k,
represents the utmost that human consciousness can do of itself
towards the achievement of union with Reality. To some it brings
joy and peace, to others fear: to all a paradoxical sense of the
lowliness and greatness of the soul, which now at last can
measure itself by the august standards of the Infinite. Though the
trained and diligent will of the contemplative can, if control of
the attention be really established, recapture this state of
awareness, retreat into the Quiet again and again, yet it is of
necessity a fleeting experience; for man is immersed in duration,
subject to it. Its demands upon his attention can only cease with
the cessation of physical life--perhaps not then. Perpetual
absorption in the Transcendent is a human impossibility, and the
effort to achieve it is both unsocial and silly. But this experience,
this "ascent to the Nought," changes for ever the proportions of
the life that once has known it; gives to it depth and height, and
prepares the way for those further experiences, that great
transfiguration of existence which comes when the personal
activity of the finite will gives place to the great and compelling
action of another Power.

CHAPTER IX

THE THIRD FORM OF CONTEMPLATION

The hard separation which some mystical writers insist upon
making between "natural" and "supernatural" contemplation, has
been on the whole productive of confusion rather than clearness:
for the word "supernatural" has many unfortunate associations for
the mind of the plain man. It at once suggests to him visions and
ecstasies, superstitious beliefs, ghosts, and other disagreeable
interferences with the order which he calls "natural"; and inclines
him to his old attitude of suspicion in respect of all mystical
things. But some word we must have, to indicate the real
cleavage which exists between the second and third stages in the
development of the contemplative consciousness: the real change
which, if you would go further on these interior paths, must now
take place in the manner of your apprehension of Reality.
Hitherto, all that you have attained has been--or at least has
seemed to you--the direct result of your own hard work. A
difficult self-discipline, the slowly achieved control of your
vagrant thoughts and desires, the steady daily practice of
recollection, a diligent pushing out of your consciousness from
the superficial to the fundamental, an unselfish loving attention;
all this has been rewa