This is the Spaniard’s:—

De las cosas mas seguras, mas seguro es duvidar;

a typically modern sentiment of the Brazen Age of Science

following the Golden Age of Sentiment. But the Pilgrim

continues:—

The sages say: I tell thee no!

with equal faith all Faiths receive;

None more, none less, for Doubt is Death:

they live the most who most believe.

Here, again, is an oriental subtlety; a man who believes in

everything equally and generally may be said to believe in

nothing. It is not a simple European view which makes honest

Doubt worth a dozen of the Creeds. And it is in direct opposition

to the noted writer who holds that the man of simple faith is

worth ninety-nine of those who hold only to the egotistic

interests of their own individuality. This dark saying means (if

it mean anything), that the so-called moral faculties of man,

fancy and ideality, must lord it over the perceptive and

reflective powers,—a simple absurdity! It produced a

Turricremata, alias Torquemada, who, shedding floods of honest

tears, caused his victims to be burnt alive; and an Anchieta, the

Thaumaturgist of Brazil, who beheaded a converted heretic lest

the latter by lapse from grace lose his immortal soul.

But this vein of speculation, which bigots brand as “Doubt,

Denial, and Destruction;” this earnest religious scepticism; this

curious inquiry, “Has the universal tradition any base of fact?”;

this craving after the secrets and mysteries of the future, the

unseen, the unknown, is common to all races and to every age.

Even amongst the Romans, whose model man in Augustus’ day was

Horace, the philosophic, the epicurean, we find Propertius

asking:—

An ficta in miseras descendit fabula gentes

Et timor haud ultra quam rogus esse potest?

To return: the Pilgrim’s doctrines upon the subject of conscience

and repentance will startle those who do not follow his train of

thought:—

Never repent because thy will

with will of Fate be not at one:

Think, an thou please, before thou dost,

but never rue the deed when done.

This again is his modified fatalism. He would not accept the

boisterous mode of cutting the Gordian-knot proposed by the noble

British Philister—“we know we’re free and there’s an end on it!”

He prefers Lamarck’s, “The will is, in truth, never free.” He

believes man to be a co-ordinate term of Nature’s great

progression; a result of the interaction of organism and

environment, working through cosmic sections of time. He views

the human machine, the pipe of flesh, as depending upon the

physical theory of life. Every corporeal fact and phenomenon

which, like the tree, grows from within or without, is a mere

product of organization; living bodies being subject to the

natural law governing the lifeless and the inorganic. Whilst the

religionist assures us that man is not a mere toy of fate, but a

free agent responsible to himself, with work to do and duties to

perform, the Hâjî, with many modern schools, holds Mind to be a

word describing a special operation of matter; the faculties

generally to be manifestations of movements in the central

nervous system; and every idea, even of the Deity, to be a

certain little pulsation of a certain little mass of animal

pap,—the brain. Thus he would not object to relationship with a

tailless catarrhine anthropoid ape, descended from a monad or a

primal ascidian.

Hence he virtually says, “I came into the world without having

applied for or having obtained permission; nay, more, without my

leave being asked or given. Here I find myself hand-tied by

conditions, and fettered by laws and circumstances, in making

which my voice had no part. While in the womb I was an automaton;

and death will find me a mere machine. Therefore not I, but the

Law, or if, you please, the Lawgiver, is answerable for all my

actions.” Let me here observe that to the Western mind “Law”

postulates a Lawgiver; not so to the Eastern, and especially to

the Soofi, who holds these ideas to be human, unjustifiably

extended to interpreting the non-human, which men call the

Divine.

Further he would say, “I am an individual (_qui nil habet

dividui_), a circle touching and intersecting my neighbours at

certain points, but nowhere corresponding, nowhere blending.

Physically I am not identical in all points with other men.

Morally I differ from them: in nothing do the approaches of

knowledge, my five organs of sense (with their Shelleyan

“interpretation”), exactly resemble those of any other being.

_Ergo_, the effect of the world, of life, of natural objects,

will not in my case be the same as with the beings most

resembling me. Thus I claim the right of creating or modifying

for my own and private use the system which most imports me; and

if the reasonable leave be refused to me, I take it without

leave.

“But my individuality, however all-sufficient for myself, is an

infinitesimal point, an atom subject in all things to the Law of

Storms called Life. I feel, I know that Fate _is_. But I cannot

know what is or what is not fated to befall me. Therefore in the

pursuit of perfection as an individual lies my highest, and

indeed my only duty, the ‘I’ being duly blended with the ‘We.’ I

object to be a ‘selfless man,’ which to me denotes an inverted

moral sense. I am bound to take careful thought concerning the

consequences of every word and deed. When, however, the Future

has become the Past, it would be the merest vanity for me to

grieve or to repent over that which was decreed by universal

Law.”

The usual objection is that of man’s practice. It says, “This is

well in theory; but how carry it out? For instance, why would you

kill, or give over to be killed, the man compelled by Fate to

kill your father?” Hâjî Abdû replies, “I do as others do, not

because the murder was done by him, but because the murderer

should not be allowed another chance of murdering. He is a tiger

who has tasted blood and who should be shot. I am convinced that

he was a tool in the hands of Fate, but that will not prevent my

taking measures, whether predestined or not, in order to prevent

his being similarly used again.”

As with repentance so with conscience. Conscience may be a “fear

which is the shadow of justice”; even as pity is the shadow of

love. Though simply a geographical and chronological accident,

which changes with every age of the world, it may deter men from

seeking and securing the prize of successful villainy. But this

incentive to beneficence must be applied to actions that will be

done, not to deeds that have been done.

The Hâjî, moreover, carefully distinguishes between the working

of fate under a personal God, and under the Reign of Law. In the

former case the contradiction between the foreknowledge of a

Creator, and the free-will of a Creature, is direct, palpable,

absolute. We might as well talk of black-whiteness and of

white-blackness. A hundred generations of divines have never been

able to ree the riddle; a million will fail. The difficulty is

insurmountable to the Theist whose Almighty is perforce

Omniscient, and as Omniscient, Prescient. But it disappears when

we convert the Person into Law, or a settled order of events;

subject, moreover, to certain exceptions fixed and immutable, but

at present unknown to man. The difference is essential as that

between the penal code with its narrow forbiddal, and the broad

commandment which is a guide rather than a task-master.

Thus, too, the belief in fixed Law, versus arbitrary will,

modifies the Hâjî’s opinions concerning the pursuit of happiness.

Mankind, _das rastlose Ursachenthier_, is born to be on the whole

equally happy and miserable. The highest organisms, the fine

porcelain of our family, enjoy the most and suffer the most: they

have a capacity for rising to the empyrean of pleasure and for

plunging deep into the swift-flowing river of woe and pain. Thus

Dante (Inf. vi. 106):—

—tua scienza

Che vuol, quanto la cosa è più perfetta

Più senta ’l bene, e cosi la doglienza.

So Buddhism declares that existence in itself implies effort,

pain and sorrow; and, the higher the creature, the more it

suffers. The common clay enjoys little and suffers little. Sum up

the whole and distribute the mass: the result will be an average;

and the beggar is, on the whole, happy as the prince. Why, then,

asks the objector, does man ever strive and struggle to change,

to rise; a struggle which involves the idea of improving his

condition? The Hâjî answers, “Because such is the Law under which

man is born: it may be fierce as famine, cruel as the grave, but

man must obey it with blind obedience.” He does not enter into

the question whether life is worth living, whether man should

elect to be born. Yet his Eastern pessimism, which contrasts so

sharply with the optimism of the West, re-echoes the lines:

—a life,

With large results so little rife,

Though bearable seems hardly worth

This pomp of words, this pain of birth.

Life, whatever may be its consequence, is built upon a basis of

sorrow. Literature, the voice of humanity, and the verdict of

mankind proclaim that all existence is a state of sadness. The

“physicians of the Soul” would save her melancholy from

degenerating into despair by doses of steadfast belief in the

presence of God, in the assurance of Immortality, and in visions

of the final victory of good. Were Hâjî Abdû a mere Theologist,

he would add that Sin, not the possibility of revolt, but the

revolt itself against conscience, is the primary form of evil,

because it produces error, moral and intellectual. This man, who

omits to read the Conscience-law, however it may differ from the

Society-law, is guilty of negligence. That man, who obscures the

light of Nature with sophistries, becomes incapable of discerning

his own truths. In both cases error, deliberately adopted, is

succeeded by suffering which, we are told, comes in justice and

benevolence as a warning, a remedy, and a chastisement.

But the Pilgrim is dissatisfied with the idea that evil

originates in the individual actions of free agents, ourselves

and others. This doctrine fails to account for its

characteristics,—essentiality and universality. That creatures

endowed with the mere possibility of liberty should not always

choose the Good appears natural. But that of the milliards of

human beings who have inhabited the Earth, not one should have

been found invariably to choose Good, proves how insufficient is

the solution. Hence no one believes in the existence of the

complete man under the present state of things. The Hâjî rejects

all popular and mythical explanation by the Fall of “Adam,” the

innate depravity of human nature, and the absolute perfection of

certain Incarnations, which argues their divinity. He can only

wail over the prevalence of evil, assume its foundation to be

error, and purpose to abate it by unrooting that Ignorance which

bears and feeds it.

His “eschatology,” like that of the Soofis generally, is vague

and shadowy. He may lean towards the doctrine of Marc Aurelius,

“The unripe grape, the ripe and the dried: all things are changes

not into nothing, but into that which is not at present.” This is

one of the _monstruosa opinionum portenta_ mentioned by the XIXth

General Council, alias the First Council of the Vatican. But he

only accepts it with a limitation. He cleaves to the ethical, not

to the intellectual, worship of “Nature,” which moderns define to

be an “unscientific and imaginary synonym for the sum total of

observed phenomena.” Consequently he holds to the “dark and

degrading doctrines of the Materialist,” the “Hylotheist”; in

opposition to the spiritualist, a distinction far more marked in

the West than in the East. Europe draws a hard, dry line between

Spirit and Matter: Asia does not.

Among us the Idealist objects to the Materialists that the latter

cannot agree upon fundamental points; that they cannot define

what is an atom; that they cannot account for the transformation

of physical action and molecular motion into consciousness; and

_vice versâ_, that they cannot say what matter is; and, lastly,

that Berkeley and his school have proved the existence of spirit

while denying that of matter.

The Materialists reply that the want of agreement shows only a

study insufficiently advanced; that man cannot describe an atom,

because he is still an infant in science, yet there is no reason

why his mature manhood should not pass through error and

incapacity to truth and knowledge; that consciousness becomes a

property of matter when certain conditions are present; that Hyle

({Greek: hylae}) or Matter may be provisionally defined as

“phenomena with a substructure of their own, transcendental and

eternal, subject to the action, direct or indirect, of the five

senses, whilst its properties present themselves in three states,

the solid, the liquid, and the gaseous.” To casuistical Berkeley

they prefer the common sense of mankind. They ask the idealist

and the spiritualist why they cannot find names for themselves

without borrowing from a “dark and degraded” school; why the

former must call himself after his eye (_idein_); the latter

after his breath (_spiritus_)? Thus the Hâjî twits them with

affixing their own limitations to their own Almighty Power, and,

as Socrates said, with bringing down Heaven to the market-place.

Modern thought tends more and more to reject crude idealism and

to support the monistic theory, the double aspect, the

transfigured realism. It discusses the Nature of Things in

Themselves. To the question, is there anything outside of us

which corresponds with our sensations? that is to say, is the

whole world simply “I,” they reply that obviously there is a

something else; and that this something else produces the

brain-disturbance which is called sensation. Instinct orders us

to do something; Reason (the balance of faculties) directs; and

the strongest motive controls. Modern Science, by the discovery

of Radiant Matter, a fourth condition, seems to conciliate the

two schools. “La découverte d’un quatrième état de la matière,”

says a Reviewer, “c’est la porte ouverte à l’infini de ses

transformations; c’est l’homme invisible et impalpable de même

possible sans cesser d’être substantiel; c’est le monde des

esprits entrant sans absurdité dans la domaine des hypothèses

scientifiques; c’est la possibilité pour le matérialiste de

croire à la vie d’outre tombe, sans renoncer au substratum

matériel qu’il croit nécessaire au maintien de l’individualité.”

With Hâjî Abdû the soul is not material, for that would be a

contradiction of terms. He regards it, with many moderns, as a

state of things, not a thing; a convenient word denoting the

sense of personality, of individual identity. In its ghostly

signification he discovers an artificial dogma which could hardly

belong to the brutal savages of the Stone Age. He finds it in the

funereal books of ancient Egypt, whence probably it passed to the

Zendavesta and the Vedas. In the Hebrew Pentateuch, of which part

is still attributed to Moses, it is unknown, or, rather, it is

deliberately ignored by the author or authors. The early

Christians could not agree upon the subject; Origen advocated the

pre-existence of men’s souls, supposing them to have been all

created at one time and successively embodied. Others make Spirit

born with the hour of birth: and so forth.

But the brain-action or, if you so phrase it, the mind, is not

confined to the reasoning faculties; nor can we afford to ignore

the sentiments, the affections which are, perhaps, the most

potent realities of life. Their loud affirmative voice contrasts

strongly with the titubant accents of the intellect. They seem to

demand a future life, even, a state of rewards and punishments

from the Maker of the world, the _Ortolano Eterno_,[1] the Potter

of the East, the Watchmaker of the West. They protest against the

idea of annihilation. They revolt at the notion of eternal

parting from parents, kinsmen and friends. Yet the dogma of a

future life is by no means catholic and universal. The

Anglo-European race apparently cannot exist without it, and we

have lately heard of the “Aryan Soul-land.” On the other hand

many of the Buddhist and even the Brahman Schools preach Nirwâna

(comparative non-existence) and Parinirwâna (absolute

nothingness). Moreover, the great Turanian family, actually

occupying all Eastern Asia, has ever ignored it; and the

200,000,000 of Chinese Confucians, the mass of the nation,

protest emphatically against the mainstay of the western creeds,

because it “unfits men for the business and duty of life by

fixing their speculations on an unknown world.” And even its

votaries, in all ages, races and faiths, cannot deny that the

next world is a copy, more or less idealized, of the present; and

that it lacks a single particular savouring of originality. It is

in fact a mere continuation; and the continuation is “not

proven.”

It is most hard to be a man;

and the Pilgrim’s sole consolation is in self-cultivation, and in

the pleasures of the affections. This sympathy may be an indirect

self-love, a reflection of the light of egotism: still it is so

transferred as to imply a different system of convictions. It

requires a different name: to call benevolence “self-love” is to

make the fruit or flower not only depend upon a root for

development (which is true), but the very root itself (which is

false). And, finally, his ideal is of the highest: his praise is

reserved for:

—Lives

Lived in obedience to the inner law

Which cannot alter.

[1] The Eternal Gardener: so the old inscription saying:—

locatus est in

Homo damnatus est in horto

humatus est in

renatus est in

The Kasîdah of Hâjî Abdû El-Yezdî · 第 16 / 21 题