The fitness of these signs. The necessity of observing them for spiritual progress.

As to the first sign, it is to be observed that there are two reasons, comprised as it were in one, why the spiritual man — if he is to enter on the life of the spirit, which is that of contemplation — must abandon the way of the imagination and sensible meditation, when he has no pleasure in it and is no longer able to make his wonted discourse. The first is, that all the spiritual good to be found, by way of meditation in the things of God, has been already in a manner bestowed upon him. This is shown by the fact that he cannot now make his former meditations and reflections, and that he has no pleasure or satisfaction therein as he had before, because he had not then attained to the spiritual life. And, in general, whenever the soul receives a fresh spiritual grace it receives it with pleasure, at least in spirit, in the means whereby it comes, and it profits by it; otherwise its profiting would be miraculous. This is in accordance with the philosophical saying, What is palatable nourishes; and also with the words of Job, ‘Can an unsavoury thing be eaten that is not seasoned with salt?’* The reason, then, why meditation is no longer possible, is the little pleasure and profit which the mind now derives from it.

y% The second reason is this: the soul has now attained substantially and habitually to the spirit of meditation. For the end of meditation and reflection on the things of God

* Job vi. 6.

is to elicit the knowledge and the love of Him. Each time the soul elicits this, it is an act, and as acts often repeated produce habits, so, many acts of loving knowledge continuously elicited by the soul, beget the habit thereof in the course of time. God is wont at times to effect this without these acts of meditation — at least without many of them — leading souls at once into the state of contemplation. Thus, what the soul elicited before, at intervals, by dint of meditation, in particular acts of knowledge, is now by practice converted into the habit and substance of knowledge, loving, general, not distinct or particular, as before. And, therefore, such a soul betaking itself to prayer —like a man with water before him — drinks sweetly without effort, without the necessity of drawing it through the channel of previous reflections, forms, and figures. And the moment such a soul places itself in the presence of God, it elicits an act of knowledge, confused, loving, peaceful, and tranquil, wherein it drinks in wisdom, love, and sweetness.

This is the reason why the soul is troubled and disgusted when compelled, in this state, to make meditations and to labour after particular acts of knowledge. Its condition, then, is like that of an infant at the breast, withdrawn from it while it was sucking it, and bidden to procure its nourishment by efforts of its own; or of one who, having removed the rind, is tasting the fruit it contained, and is bidden to cease therefrom and to peel away the rind already removed, and then finds no rind and loses the fruit he had in his hand —like one who loses a prize already in his power. This is the case

with many who have begun to enter upon this state. They

think that the whole matter consists in discursive meditations,

in the understanding of particulars by means of forms and images, which are the rind of the spiritual life. When they do not find these in that loving and substantial quiet, where the soul desires to dwell, and where nothing distinct reaches

the intellect, they suppose themselves to be going astray, ~- wasting their time, and so go in quest of the rind of images -and discursive meditation, not now to be found, because long ago taken away. Thus they do not enjoy the substance, neither can they meditate; and so they vex themselves, thinking that they are going backwards, and that they are lost. This is certainly true, but not in the way they mean: they are lost to their own sense, to their first perceptions and understanding, which is nothing else but to gain the spiritual life which is given unto them; for the less they understand, the further do they enter into the night of the spirit, through which they have to pass in order to be united with God, in a way that surpasses all understanding.

ۤ There is but little for me to say of the second sign, because it is evident that the soul has necessarily no pleasure at that time in other imaginary representations, those

of the world, seeing that it has none, for the reasons already:

given, in those which are most befitting it, as those of the

things of God. Only, as I have said before, the imaginative faculty, in this state of recollection, is wont to come, and go, and vary, but without the consent of the soul and without

giving it any pleasure; yea, rather, the soul is then afflicted

thereby, because of the interruption of its peace and sweetness. Nor do I think it necessary here to speak at all of the fitness and necessity of the third sign, whereby we may discern when we are to cease from meditation. That sign is a knowledge of, and attention to, God, general and loving. I have explained this in some degree while speaking of the first sign; and I have to treat of it again directly, when I speak of that general, confused knowledge, after discussing the particular apprehensions of the intellect. But I propose now to mention one reason only, which will make it clear why this attention, or general loving knowledge of God, is

necessary, when the spiritual man passes from the state of meditation to that of contemplation. That reason is this: if the soul were without this knowledge or sense of God’s presence at that time, the result would be that it would have nothing, and do nothing; for having ceased from meditation, wherein the soul acts discursively, by means of its intellectual faculties — and contemplation not yet attained to, which is that general knowledge, wherein the spiritual powers of the soul, memory, intellect, and will, are exerted, and united in this knowledge, which is as it were effected and received in them — every act of the worship of God must of necessity be wanting; for the soul cannot act at all, nor receive impressions, nor persevere in the work it has before it, but by the action of its intellectual and spiritual faculties. It is through the intellectual faculties that the soul reflects, searches out, and effects the knowledge of things; and through the spiritual faculties that it rejoices in the knowledge thus attained without further labour, search, or reflection. The difference between these two conditions of the soul is like the difference between working, and the enjoyment of the fruit of our work; between receiving a gift, and profiting by it; between the toil of travelling, and the rest at our journey’s end; between the preparation of our food, and the eating or enjoyment of it.,If the soul be idle, not occupied, either with its intellectual faculties in meditation and reflection, or with its spiritual faculties in contemplation and pure knowledge, it is impossible to say that it S: is occupied at all. This knowledge is therefore necessary for the abandonment of the way of meditation and reflection. But it is to be remembered that this general knowledge, of which I am speaking, is at times so subtile and delicate — ‘ particularly when most pure, simple, perfect, spiritual, and - interior-—that the soul, though in the practice thereof, is not observant or conscious of it. This is the case when that

knowledge is most pure, clear, and simple, which it is when

it enters into a soul most pure and detached from all other acts of knowledge and special perceptions, to which the intellect or the sense may cling. Such a soul, because freed from all those things which were actually and habitually objects of the intellect or of the sense, is not aware of them, because the accustomed objects of sense have failed it. This is the reason why this knowledge, when most pure, perfect, and simple, is the less perceived by the intellect, and the more obscure. On the other hand, when this knowledge is less pure and simple the more clear and the more important it seems to the intellect; because it is mixed up with, clothed

‘in, or involved in, certain intelligible forms, of which the intellect most easily takes cognisance, to its hurt.

The following comparison will make this more intelligible. When the rays of the sun penetrate through a crevice into a dark room, the atmosphere of which is full of atoms and particles of dust, they are then more palpable, and more visible to the eye; and yet those rays are then less pure, simple, and perfect, because mixed up with so much impurity: also, when they are most pure and most free from dust, the less are they cognisable by the material eye; and the more pure they are the less are they seen and apprehended. If, again, these rays were altogether pure, clear of every atom, and of the minutest particle of dust, they would be utterly invisible, by reason of the absence of all objects whereon the eye could rest; for pure and simple light is not properly the object of vision, but the means whereby we discern visible things; and so, if there be no visible objects present to reflect the light, nothing can be seen. Hence, then, a ray of light entering in by one crevice and going out by another, unaffected by any material object, cannot be seen; and yet that ray is more pure and clear than when it is most distinctly seen through being mixed up with visible objects.

F _ Such are the conditions of the spiritual light with regard

to the eye of the soul, which is the intellect, against which this knowledge and supernatural light strikes so purely and so plainly. So clear is it of all intelligible forms, which are the adequate objects of the intellect, that the intellect is not conscious of its presence. Sometimes, indeed — when it is most pure —it creates darkness, because it withdraws the intellect from its accustomed lights, forms, and fantasies, and then the darkness becomes palpable and visible.

At other times, also, the Divine Light strikes the soul with such force that the darkness is unfelt and the light unheeded; the soul seems unconscious of all it knows, and is therefore lost, as it were, in forgetfulness, knowing not where it is, nor

what has happened to it, unaware of the lapse of time. It may and does occur that many hours pass while it is in this

state of forgetfulness; all seem but a moment when it again returns to itself. The cause of this forgetfulness is the pureness and simplicity of this knowledge. This knowledge, being itself pure and clear, cleanses the soul while it fills it, and purifies it of all the apprehensions and forms of sense and memory through which the soul once acted, and thus brings it to a state of forgetfulness, and unconsciousness of the flight of time. This prayer of the soul, though in reality long, seems to last but for a moment, because it is an act of pure intelligence; for it is that prayer which is said to ‘ pierce the clouds,’* time being unheeded while it lasts: it pierces the clouds because the soul is then in union with the heavenly Intelligence. This knowledge leaves behind it in the soul, when awake, all the effects it then wrought, without any consciousness on the part of the soul that they were wrought. These effects are the lifting up of the soul to the heavenly Intelligence, the withdrawal and estrangement of it from all things, and from the forms and figures of them.

* Eccles, xxxv, 21,

2.

Thus it befell David, who, when he returned to himself, said, ‘I have watched, and am become as a sparrow, all alone on the housetop.’* ‘Alone’ expresses his estrangement and detachment from all things; and the ‘housetop’ the lifting up of the soul on high. The soul is now, as it were, ignorant of all things, because it knows God only, without knowing how. The Bride also speaks of this ignorance as one of the effects of this sleep or forgetfulness, saying, ‘I knew not:’t that is, I knew not how. Though he to whose soul is given this knowledge seems to be doing nothing and to be wholly unoccupied, because*the imagination has ceased to act, he still believes that the time has not been lost or uselessly spent: for though the harmonious correspondence of the powers of the soul has ceased, the understanding thereof abides as I say. The Bride in her wisdom answers herself this question, when she says, ‘I sleep, and my heart watcheth:’t though I sleep in my natural state, and cease from all exertion, my heart watcheth supernaturally, lifted up in supernatural knowledge. <A sign by which we may discern whether the soul is occupied in this secret intelligence is, that it has no pleasure in the thought of anything high or low.

Still we are not to suppose that this knowledge necessarily induces this forgetfulness; the reality of it does not depend on this. This forgetfulness occurs when God in a special way suspends the faculties of the soul. This does not often occur, for this knowledge does not always fill the whole soul. It is sufficient for our purpose that the intellect should be abstracted from all particular knowledge, whether temporal or spiritual, and that the will should have no inclination to dwell upon either. This sign serves to show that the soul is in this state of forgetfulness, when this know-

* Ps. ci. 8, + Cant. vi. 11. t Cant. v. 2.

ledge is furnished and communicated to the intellect only. But when it is communicated to the will also, which is almost always the case in a greater or less degree, the soul cannot but see, if it will reflect thereon, that it is occupied by this knowledge; because it is then conscious of the sweetness of love therein, without any particular knowledge or perception of what it loves. This is the reason why this knowledge is called loving and general; for as it communicates itself obscurely to the intellect, so also to the will, infusing therein love and sweetness confusedly, without the soul’s knowing distinctly the object of its love. Let this suffice to show how necessary it is for the soul to be occupied by this knowledge, in order that it may leave the way of meditation, and to feel assured, notwithstanding the appearance of doing nothing, that it is well employed, if it observes the signs of which I am speaking. It appears, also, from the illustration drawn from the shining of the sun’s rays, full of atoms, that the soul is not to imagine this light to be then most pure, subtile, and clear, when it presents itself to the intellect more palpably and more comprehensibly. For it is certain, according to Aristotle and theologians, that the more pure and sublime the Divine Light is, the more obscure it is to our understanding. _

I have much to say of this Divine Knowledge, both as it is in itself, and in its effects upon contemplatives; but I reserve it for its proper place. The present discussion would not have been so long had it not been requisite that the subject should be left in somewhat less confusion than it is at present, which I must admit to be the case. Over and above the fact that this subject is rarely treated in this way, whether in writing or by word of mouth, because it is in itself strange and obscure, comes also my poor method and little knowledge. I am without confidence in my own capacity to explain it, and therefore grow prolix and wearisome,

3.

be

exceeding the just limits required for the explanation of this division of the subject. I admit that I have done this occasionally on purpose; for a subject that cannot be explained by one view of it may be by another; and also because I consider that I have in this way thrown more light on what is to follow. For this reason, in order to conclude this part of the subject, I think I ought to solve one question concerning the duration of this knowledge, which I propose to do in the following chapter.