that this coincidence was impossible; simply it did not take place.1

V

And now for the final part of this discussion. What can be said in explanation of this curious Sense of Presence? If we understood how the ordinary and veridical conviction of reality comes into existence, our problem would be near its solution. With that purpose in mind let us observe what takes place in the growing infant.

It is evident that the impression made by a person upon a newborn infant is something quite different from and far simpler than the corresponding experience of the adult, and yet the babe sees perfectly well. What is it that must be added to the bare original sight impressions of the infant in order to produce the full sense of the presence of a particular person?

The infant sees the mother not only in one but in a thousand different attitudes. She stands erect, walks, bends, sits. More than that, sensations from the other senses are added in countless numbers to the visual sensations. Her steps and other movements make noises, she speaks and utters pretty sounds while smiling at the child. She touches and fondles it in an indescribable variety of ways. All these sensations contribute in some measure to the formation of the sense of the reality of the mother. Her presence means not merely the bare sight of her; it means a great complex of sensations connected with her.

But we have so far left out a most important class of impressions produced by the mother. The child is not a passive receiver of sight, sound, and touch; he responds to these impressions. At

1 A fuller study of this and other aspects of religious mysticism may be found in the author's Psychology of Religious Mysticism.

first little is elicited from the child by the mother's presence- merely some uncoördinated movements of various parts of the body. The movements multiply and acquire significance. The child stretches out its arms toward the mother, moves its lips, and so forth. More important still than the movements of the external limbs is what takes place within the babe, beyond direct observation. One may say, speaking generally, that every part of the internal body of the child comes to be affected in definite ways by the presence of the mother. When it is hungry, the main though not at all the only effect produced by the approach of the mother is an increase of salivation and of the several other secretions connected with digestion. The smile with which the babe greets the mother is an expression of a complex physiological activity. It involves changes of circulation, of respiration, and of other mechanisms productive of pleasure. In short, the sight of the mother comes to call forth in tie babe, not only readily observable external movements, but also an extremely complex system of internal reactions, including, more or less, the whole organism: respiration and circulation, the digestive organs, the glands of inner secretions, and so forth.

When the infant has reached maturity, the complexity of his reactions to persons he knows, and even to those he does not know, beggars description. Where is the novelist who could represent adequately the infinite variety of address, intonation, attitude, gesture, by means of which the accomplished society woman indicates to each person his or her relative position in her social world? These infinite nuances of behavior correspond to an infinite variety of impressions made upon her by different persons-impressions among which, we now realize, mere sight counts for little. Knowing a person

does not mean chiefly familiarity with his features. That alone is almost nothing. Knowing him means being able to anticipate his thoughts, feelings, and actions; and that involves the production within us, by his presence, of certain feelings, emotions, thoughts, and volitions. It is the production of these effects which gives to the sight of a person the vivid, intimate meaning characteristic of a real presence. As a result of this complex inner activity we speak and act in a way appropriate to the particular person before us.

This is enough, I trust, to prove that the more essential element in the realization of a Presence is not sight, or any other sensation coming in through the external senses, such as sound or touch, — but the complex pattern of inner responses made to these perceptions. Whenever these are absent, the sight of a person seems utterly unconvincing. It is a person with the personality left out, a mere shell of the reality. Under these circumstances, Masselon's patient could not believe, despite the testimony of his eyes, that he had before him his daughter. You remember his saying, 'If she were my daughter I should experience a great joy.' You remember, also, the complaints of Janet's patients. The woman who had lost her husband repeats that she has not the feelings which a wife should have for the memory of her husband. Her remembrance of him leaves her cold, and she cannot realize that it is she, herself, who has lived happily with him. On the contrary, whenever these inner responses exist, the impression of a real presence is produced, even in the absence of any sensation from the external world.

Who the invisible person is supposed to be depends upon a number of factors. Chief among them is what we may call the dominant preoccupation or concern of the subject. The Christian who

desires the presence of Christ realizes that presence. When there is no predisposition, no anticipation, the Presence is usually, at first, quite indeterminate, and then may acquire definiteness under the influence of the subject's guesses about it. But an adequate elucidation of this point would take us into channels too technical for a magazine.

Too technical also would be the answer to this question: When the occasion of the calling forth of the inner reactions constituting the essential part of the Sense of Presence is not an actual presence, what is it? I shall say merely that this problem does not appear with reference to the Sense of Presence only; it appears also with reference to hallucinations and to abnormal fears, the fears for which there is no appropriate cause. The subject is fully aware that there is no cause for fear, yet all the inner and outer bodily manifestations take place and the mind is filled with dread, just as if a cause were perceived. A complete answer to this problem would include reference to the function of the mysterious subconscious.

Some of my readers are probably wondering how the preceding explanation of the Sense of Invisible Presence affects the problem of the existence of God. The answer to that query cannot be, it seems to me, a matter for hesitation. Those who accept the explanation I have given will have to hold that the sense of a divine or other Presence is not at all, in itself, a proof of a real presence. The mystic is mistaken when he gives the sense of warm, personal intimacy he has experienced as proof of the reality of the Presence. We know that that experience, absolutely convincing as it feels to him, may be an illusion. On the other hand, the explanation given is not in itself a disproof of God. God might never

Moreover, although the Sense of Presence is, let us say, usually an illusion, a God might conceivably, at times, manifest Himself in that way. There would be then both illusory and genuine instances of the Sense of Invisible Presence; and they would be indistinguishable from each other. That last point is not to be overlooked by the would-be believer in the occasional personal manifestation of a God. The situation is here as in the physical world. Science shows that rain is produced by natural causes temperature, moisture, wind. But that demonstrated fact would not prevent the occasional production of rain at the good pleasure of a God possessing the necessary power. In order to believe in this occasional action of a God, in the face of the satisfactory scientific explanation of rain and of the Sense of Presence, a rational being would, of course, demand adequate reasons.

would remain, as already said, the possibility of a God who does not maintain with man or with physical nature relations of a personal character - such a God would not be satisfactory to the mystically inclined; for the main attribute of the God of the mystic is that He enters into personal communion with man.

But in raising the problem of God we have passed beyond the intended scope of this paper. We began with the remark that mind, great and powerful though it is, deceives us grievously, that it has led the uncivilized into the nonsense and waste of magic and of crude forms of religion. We may close on the comforting thought that, even though the civilized are not free from similar deceptions, the informed mind can be turned upon itself in order to bring into the light its own deceptions. That is what we have tried to do in the case of the conviction of Invisible Presence and of the Unreality of the Real.

were in London, and they took her to all sorts of distances and to all kinds of low neighborhoods, but she never faltered in her allegiance. Sometimes, of course, they went shopping in Bond Street, or held Court, or gave garden parties, which made it easier for her, but she never hesitated to follow them to the East End, to all kinds of queer places near the docks, or in Mile End Road, or wherever their duties took them.

Having money made these pleasures possible. Without independent means she could never have afforded all the bus fares and tube fares required. But of course there were many ceremonies that did not take a penny, being near at hand, just round the corner, so to speak, which is one advantage of living in Westminster, with Parliament and the Abbey a stone's throw away.

And most certainly she had a taste in dress. Because all these different spectacles required different sorts of clothes. Not that anyone in the crowds noticed her clothes especially - an elderly lady, well over sixty and painfully shabby, hardly attracts attention. But dress was due to the occasion, due to herself as spectator. Just as one is always honest about paying one's fare in the bus when the conductor has overlooked it not that it matters to the omnibus company, but it matters very much indeed to one's self. So Miss Grey-Ashby had a variety of clothes suitable to different occasions, and each morning at breakfast she scanned the "To-day's Arrangements' column in the Times - being able to take in the Times argues money in itself to see what was demanded of her that day. Naturally one made a distinction between weddings and funerals, and prime ministers, and those funny little emirs and sultans who were perpetually coming over from Africa or Arabia to lay their troubles before the Minister

for Foreign Affairs, to say nothing of the King and Queen. If one views a procession from a sand box, which is certainly the best vantage point for an elderly lady but five foot high, one is in a conspicuous position and must dress accordingly. Miss Grey-Ashby had an amazing knowledge of the location of every sand box in London those great iron boxes painted silver or green, which hold gravel to be scattered over the roads on slippery days.

Now this wardrobe of hers, while fairly extensive and suited to a nicety to every occasion, especially when varied by hats and gloves, was surprisingly shabby. Archaic, to say the least. Cut in a style reminiscent of the early days of the late Queen, but of excellent quality. Which shows the advantage of buying good quality in the first place, for, however styles may change, quality remains. And it is quality, after all, that counts. Miss Grey-Ashby took intense pride in the wearing value of these clothes of hersnone of your modern materials would have stood up so well under so many years of rain and strain. And what modern skirt would have allowed one to scramble to the top of a sand box so modestly?

For her Sovereigns a distinct, final touch was reserved. An elegance, a homage for them alone. This was a tortoise-shell comb, of the kind known as Spanish, some inches high and of corresponding breadth. When worn, it could be well covered by a hat, high in the crown and capacious, and capable of hiding this elegance from the public gaze. Thus protected while pushing her way through the crowds, squirming in and out, ducking below elbows, and elbowing herself when necessary, there was no fear that the precious comb would be broken. Or worse, stolen. Such a temptation to have whisked it off, valuable as it was. But the hat

made all safe. And once on a sand box, as the royal carriage drew near, the hat itself came off. A sheer mark of respect one can't well curtsy from a sand box. And flaring from the highest rung of the comb, tied with a cunning that forced it to spring forth like a jack-in-the-box when released, was a glorious vast bow of cerise satin. No less. It had been acknowledged, time and again, by Their Majesties - once even from the great glass coach itself. But apart from these ceremonies of life and death, provided for the cheering of little lives like Miss Grey-Ashby's, she had one more pleasure, equally keena love of animals. But none of your cats and dogs, mind. None of that. Her taste was for the exotic. But the exotic comes high-too high to gratify. Macaws, for example, run to guineas. One cannot pay a quarter's rent for a macaw, but one can go and look at them. One can look at chimpanzees for seventy guineas, or meerkats, which are cheap at five pounds. And, if one has asked the price of too many animals and cannot seemingly decide between a gorilla and a mongoose, it is possible to get out of one's embarrassment by buying a few pennies' worth of bird seed. The purchase of bird seed provides a dignified escape from one's predicament. These strategic retreats are always excitingfinesse is a game in itself. And fortunately there are many animal shops in London, so that one need not visit the same one too often. But because of her taste for the exotic, and because of independent means which were not independent enough, — except for bird seed, it so happened that for many years Miss Grey-Ashby remained petless. Which was a pity, because her garret was so eminently adapted for pets. No black cat on the hearth was a distinct lack. But she wanted something tropical, not a cat. Perhaps it

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was as well, the high price of the tropical or exotic. It substituted perpetual planning and dreaming, and visits to remote parts of London, to Club Row on Sunday mornings, and to the great animal importers on London Docks. Once she had a nasty experience at that shop on the Docks, trying to choose between a small lion cub and a honey bearbear deterred by the cost, yet trying not to give that impression. The man down there was very rude to her the next time he saw a shabby little old lady asking for elephants he slammed the door in her face. But that was the sort of thing you might expect in the East End.

Like many of us in Westminster, Miss Grey-Ashby saved her threepenny bits. Like many people with a fixed income, she felt it possible to augment it by the discreet and occasional abstraction of certain small coins, which normally would have gone toward rent, or kindling wood, or some such necessity. But by bottling them in a clear glass bottle it was possible to make certain inroads on a fixed income without apparent loss. As weeks and months went by, as the coins in the bottle increased, she felt that without undue extravagance she might well spend the accumulation for a pet. A proper pet. Out of the ordinary, the kind she had always longed for.

It was one of those November days when the daylight gave out completely at three in the afternoon. A long stretch before tea time, a still longer one before supper. The clear glass bottle on the mantelpiece glowed in the firelight, and glowed still further when