IN the affairs of the mind we are all "Indian givers." We will part with
our most cherished convictions for a merely nominal consideration, such
as "for the sake of the argument,"--even when we do not really care for
arguments. But let no one be deceived into thinking that this is the
end. Renunciation usually has some mental reservation, or at least some
saving ambiguity.
You may see a saint, in his enthusiasm for disinterested virtue, give up
all claim to personal happiness. But does he expect to be taken at his
word and to live miserably ever after? Not he! Already, if he be a true
saint, he has begun to enjoy the beatific vision.
I know a teacher of religion who is inclined to rebel against what seems
to him to be the undue emphasis upon faith. For himself, it seems a
wholesome thing to do a little doubting now and then, and he looks upon
this as a religious exercise. He affirms that the characteristic
attitudes of the spiritual man can be expressed in terms of skepticism
as well as of belief. It is all one whether the matter be put positively
or negatively. Materialism he treats as a form of dogmatism based on the
appearance of things. The religious mind is incredulous of this
explanation of the universe and subjects it to a destructive criticism.
The soul of man is full of "obstinate questionings of sense and outward
things." Yet this same person, when he forgets his argument, is apt to
talk like the rest of us. After all, it is some kind of faith that he is
after, even when he pursues it by the methods of skepticism. In his most
radical moods he never lets his convictions slip away from him; at
least, they never go so far away that he cannot get them again.
In like manner I must confess that I am an Indian giver. In giving over
to Science all claim to the domain of Knowledge, and reserving to my
friend the Gentle Reader only the right of way over the picturesque but
less fruitful fields of Ignorance, I was actuated by the purest motives.
At the time it seemed very magnanimous, and, moreover, it saved the
trouble of a doubtful contest.
But now that so much has been given away, I am visited by compunctions,
and, if it is not too late, I will take back part of the too generous
gift. Let us make a distinction, and instead of treating knowledge as if
it were indivisible, let us speak, after the manner of Swedenborg, of
knowledges. The greater number of knowledges we will make over without
question to Science and Philosophy; the knowledges which are concerned
with laws and forces and with the multitudinous facts which are capable
of classification. But for the Gentle Reader and his kind let us reserve
the claim to a knowledge of some things which cannot be classified. I
hardly believe that they will be missed; they are not likely to be
included in any scientific inventory; their value is chiefly in personal
association.
There is a knowledge of persons as well as of things, and in particular
there is a knowledge of certain persons to whom one is drawn in close
friendship. Emerson, in his essay on Milton, speaks of those who come to
the poet with "intimate knowledge and delight." It is, after all,
convenient to treat this feeling of delightful intimacy as a kind of
knowledge. If it is not that, what is it?
The peculiarity of this kind of knowledge is that it is impossible to
formulate it; and that the very attempt to do so is an offence. The
unpardonable sin against friendship is to merge the person in a class.
Think of an individual as an adult Caucasian, "an inhabitant of North
America, belonging to the better classes," as to religion a moderate
churchman, in politics a Republican, and you may accumulate a number of
details interesting enough in a stranger. You may in this way "know
where to place him." But if you do actually place him there, and treat
him accordingly, he has ceased to be your friend.
A friend is unique. He belongs to no categories. He is not a case, nor
the illustration of a thesis. Your interest is neither pathological nor
anthropological nor statistical. You are concerned not with what he is
like, but with what he is. There is an element of jealous exclusiveness
in such knowledge.
In the Song of Songs, after the ecstatic praise of the beloved, the
question is asked:--
"What is thy beloved more than any other beloved, that thou dost so
adjure us?"