through their backs--really
feels. It is the way he ought to feel. As often as not he feels quite
comfortable. One sees one every little while (the mere scientist)
dropping the entire universe with a dull thud and looking happy after
it.

But the best ones are different. Even those who are not quite the best
are different. It is really a very rare scientist who joggles
contentedly down without qualms, or without delays, to a hole in space.
There is always a capability, an apparently left-over capability in him.
What seems to happen is, that when the average human being makes up his
mind to it, insists on being a scientist, the Lord keeps a remnant of
happiness in him--a gnawing on the inside of him which will not let him
rest.

This remnant of happiness in him, his soul, or inferring organ, or
whatever it may be, makes him suspect that the scientific method as a
complete method is a false, superficial, and dangerous method,
threatening the very existence of all knowledge that is worth knowing on
the earth. He begins to suspect that a mere scientist, a man who cannot
even make his mind work both ways, backwards or forwards, as he likes
(the simplest, most rudimentary motion of a mind), inductively or
deductively, is bound to have something left out of all of his
knowledge. He sees that the all-or-nothing assumption in knowledge, to
say nothing of not applying to the arts, in which it is always sterile,
does not even apply to the physical sciences--to the mist, dust, fire,
and water out of which the earth and the scientist are made.

For men who are living their lives as we are living ours, in the shimmer
of a globule in space, it is not enough that we should lift our faces to
the sky and blunder and guess at a God there, because there is so much
room between the stars, and murmur faintly, "Spiritual things are
spiritually discerned." By the infinite bones of our bodies, by the
seeds of the million years that flow in our veins, _material_ things are
spiritually discerned. There is not science enough nor scientific method
enough in the schools of all Christendom for a man to listen
intelligently to his own breathing with, or to know his own thumb-nail.
Is not his own heart thundering the infinite through him--beating the
eternal against his sides--even while he speaks? And does he not know it
while he speaks?

By the time a man's a Junior or a Senior nowadays, if he feels the
eternal beating against his sides he thin