. They
were said to chase souls that had escaped from the fetters of a body,
and to force them to re-enter some fleshly prison once more. How I
wish we could see a design of this by David Scott! Imagine the soul
that has just leaped out of the door of that dungeon of ignorance and
pain, the body, as Porphyry would term it, fluttering in its new
freedom in the sunshine among the tree-tops, over wild and town—
all the fields of air its pleasure-ground for an exulting career on its
upward way to join the journeying intelligences in their cars above.
But it sees afar off, high in mid-air, a troop of dark shapes; they seem
to approach, to grow out of the airy recesses of the distance—they
come down the white precipices of the piled clouds, over the long
slant of some vapour promontory—forms invisible to man, and, with
them, spectre-hounds, whose baying spirits alone can hear. As they
approach, the soul recognises its enemies. In a moment it is flying
away, away, and after it they sweep—pursuers and pursued, shapes
so ethereal that the galleries of the ant are not shaken as hunters
and quarry glide into the earth, and not a foam-bell is broken or
brushed from the wave when they emerge upon the sea, and with
many a winding and double mount the air. At last hemmed in, the
soul is forced—spite of that desperate sidelong dart which had all but
eluded them—down into a body, the frame of a beggar’s babe or of a
slave’s; and, like some struggling bird, drawn with beating wings
beneath the water, it sinks into the clay it must animate through
many a miserable year to come.
Willoughby. I wish you would paint it for us yourself. You might
represent, close by that battle of the spirits, a bird singing on a
bough, a labourer looking down, with his foot upon his spade, and
peasants dancing in their ‘sunburnt mirth’ and jollity—wholly
unconscious, interrupted neither in toil nor pleasure by the conflict
close at hand. It might read as a satire on the too common
indifference of men to the spiritual realities which are about them
every hour.
Mrs. Atherton. The picture would be as mysterious as an Emblem
by Albert Durer.
Gower. It is that suggestiveness I so admire in the Germans. For
the sake of it I can often pardon their fantastic extravagances, their
incongruous combinations, their frequent want of grace and
symmetry.
Atherton. So can I, when an author occupies a province in which
such indirectness or irony, such irregularity, confusion, or paradox,
are admissible. Take, as a comprehensive example, Jean Paul. But
in philosophy it is abominable. There, where transparent order
should preside, to find that under the thick and spreading verbiage
meaning is often lacking, and, with all the boastful and fire-new
nomenclature, if found, is old and common,—that the language is
commonly but an array of what one calls
Iamblichus to Agathocles.
I assure you, my friend, that the efforts of Porphyry, of whom you
appear disposed to think so highly, will be altogether in vain. He
is not the true philosopher you imagine. He grows cold and
sceptical with years. He shrinks with a timid incredulity from
reaping in that field of supernatural attainment which theurgy has
first opened, and now continually enlarges and enriches.
Theurgy, be sure of it, is the grand, I may say, the sole path to
the exaltation we covet. It is the heaven-given organum, in the
hands of the wise and holy, for obtaining happiness, knowledge,
power.
The pomp of emperors becomes as nothing in comparison with
the glory that surrounds the hierophant. The priest is a prophet
full of deity. The subordinate powers of the upper world are at his
bidding, for it is not a man, but a god who speaks the words of
power. Such a man lives no longer the life common to other men.
He has exchanged the human life for the divine. His nature is the
instrument and vehicle of Deity, who fills and impels him
(ὄργανον τοῖς ἐπιπνέουσι θεοῖς.) Men of this order do not
employ, in the elevation they experience, the waking senses as
do others (οὔτε κατ᾽ αἴσθησιν ἐνεργοῦσιν οὔτε ἐγρηγόρασι).
They have no purpose of their own, no mastery over themselves.
They speak wisdom they do not understand, and their faculties,
absorbed in a divine power, become the utterance of a superior
will.
Often, at the moment of inspiration, or when the afflatus has
subsided, a fiery Appearance is seen,—the entering or departing
Power. Those who are skilled in this wisdom can tell by the
character of this glory the rank of the divinity who has seized for
the time the reins of the mystic’s soul, and guides it as he will.
Sometimes the body of the man subject to this influence is
violently agitated, sometimes it is rigid and motionless. In some
instances sweet music is heard, in others, discordant and fearful
sounds. The person of the subject has been known to dilate and
tower to a superhuman height; in other cases, it has been lifted
up into the air. Frequently, not merely the ordinary exercise of
reason, but sensation and animal life would appear to have been
suspended; and the subject of the afflatus has not felt the
application of fire, has been pierced with spits, cut with knives,
and been sensible of no pain. Yea, often, the more the body and
the mind have been alike enfeebled by vigil and by fasts, the
more ignorant or mentally imbecile a youth may be who is
brought under this influence, the more freely and unmixedly will
the divine power be made manifest. So clearly are these
wonders the work, not of human skill or wisdom, but of
supernatural agency! Characteristics such as these I have
mentioned, are the marks of the true inspiration.
Now, there are, O Agathocles, four great orders of spiritual
existence,—Gods, Dæmons, Heroes or Demi-gods, and Souls.
You will naturally be desirous to learn how the apparition of a
God or a Dæmon is distinguished from those of Angels,
Principalities, or Souls. Know, then, that their appearance to man
corresponds to their nature, and that they always manifest
themselves to those who invoke them in a manner consonant
with their rank in the hierarchy of spiritual natures. The
appearances of Gods are uniform (μονοειδῆ), those of Dæmons
various (ποικίλα). The Gods shine with a benign aspect. When a
God manifests himself, he frequently appears to hide sun or
moon, and seems as he descends too vast for earth to contain.
Archangels are at once awful and mild; Angels yet more
gracious; Dæmons terrible. Below the four leading classes I have
mentioned are placed the malignant Dæmons, the Anti-gods
(ἀντιθέους).
Each spiritual order has gifts of its own to bestow on the initiated
who evoke them. The Gods confer health of body, power and
purity of mind, and, in short, elevate and restore our natures to
their proper principles. Angels and Archangels have at their
command only subordinate bestowments. Dæmons, however,
are hostile to the aspirant,—afflict both body and mind, and
hinder our escape from the sensuous. Principalities, who govern
the sublunary elements, confer temporal advantages. Those of a
lower rank, who preside over matter (ὑλικά), display their bounty
in material gifts. Souls that are pure are, like Angels, salutary in
their influence. Their appearance encourages the soul in its
upward efforts. Heroes stimulate to great actions. All these
powers depend, in a descending chain, each species on that
immediately above it. Good Dæmons are seen surrounded by
the emblems of blessing, Dæmons who execute judgment
appear with the instruments of punishment.
There is nothing unworthy of belief in what you have been told
concerning the sacred sleep, and divination by dreams. I explain
it thus:—
The soul has a twofold life, a lower and a higher. In sleep that
soul is freed from the constraint of the body, and enters, as one
emancipated, on its divine life of intelligence. Then, as the noble
faculty which beholds the objects that truly are—the objects in
the world of intelligence—stirs within, and awakens to its power,
who can be surprised that the mind, which contains in itself the
principles of all that happens, should, in this its state of liberation,
discern the future in those antecedent principles which will make
that future what it is to be? The nobler part of the soul is thus
united by abstraction to higher natures, and becomes a
participant in the wisdom and foreknowledge of the Gods.
Recorded examples of this are numerous and well authenticated;
instances occur, too, every day. Numbers of sick, by sleeping in
the temple of Æsculapius, have had their cure revealed to them
in dreams vouchsafed by the god. Would not Alexander’s army
have perished but for a dream in which Dionysus pointed out the
means of safety? Was not the siege of Aphutis raised through a
dream sent by Jupiter Ammon to Lysander? The night-time of the
body is the day-time of the soul.
What I have now said—with little method, I confess—sets before
you but a portion of the prerogatives in which the initiated glory.
There is much behind for which words are too poor. I have
written enough, I am sure, to kindle your ambition, to bid you
banish doubt, and persevere in the aspirations which so
possessed you when I saw you last.[28] Farewell.
Dante.
They that pretend to these heights call them the secrets of the
kingdom; but they are such which no man can describe; such
which God hath not revealed in the publication of the Gospel;
such for the acquiring of which there are no means prescribed,
and to which no man is obliged, and which are not in any man’s
power to obtain; nor such which it is lawful to pray for or desire;
nor concerning which we shall ever be called to account.—
Jeremy Taylor.
‘I have here,’ said Atherton on the next evening, ‘some notes on the
doctrine of this pretended Areopagite—a short summary; shall I read
it?’
‘By all means.’
So the following abstract was listened to—and with creditable
patience.[34]
(1.) All things have emanated from God, and the end of all is return
to God. Such return—deification, he calls it—is the consummation of
the creature, that God may finally be all in all. A process of evolution,
a centrifugal movement in the Divine Nature, is substituted in reality
for creation. The antithesis of this is the centripetal process, or
movement of involution, which draws all existence towards the point
of the Divine centre. The degree of real existence possessed by any
being is the amount of God in that being—for God is the existence in
all things. Yet He himself cannot be said to exist, for he is above
existence. The more or less of God which the various creatures
possess is determined by the proximity of their order to the centre.
(2.) The chain of being in the upper and invisible world, through
which the Divine Power diffuses itself in successive gradations, he
calls the Celestial Hierarchy. The Ecclesiastical Hierarchy is a
corresponding series in the visible world. The orders of Angelic
natures and of priestly functionaries correspond to each other. The
highest rank of the former receive illumination immediately from God.
The lowest of the heavenly imparts divine light to the highest of the
earthly hierarchy. Each order strives perpetually to approximate to
that immediately above itself, from which it receives the transmitted
influence; so that all, as Dante describes it, draw and are drawn, and
tend in common towards the centre—God.
The three triads of angelic existences, to whom answer the ranks of
the terrestrial hierarchy, betrays the influence of Proclus, whose
hierarchy of ideas corresponds, in a similar manner, to his hierarchy
of hypostases.
Gower. The system reminds one of those old pictures which are
divided into two compartments, the upper occupied by angels and
cherubs on the clouds, and the lower by human beings on the earth,
gazing devoutly upward at their celestial benefactors.
Atherton. The work of Christ is thrown into the background to make
room for the Church. The Saviour answers, with Dionysius, rather to
the Logos of the Platonist than to the Son of God revealed in
Scripture. He is allowed to be, as incarnate, the founder of the
Ecclesiastical Hierarchy; but, as such, he is removed from men by
the long chain of priestly orders, and is less the Redeemer, than
remotely the Illuminator, of the species.
Purification, illumination, perfection,—the three great stages of
ascent to God (which plays so important a part in almost every
succeeding attempt to systematise mysticism) are mystically
represented by the three sacraments,—Baptism, the Eucharist, and
Unction. The Church is the great Mystagogue: its liturgy and offices
a profound and elaborate system of symbolism.
(3.) The Greek theory, with its inadequate conception of the nature of
sin, compels Dionysius virtually to deny the existence of evil.
Everything that exists is good, the more existence the more
goodness, so that evil is a coming short of existence. He hunts sin
boldly from place to place throughout the universe, and drives it at
last into the obscurity of the limbo he contrives for it, where it lies
among things unreal.
All that exists he regards as a symbolical manifestation of the super-
existent. What we call creation is the divine allegory. In nature, in
Scripture, in tradition, God is revealed only in figure. This sacred
imagery should be studied, but in such study we are still far from any
adequate cognizance of the Divine Nature. God is above all negation
and affirmation: in Him such contraries are at once identified and
transcended. But by negation we approach most nearly to a true
apprehension of what He is.
Negation and affirmation, accordingly, constitute the two opposed
and yet simultaneous methods he lays down for the knowledge of
the Infinite. These two paths, the Via Negativa (or Apophatica) and
the Via Affirmativa (or Cataphatica) constitute the foundation of his
mysticism. They are distinguished and elaborated in every part of his
writings. The positive is the descending process. In the path
downward from God, through inferior existences, the Divine Being
may be said to have many names;—the negative method is one of
ascent; in that, God is regarded as nameless, the inscrutable
Anonymous. The symbolical or visible is thus opposed, in the
Platonist style, to the mystical or ideal. To assert anything concerning
a God who is above all affirmation is to speak in figure, to veil him.
The more you deny concerning Him, the more of such veils do you
remove. He compares the negative method of speaking concerning
the Supreme to the operation of the sculptor, who strikes off
fragment after fragment of the marble, and progresses by diminution.
(4.) Our highest knowledge of God, therefore, is said to consist in
mystic ignorance. In omni-nescience we approach Omniscience.
This Path of Negation is the highway of mysticism. It is by refraining
from any exercise of the intellect or of the imagination—by self-
simplification, by withdrawal into the inmost, the divine essence of
our nature—that we surpass the ordinary condition of humanity, and
are united in ecstasy with God. Dionysius does not insist so much on
Union as the later mystics, but he believes, at all events, that the
eminent saint may attain on earth an indescribable condition of soul
—an elevation far transcending the reach of our natural faculties—an
approach towards the beatific vision of those who are supposed to
gaze directly on the Divine Essence in heaven. His disciple is
perpetually exhorted to aspire to this climax of abstraction—above
sight, and thought, and feeling, as to the highest aim of man.
Willoughby. What contradictions are here! With one breath he
extols ineffable ignorance as the only wisdom; with the next he
pretends to elucidate the Trinity, and reads you off a muster-roll of
the heavenly hierarchies.
Gower. And are not these, supplemented by the hierarchy of
ecclesiastics, his real objects of worship? No man could make an
actual God of that super-essential ultimatum, that blank Next-to-
Nothingness which the last Neo-Platonists imagined as their
Supreme. Proclus could not; Dionysius could not. What then? A
reaction comes, which, after refining polytheism to an impalpable
unity, restores men to polytheism once more. Up mounts
speculation, rocket-like: men watch it, a single soaring star with its
train of fire, and, at the height, it breaks into a scattering shower of
many-coloured sparks. From that Abstraction of which nothing can
be predicated, nothing can be expected. The figment above being is
above benignity. So the objects of invocation are gods, demi-gods,
dæmons, heroes; or, when baptized, cherubim, seraphim, thrones,
dominions, powers, archangels, angels, saints; in either case,
whether at Athens or at Constantinople, the excessive subtilisation of
the One contributes toward the worship of the Manifold.
Atherton. The theology of the Neo-Platonists was always in the first
instance a mere matter of logic. It so happened that they confounded
Universals with causes. The miserable consequence is clear. The
Highest becomes with them, as he is with Dionysius, merely the
most comprehensive, the universal idea, which includes the world,
as genus includes species.[35]
Mrs. Atherton. The divinity of this old Father must be a bleak affair
indeed—Christianity frozen out.
Gower. I picture him to myself as entering with his philosophy into
the theological structure of that day, like Winter into the cathedral of
the woods (which an autumn of decline has begun to harm already);
—what life yet lingers, he takes away,—he untwines the garlands
from the pillars of the trees, extinguishes the many twinkling lights
the sunshine hung wavering in the foliage, silences all sounds of
singing, and fills the darkened aisles and dome with a coldly-
descending mist, whose silence is extolled as above the power of
utterance,—its blinding, chill obscureness lauded as clearer than the
intelligence and warmer than the fervour of a simple and scriptural
devotion.
Atherton. You have described my experience in reading him,
though I must say he suggested nothing to me about your cathedral
of the woods, &c. His verbose and turgid style, too, is destitute of all
genuine feeling.[36] He piles epithet on epithet, throws superlative on
superlative, hyperbole on hyperbole, and it is but log upon log,—he
puts no fire under, neither does any come from elsewhere. He
quotes Scripture—as might be expected—in the worst style, both of
the schoolman and the mystic. Fragments are torn from their
connexion, and carried away to suffer the most arbitrary
interpretation, and strew his pages that they may appear to illustrate
or justify his theory.
Gower. How forlorn do those texts of Scripture look that you discern
scattered over the works of such writers, so manifestly transported
from a region of vitality and warmth to an expanse of barrenness.
They make the context look still more sterile, and while they say
there must be life somewhere, seem to affirm, no less emphatically,
that it is not in the neighbourhood about them. They remind me of
those leaves from the chestnut and the birch I once observed upon a
glacier. There they lay, foreign manifestly to the treeless world in
which they were found; the ice appeared to have shrunk from them,
and they from the ice; each isolated leaf had made itself a cup-like
cavity, a tiny open sarcophagus of crystal, in which it had lain,
perhaps for several winters. Doubtless, a tempest, which had been
vexing some pleasant valley far down beneath, and tearing at its
trees, must have whirled them up thither. Yet the very presence of
the captives reproached the poverty of the Snow-King who detained
them, testifying as they did to a genial clime elsewhere, whose
products that ice-world could no more put forth, than can such frozen
speculations as this of Dionysius, the ripening ‘fruits of the Spirit.’