But above
all he is the microcosm, the tiny percipient centre upon which the
immense cosmic circle focusses itself as the sun upon a
burning-glass--and he is not shrivelled up by the miracle! Other
creatures (he notes) share his sensations; but, so far as he can
discover, not his intelligence--or, if at all, in no degree worth
measuring. So far as he can detect, he is not only an actor in the grand
cosmic pageant, but the sole intelligent spectator. As a poor Welsh
parson, Thomas Traherne, wrote of the small town of his childhood:--
_The streets were mine, the temple was mine, the people were mine, their
clothes and gold and silver were mine, as much as their sparkling eyes,
their skins and ruddy faces. The skies were mine, and so were the sun
and moon and stars; and all the world was mine, and I the only spectator
and enjoyer of it...._
_But little did the infant dream
That all the treasures of the world were by;
And that himself was so the cream
And crown of all which round about did lie.
Yet thus it was: the Gem,
The Diadem,
The ring enclosing all
That stood upon this earthly ball,
The heavenly Eye,
Much wider than the sky
Wherein they all included were,
The glorious soul that was the King,
Made to possess them, did appear
A small and little thing!_
We may safely go some way even beyond this, and lay it down for
unchallengeable truth that over and above Man's consciousness of being
the eye of the Universe and receptacle, however imperfect, of its great
harmony, he has a native impulse to merge himself in that harmony and be
one with it: a spirit in his heart (as the Scripture puts it) "of
adoption, whereby we cry, _Abba, Father_"--_And because ye are sons, God
hath sent forth the Spirit of His Son into your hearts, crying, Abba,
Father.
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