style of Butler; but that the language and illustrations of the latter
belong to the same world as that we live in, have a relation to practice,
and recall sentiments we remember to have felt and sensations which are
familiar to us, while those of Cudworth, on the contrary, seem difficult,
and are strange in the ears of the common people.
We do not need to go more deeply into the discussion of Butler’s
doctrine, for it is familiar to our readers. If there is any
incorrectness in the delineation which he has given of conscience, it is
in the passages in which he speaks, or seems to speak, of it more as an
animating or suggesting, than as a criticising or regulative faculty.
The error of this representation has been repeatedly pointed out and
illustrated in these pages.[5] It is probable, indeed, that Butler’s
attention had scarcely been directed with sufficient precision to this
portion of the subject. It follows easily, from his favourite principles,
that when two impulses—say benevolence and self-love—contend for mastery
in the mind, and conscience pronounces that one is a higher and better
motive of action than the other, the office of conscience is judicial,
and not impulsive. Conscience gives its opinion, and the will obeys or
disobeys at its pleasure; the impelling spring of action is the selected
impulse on which the will finally decides to act. At the same time, it
must be admitted that there are cases when, for practical purposes,
conscience is an impelling and goading faculty. We mean when it is
opposed by indolence. There is a heavy lassitude of the will, which is
certainly spurred, sometimes effectually, and sometimes in vain, by our
conscience. Possibly the correct language may be, that in such cases
the desire of ease is opposed by the desire of doing our duty; and that
in this case also the office of conscience is simply to say, that the
latter is higher than the former. To us it seems, however, if we may
trust our consciousness on points of such exact nicety, that it is more
graphically true to speak of the sluggishness of the will being goaded
and stimulated by the activity of conscience. There is a native inertness
in the voluntary faculty which will not come forth unless great occasion
is shown it. At any rate, something like this was perhaps the meaning of
Butler, and he, no doubt, would have included in the term conscience the
desire to do our duty as such, and because it is such.
Butler has been claimed by Mr. Austin, in his ‘Province of Jurisprudence’
(and sometimes since by other writers), as a supporter of the compound
Utilitarian scheme, as it has been called, which regards the promotion
of general happiness as the single inherent characteristic of virtuous
actions, and considers the conscience as a special instinct for directing
men in determining what actions are for the general interest and what
are not. This theory is, of course, distinct from the common Epicurean
scheme, which either denies, like Bentham, the fact of a conscience _in
limine_, or, like Mill, professes to explain it away as an effect of
illusion and association. The ‘Composite theory,’ on the other hand,
distinctly admits the existence and obligatory authority of conscience,
but regards it as a ready, expeditious, and, so to say, telegraphic mode
of arriving at results which could otherwise be reached only by toilsome
and dubious discussions of general utility. In our judgment, however,
the writings of Butler hardly warrant an authoritative ascription to
him of this philosophy. He doubtless held that the promotion of general
happiness, taking all time and all the world into a complete account, is
_one_ characteristic and ascertainable property of virtue; but there is
nothing to show that he thought it was the only one. On the contrary,
we think we could show, with some plausibility, from several passages,
that, in his judgment, virtuous actions had besides several essential
and appropriate qualities. He was, at all events, the last man to deny
that they might have; and his whole reasoning on the subject of moral
probation seems to imply that, inasmuch as such a state is, according to
every appearance, not at all the readiest or surest means of promoting
satisfaction and enjoyment, it cannot have been selected for the
cultivation of either satisfaction or enjoyment. It is one thing to hold
that, the nature of man being what it is, a virtuous life is the happiest
as well as best; and another, that such a life is the best because it is
the happiest, and that the nature of man was created in the manner it is
in order to produce such happiness. The first is, of course, the doctrine
of Butler; the second there does not seem any certain ground for imputing
to him.
The religious side of morals is rather indicated and implied, than
elaborated or worked out by Butler. Yet, as we formerly said, a constant
reference to the ‘presages of conscience’ pervades his writings.
Although he has nowhere drawn out the course of reasoning fully, or
step by step, it is certain that he relied on the moral evidence for
a moral Providence; not, indeed, with foolhardy assurance, but with
the cautious confidence which was habitual to him. The ideas which are
implied in the term justice—the connection between virtue and reward—sin
and punishment—a sacred law and holy Ruler, were plainly the trains of
reflection most commonly present to his mind.
Persons who give credence to an intuitive conscience are so often
taunted with the variations and mutability of human nature, that it is
worth noticing how complete is the coincidence, in essential points of
feeling, between minds so different as Butler, Kant, and Plato. We can
scarcely imagine among thoughtful men a greater diversity of times and
characters. The great Athenian in his flowing robes daily conversing
in captious Athens—the quiet rector wandering in Durham coalfields—the
smoking professor in ungainly Königsberg, would, if the contrast were
not too great for art, form a trio worthy of a picture. The whole series
of truths and reasonings which we have called the supernatural religion,
or that of conscience, is, however, as familiar to one as to the
other, and is the most important, if not the most conspicuous, feature
in the doctrinal teaching of all three. The very great differences
of nomenclature and statement, the entire contrast in the style of
expression, do but heighten the wonder of the essential and interior
correspondence. The doctrine has certainly shown its capability of
co-existing with several forms of civilisation; and at least the simplest
explanation of its diffusion is by supposing that it has a real warrant
in the nature and consciousness of man.
Such is the doctrine of the Sermons; the argument of the ‘Analogy’ is
of a different and more complicated kind; and, from its refinement,
requires to be stated with care and precaution. As the Sermons are in a
great measure a reply to the caricaturists of Locke, the ‘Analogy’ is,
in reality, designed as a confutation of Shaftesbury and Bolingbroke.
It was the object of those writers, as of others since, to disprove the
authority of the Christian and Jewish revelation, by showing that they
enjoined on man conduct forbidden by the law of nature, and likewise
imputed to the Deity actions of an evil tendency and degrading character.
These writers are commonly, and perhaps best, met by a clear denial of
the fact; by showing in detail, that Christianity is really open to no
such objections, contains no such precepts, and imputes no such actions:
the reply of Butler is much more refined and peculiar.
The argument has been thus expounded, and its supposed bearing explained
by Professor Rogers in the notice of Butler,—the title of which we have
ventured to affix to this Article:—
‘Further; we cannot but think that the conclusiveness of
Butler’s work as against its true object, “The Deist,” has
often been underrated by many even of its genuine admirers.
Thus, Dr. Chalmers, for instance, who gives such glowing proofs
of his admiration of the work, and expatiates in a congenial
spirit on its merits, affirms that “those overrate the power
of analogy who look to it for any very distinct or positive
contribution to the Christian argument. To repel objections,
in fact, is the great service which analogy has rendered to
the cause of Revelation, and it is the _only service_ which we
seek for at its hands.” This, abstractedly, is true; but, _in
fact_, considering the _position_ of the bulk of the objectors,
that they have been invincibly persuaded of the truth of
theism, and that their objections to Christianity have been
exclusively or chiefly of the kind dealt with in the “Analogy,”
the work is much more than an _argumentum ad hominem_—it is
not simply of negative value. To such _objectors_ it logically
establishes the truth of Christianity, or it forces them to
recede from theism, which the bulk will not do. If a man says,
“I am invincibly persuaded of the truth of proposition A, but
I cannot receive proposition B, because objections α, β, γ
are opposed to it; if these were removed, my objections would
cease;” then, if you can show that α, β, γ equally apply to
the proposition A, his reception of which, he says, is based
on invincible evidence, you do really compel such a man to
believe that not only B _may_ be true, but that it _is_ true,
unless he be willing (which few in the parallel case are) to
abandon proposition A as well as B. This is precisely the
condition in which the majority of Deists have ever been, if
we may judge from their writings. It is usually the _à priori_
assumption, that certain facts in the history of the Bible,
or some portions of its doctrine, are unworthy of the Deity,
and incompatible with his character or administration, that
has chiefly excited the incredulity of the Deist; far more
than any dissatisfaction with the positive evidence which
substantiates the Divine origin of Christianity. Neutralise
these objections by showing that they are _equally_ applicable
to what he declares he cannot relinquish—the doctrines of
theism; and you show him, if he has a particle of logical
sagacity, not only that Christianity may be true, but that it
is so; and his only escape is by relapsing into atheism, or
resting his opposition on other objections of a very feeble
character in comparison, and which, probably, few would ever
have been contented with alone; for, _apart_ from those
objections which Butler repels, the historical evidence for
Christianity—the evidence on behalf of the integrity of its
records and the honesty and sincerity of its founders—showing
that they could not have constructed such a system if they
_would_, and _would not_, supposing them impostors, if they
_could_—is stronger than that for any fact in history.
‘In consequence of this position of the argument, Butler’s
book, to large classes of objectors, though practically an
_argumentum ad hominem_, not only proves Christianity _may_ be
true, but in all logical fairness proves it _is_ so. This he
himself, with his usual judgment, points out. He says: “And
objections which are equally applicable to both natural and
revealed religion are, properly speaking, answered by its being
shown that they are so, _provided the former be admitted to be
true_.”’
No one can deny the ingenuity of this line of reasoning, but we can only
account for the great assent which it has received, by supposing that the
goodness of the cause for which it is commonly brought forward has not
unnaturally led to an undue approbation of the argument itself. From the
amount of authority in its favour we feel some diffidence, but otherwise
we should have said, without hesitation, that it was open to several
objections.
In the first place, so far from its being probable that Revelation would
have contained the same difficulties as Nature, we should have expected
that it would explain those difficulties. The very term Supernatural
Revelation implies that previously and by nature man is, to a great
extent, in ignorance; that particularly he is unaware of some fact,
or series of facts, which God deems it fit that he should know. The
instinctive presumption certainly is, that those facts would be most
important to us. No doubt it is possible that, for incomprehensible
reasons, a special revelation should be made of facts purely indifferent,
of the date when London was founded, or the precise circumstances of the
invasion by William the Conqueror. But this is in the highest degree
improbable. What seems likely (and the whole argument is essentially
one of likelihood), according to our mind, is that the Revelation which
God would vouchsafe to us would be one affecting our daily life and
welfare, would communicate truths either on the one hand conducing to our
temporal happiness in the present world, or removing the many doubts and
difficulties which surround the general plan of Providence, the entire
universe, and our particular destiny. These are the two classes of truths
on which we seem to require help, and it is in the first instance more
probable that assistance would be given us on those points on which it is
most required.
The argument of Butler, of course, relates to our religious difficulties.
And, it seems impossible to deny that this is the exact class of
difficulty which it is most likely a revelation, if given, would explain.
No one who reasons on this subject is likely to doubt that the natural
faculties of man are more clearly adequate to our daily and temporal
happiness, than to the explanation of the perplexities which have
confounded men since the beginning of speculation—of which the mere
statement is so vast—which relate to the scheme of the universe and
the plan of God. This is the one principle on which the most extreme
sceptics, and the most thorough advocates of revelation, meet and
agree. The sceptic says, ‘Man is not born to resolve the mystery of the
universe; but he must nevertheless attempt it, that he may keep within
the limits of the knowable:’ which really means that he is to fold his
hands and be quiet; to abstain from all religious inquiry; to confine
himself to this life, and be industrious and practical within its
limits. The advocate of revelation is for ever denying the competency
of man’s faculties to explain, or puzzle out, what in the large sense
most concerns him. There are difficulties celestial, and difficulties
terrestrial; but it is certainly more likely that God would interfere
miraculously to explain the first than to remove the second.
Let us look at the argument more at length. The supposition and idea of a
‘miraculous revelation’ rest on the ignorance of man. The scene of nature
is stretched out before him; it has rich imagery, and varied colours,
and infinite extent; its powers move with a vast sweep; its results are
executed with exact precision; it gladdens the eyes, and enriches the
imagination; it tells us something of God—something important, yet not
enough. For example, difficulties abound; poverty and sin, pain and
sorrow, fear and anger, press on us with a heavy weight. On every side
our knowledge is confined, and our means of enlarging it small. Of this
the outer world takes no heed; nature is ‘unfeeling;’ her laws roll on;
‘beautiful and dumb,’ she passes forward and vouchsafes no sign. Indeed,
she seems to hide, as one might fancy, the dark mysteries of life which
seem to lie beneath; our feeble eyes strain to look forward, but her
‘painted veil’ hangs over all, like an October mist upon the morning
hills. Here, as it seems, revelation intervenes; God will break the spell
that is upon us; will meet our need; will break, as it were, through the
veil of nature; He will show us of Himself. It is not likely, surely,
that He will break the everlasting silence to no end; that, having begun
to speak, He will tell us nothing; that He will leave the difficulties of
life where He found them; that He will repeat them in His speech; that
He will revive them in His word. It seems rather, as if His faintest
disclosure, His least word, would shed abundant light on all doubts,
would take the weight from our minds, would remove the gnawing anguish
from our hearts. Surely, surely, if He speaks He will make an end of
speaking, He will show us some good, He will destroy ‘the veil that is
spread over all nations,’ and the ‘covering over all people;’ He will not
‘darken counsel by words without knowledge.’
To this line of argument we know of but one objection; it may be said,
that, from the immensity of the universe in which man is, reasons may
exist for communicating to him facts of which he cannot appreciate the
importance, but a belief in which may nevertheless be most important to
his ultimate welfare. Of this kind, according to some divines, is the
doctrine of the ‘Atonement.’ As they think, it is impossible to explain
the mode in which the death of Christ conduces to the forgiveness of sin,
or why a belief in it should be made, as they think it is, a necessary
preliminary to such forgiveness. They consider that this is a revealed
matter of fact; part of a system of things which is not known now, which
would very likely be above our understanding if it were explained, which,
at all events, is not explained. We reply, that the revelation of an
inexplicable fact is possible, and that, if adequate evidence could be
adduced in its favour, we might be bound to acquiesce in it; but that,
on the other hand, such a revelation is extremely improbable: so far as
we can see, there was no occasion for it; it helps in nothing, explains
to us nothing; it enlarges our knowledge only thus far, that for some
unknown reason we are bound to believe something from which certain
effects follow in a manner which we cannot understand. Such a revelation
is, as has been said, possible; but it is much more likely, _à priori_,
that a revelation, if given, would be a revelation of facts suited to our
comprehension, and throwing a light on the world in which we are.
The same remark is applicable to a revelation commanding rites and
ceremonies which do not come home to the conscience as duties, and of
which the reasons are not explained to us by the revelation itself. The
Pharisaic code of ‘cups and washings’ is an obvious instance. It is
obviously most improbable that we should be ordered to do these things.
The fact may be so; but the evidence of it should be overwhelming,
and should be examined with almost suspicious and sceptical care. A
revelation of a rule of life which approves itself to the heart, which
awakens conscience, which seems to come from God, is the greatest
conceivable aid to man, the greatest explanation of our most practical
perplexities; a revelation of rites and ordinances is a revelation of new
difficulties, telling us nothing of God, imposing an additional taskwork
on ourselves.
We are to remember, that the ‘Analogy’ is, as the Germans would speak, a
‘Kritik’ of every possible revelation. The first principle of it rests on
the inquiry, ‘What would it be likely that a revelation, if vouchsafed,
would contain?’ The whole argument is one of preconception, presumption,
and probability. It claims to establish a principle, which may be used
in defence of any revelation, the Mahomedan as well as the Christian;
according to it, as soon as you can show that a difficulty exists in
nature, you may immediately expect to find it in revelation. If carried
out to its extreme logical development, it would come to this, that if
a catalogue were constructed of all the inexplicable arrangements and
difficulties of nature, you might confidently anticipate that these
very same difficulties in the same degree and in the same points would
be found in revelation. Both being from the same Author, it is presumed
that each would resemble the other. The principle, even to this length,
is enunciated by Mr. Rogers; the difficulties of nature are the α, β, γ
of the extract: and he asserts, that if you can show that all of them
exist in one system, you have every reason to expect _all_ of them in the
other. Yet, surely, what can be more monstrous than that a supernatural
communication from God should simply enumerate all the difficulties of
His natural government and not enlighten us as to any of them—should
revive our perplexities without removing them—should not satisfy one
doubt or one anxiety, but repeat and proclaim every fact which can give a
basis to them both?