XXXI.
A couple of days later, El-Râmi was engaged in what was not a very favourite occupation with him,—he was reading the morning’s newspaper. He glanced over the cut-and-dry chronicle of “Storms and Floods”—he noted that a great deal of damage had been wrought by the gale at Ilfracombe and other places along the Devonshire coast,—but there was nothing of any specially dreadful import to attract his attention, and nothing either in politics or science of any pressing or vital interest. There were two or three reviews of books, one of these being pressed into a corner next to the advertisement of a patent pill; there were announcements of the movements of certain human units favoured with a little extra money and position than ordinary, as being “in” or “out” of town, and there was a loftily-patronising paragraph on the “Theosophical Movement,” or, as it is more frequently termed, the “Theosophical Boom.” From this, El-Râmi learned that a gentleman connected with the Press, who wrote excessively commonplace verse, and thereby had got himself and his name (through the aforesaid press connection) fairly well known, had been good enough to enunciate the following amazing platitude:—“That, as a great portion of the globe is composed of elements which cannot be seen, and as the study of the invisible may be deemed as legitimate as the study of the visible, he” (the press-connected versifier) “is inclined to admit that there are great possibilities on the lines of that study.”
“Inclined to admit it, is he!” and El-Râmi threw aside the paper and broke into a laugh of the sincerest enjoyment, “Heavens! what fools there are in this world, who call themselves wise men! This little poetaster, full of the conceit common to his imitative craft, is ‘inclined to admit’ that there are great possibilities in the study of the invisible! Excellent condescension! How the methods of life have turned topsy-turvy since the ancient days! Then the study of the Invisible was the first key to the study of the Visible,—the things which are seen being considered only as the reflexes of the things which are unseen—the Unseen being accepted as Cause, the Seen as Effect. Now we all drift the other way,—taking the Visible as Fact,—the Invisible as Fancy!”
Féraz, who was writing at a side-table, looked up at him.
“Surely you are inconsistent?” he said—“You yourself believe in nothing unless it is proved.”
“But then, my dear fellow, I can prove the Invisible and follow the grades of it, and the modes by which it makes itself the Visible,—to a certain extent—but only to a certain extent. Beyond the provable limit I do not go. You, on the contrary, aided by the wings of imagination, outsoar that limit, and profess to find angels, star-kingdoms, and God Himself. I cannot go so far as this. But, unlike our blown-out frog of a versifier here, who would fain persuade mankind he is a bull, I am not only ‘inclined’ to admit—I do admit that there are ‘great possibilities’—only I must test them all before I can accept them as facts made clear to my comprehension.”
“Still, you believe in the Invisible?”
“Naturally. I believe in the millions of suns in the Milky Way, though they can scarcely be called ‘visible.’ I should be a fool if I did not believe in the Invisible, under the present conditions of the Universe. But I cannot be tricked by ‘shams’ of the Invisible. The Theosophical business is a piece of vulgar imposture, in which the professors themselves are willing to delude their own imaginations, as well as the imaginations of others—they are the most wretched imitators that ever were of the old Eastern sorcerers,—the fellows who taught Moses and Aaron how to frighten their ignorant cattle-like herds of followers. None of the modern ‘mediums,’ as they are called, have the skill over atmospheric phenomena, metals, and light-reflexes that Apollonius of Tyana had, or Alexander the Paphlagonian. Both these scientific sorcerers were born about the same time as Christ, and Apollonius, like Christ, raised a maiden from the dead. Miracles were the fashion in that period of time,—and, according to the monotonous manner in which history repeats itself, they are coming into favour again in this century. All that we know now has been already known. The ancient Greeks had their ‘penny-in-the-slot’ machine for the purpose of scattering perfume on their clothes as they passed along the streets—they had their ‘syphon’ bottles and vases as we have, and they had their automatically opening and closing doors. Compare the miserable ‘spiritualistic phenomena’ of the Theosophists with the marvels wrought by Hakem, known as Mokanna! Mokanna could cause an orb like the moon to rise from a well at a certain hour and illumine the country for miles and miles around. How did he do it? By a knowledge of electric force applied to air and water. The ‘bogies’ of a modern séance who talk bad grammar and pinch people’s toes and fingers are very coarse examples of necromancy, compared with the scientific skill of Mokanna and others of this tribe. However, superstition is the same in all ages, and there will always be fools ready to believe in ‘Mahatmas’ or anything else,—and the old ‘incantation of the Mantra’ will, if well done, influence the minds of the dupes of the nineteenth century quite as effectively as it did those of the bygone ages before Christ.”
“What is the incantation of the Mantra?” asked Féraz.
“A ridiculous trick”—replied El-Râmi—“known to every Eastern conjurer and old woman who professes to see the future. You take your dupe, and fling a little water over him, fixing upon him your eyes and all the force of your will,—then, you take a certain mixture of chemical substances and perfumes, and set them on fire—the flames and fumes produce a dazzling and drowsy effect on the senses of your ‘subject,’ who will see whatever you choose him to see, and hear whatever you intend him to hear. But Will is the chief ingredient of the spell,—and if I, for example, choose to influence any one, I can dispense with both water and fire—I can do it alone and without any show of preparation.”