“These considerations have led me to think that some good results might
ensue from a series of well-directed questions propounded to me while
mesmerized. You have often observed the profound self-cognizance
evinced by the sleep-waker—the extensive knowledge he displays upon all
points relating to the mesmeric condition itself; and from this
self-cognizance may be deduced hints for the proper conduct of a
catechism.”

I consented of course to make this experiment. A few passes threw Mr.
Vankirk into the mesmeric sleep. His breathing became immediately more
easy, and he seemed to suffer no physical uneasiness. The following
conversation then ensued:—V. in the dialogue representing the patient,
and P. myself. _P._ Are you asleep? _V._ Yes—no; I would rather sleep more soundly. _P._ [_After a few more passes._] Do you sleep now? _V._ Yes. _P._ How do you think your present illness will result? _V._ [_After a long hesitation and speaking as if with effort_.] I must die. _P._ Does the idea of death afflict you? _V._ [_Very quickly_.] No—no! _P._ Are you pleased with the prospect? _V._ If I were awake I should like to die, but now it is no
      matter. The mesmeric condition is so near death as to content me. _P._ I wish you would explain yourself, Mr. Vankirk. _V._ I am willing to do so, but it requires more effort than I
      feel able to make. You do not question me properly. _P._ What then shall I ask? _V._ You must begin at the beginning. _P._ The beginning! But where is the beginning? _V._ You know that the beginning is GOD. [_This was said in a
      low, fluctuating tone, and with every sign of the most profound
      veneration_.] _P._ What then, is God? _V._ [_Hesitating for many minutes._] I cannot tell. _P._ Is not God spirit? _V._ While I was awake I knew what you meant by “spirit,” but now
      it seems only a word—such, for instance, as truth, beauty—a
      quality, I mean. _P._ Is not God immaterial? _V._ There is no immateriality—it is a mere word. That which is
      not matter, is not at all—unless qualities are things. _P._ Is God, then, material? _V._ No. [_This reply startled me very much._]

      _P._ What, then, is he? _V._ [_After a long pause, and mutteringly._] I see—but it is a
      thing difficult to tell. [_Another long pause._] He is not
      spirit, for he exists. Nor is he matter, as _you understand it_. But there are _gradations_ of matter of which man knows nothing;
      the grosser impelling the finer, the finer pervading the grosser. The atmosphere, for example, impels the electric principle, while
      the electric principle permeates the atmosphere. These gradations
      of matter increase in rarity or fineness, until we arrive at a
      matter _unparticled_—without particles—indivisible—_one;_ and
      here the law of impulsion and permeation is modified. The
      ultimate, or unparticled matter, not only permeates all things
      but impels all things; and thus _is_ all things within itself. This matter is God. What men attempt to embody in the word
      “thought,” is this matter in motion. _P._ The metaphysicians maintain that all action is reducible to
      motion and thinking, and that the latter is the origin of the
      former. _V._ Yes; and I now see the confusion of idea. Motion is the
      action of _mind_, not of _thinking_. The unparticled matter, or
      God, in quiescence, is (as nearly as we can conceive it) what men
      call mind. And the power of self-movement (equivalent in effect
      to human volition) is, in the unparticled matter, the result of
      its unity and omniprevalence; _how_ I know not, and now clearly
      see that I shall never know. But the unparticled matter, set in
      motion by a law, or quality, existing within itself, is thinking. _P._ Can you give me no more precise idea of what you term the
      unparticled matter? _V._ The matters of which man is cognizant escape the senses in
      gradation. We have, for example, a metal, a piece of wood, a drop
      of water, the atmosphere, a gas, caloric, electricity, the
      luminiferous ether. Now we call all these things matter, and
      embrace all matter in one general definition; but in spite of
      this, there can be no two ideas more essentially distinct than
      that which we attach to a metal, and that which we attach to the
      luminiferous ether. When we reach the latter, we feel an almost
      irresistible inclination to class it with spirit, or with
      nihility. The only consideration which restrains us is our
      conception of its atomic constitution; and here, even, we have to
      seek aid from our notion of an atom, as something possessing in
      infinite minuteness, solidity, palpability, weight. Destroy the
      idea of the atomic constitution and we should no longer be able
      to regard the ether as an entity, or at least as matter. For want
      of a better word we might term it spirit. Take, now, a step
      beyond the luminiferous ether—conceive a matter as much more rare
      than the ether, as this ether is more rare than the metal, and we
      arrive at once (in spite of all the school dogmas) at a unique
      mass—an unparticled matter. For although we may admit infinite
      littleness in the atoms themselves, the infinitude of littleness
      in the spaces between them is an absurdity. There will be a
      point—there will be a degree of rarity, at which, if the atoms
      are sufficiently numerous, the interspaces must vanish, and the
      mass absolutely coalesce. But the consideration of the atomic
      constitution being now taken away, the nature of the mass
      inevitably glides into what we conceive of spirit. It is clear,
      however, that it is as fully matter as before. The truth is, it
      is impossible to conceive spirit, since it is impossible to
      imagine what is not. When we flatter ourselves that we have
      formed its conception, we have merely deceived our understanding
      by the consideration of infinitely rarified matter. _P._ There seems to me an insurmountable objection to the idea of
      absolute coalescence;—and that is the very slight resistance
      experienced by the heavenly bodies in their revolutions through
      space—a resistance now ascertained, it is true, to exist in
      _some_ degree, but which is, nevertheless, so slight as to have
      been quite overlooked by the sagacity even of Newton. We know
      that the resistance of bodies is, chiefly, in proportion to their
      density. Absolute coalescence is absolute density. Where there
      are no interspaces, there can be no yielding. An ether,
      absolutely dense, would put an infinitely more effectual stop to
      the progress of a star than would an ether of adamant or of iron.