RESPONSIBILITY.
Responsibility is the most serious fact of our whole human world.
The affairs of life could not go on for a single day if there were
no Responsibility. We never release any man from its burden, without
incapacitating him, at the same time, alike from business and from
enjoyment. We lay it upon childhood, as soon as the child is able
to reflect upon his own actions and to choose deliberately;--we do
not take it away from a collected and self-controlled age. And every
reasonable Man who stands by an open grave, or knows that he is rapidly
approaching his own, feels, (above all other pressures,) the unending
prospect of Responsibility. Looking at this prospect, we look into our
deepest solitude;--
"Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die."
None of our fellows, the dear companions of our Soul, can carry our
burden then. And though they walk by our side in life, and cheer us
with their love, they cannot really bear that burden _now_. And, thus,
in the most serious and solemn fact of our existence, we are always
isolated and alone.
But Responsibility is something better to every one of us than
a burden;--it is also an incalculable benefit. A man who has no
true sense of responsibility, is an unformed human being;--and,
in proportion as we feel it inwardly, and express the feeling by
consideration and self-control, we make progress in real manliness. On
this account, Responsibility may be pronounced our chief aid in the
formation of a manly character. And, probably, among all the sources
of human happiness, none yields a more unbroken serenity, than the
habitual consciousness of being enabled to act up to the single mark of
our responsibilities.
When a man has attained such practical wisdom, it "maketh his face to
shine." His daily endeavour to do right, instead of causing him anxiety
and disquietude, gives a buoyancy to the spirit; which shows itself
in a peculiar brightness of countenance, unlike every other cheerful
glance and aspect. The beaming faces, with which early Italian artists
painted their good men and saintly women, are excellent illustrations
of this expressional beauty.
Let us consider, through one chapter more, what Natural Theology has to
say upon this subject.
Responsibility has been shewn to involve, as one of its constituent
principles, an idea of _Causation_. It is, also, clear that to hold
a man responsible, he must be supposed to possess some power of
distinguishing Right from Wrong. In our last chapter, we drew from the
principle of Causation certain conclusions regarding the Universal
First Cause. We have now to examine the principle of Moral Sensibility.
Every one at all acquainted with modern controversy, is aware that
few questions have been more keenly mooted, than the _origin_ of
moral distinctions among mankind. The debate respecting them has run,
for a great part of its course, parallel with that on the origin of
our primary intellectual beliefs, alluded to in a former chapter.
Neither of these controversies concerns us beyond a certain point. Our
business lies with the facts of human nature, rather than with theories
concerning any supposed possibilities as to their growth and accretion.
But, one caution we suggested respecting the case of intellect, holds
good and is important to every moral inquirer. _Let the analyst beware
of his alembic!_ There is nothing more easy than to vaporize reality
altogether, by way of exalting a philosophy.[221] And in Morality, the
result is far worse than in speculation. The distinctive character of
our Moral Consciousness is the "essence" which lends to a right action
its peculiar fragrance and beauty. Invaluable _per se_, it will surely
be found of a nature so delicate and fugitive as to escape the tests
of analytic psychologists. Yet when this is fled, the residuum must be
worthless to Moral philosophy.
The "essence" just mentioned, merits a few minutes' attention. Men have
been known to assert that their feeling of appreciation in respect
of a very lovely woman, was precisely similar to their appreciation
of a handsome horse. No doubt, the right answer is to tell such a
man that he is utterly blind to the true loveliness of woman; and
does not deserve to call a creature so excellent, his wife. You may,
also, point out to him the various distinctive characters of female
excellence,--refinement, purity, depth of feeling, self devotion, the
noblest heroism, and so on. But if the man has put all his perceptions
of diverse excellences into a private alembic, and sublimated them
into one of the lowest among æsthetic susceptibilities; no argument
will really convince him. The truly bright æsthetic eye--the grander
imaginative powers are wanting,--the man is mentally colour-blind.
The same truth holds good of theorists who tell us dogmatically that
our Moral Sensibility is nothing better than an accretion of baser
materials which may be stripped off from each other in the reverse
order of their growth, just like the coats of a stalactite or a
tulip-root. As may readily be surmised, there is great difference
of dogma, when judgment comes to be pronounced on the _moral core_
and _centre_ of the whole. Some are for the needs of society,--some
utility in general,--the greater part for individual advantage.
Others take theoretically polar directions; and with them, rightness
consists either in quietism, or else in self-immolation. Self-approving
feelings, (each advocate tells us,) have clustered round his pet
growing point; and the clustering has endowed us with all the moral
sense we happen to possess. Here again, it is doubtful whether a right
answer will convince the experimentalist, bent on turning lead into
gold. Yet whether convincing or not, most honest hearts would prompt
an indignant rejoinder. The world at large, however, is likely to prove
a more successful arbiter. The utilitarian will find that he excites
little sympathy even when general utility forms his moral kernel;--and,
when it is no more than a personal gain of worldly advantages, he will
not improbably be called a rascal. Then "Quietism" can never hope much
favour in the busy workshop of the West. Though it may seem strange to
some minds, self-immolation has by far the greatest chance of winning
suffrages; one chief reason being, that the man who sacrifices his own
private advantage, has evidently spurned expediency and selfishness.
Even those who think his theoretical views erroneous--and possibly
mischievous, will applaud his victory over the meaner passions.
Each hour of thought the reader can bestow on moral distinctions, will
turn to certain good. At the very least, it must help to form a habit
of self-examination. And for this purpose, very simple interrogatories
bring out very useful responses. If the reader be a rose grower, let
him inquire into his own feelings, when he plucks the fairest flower
in his garden, to give fragrance and colour to the sick room of a
poor but sensitive little invalid. He will certainly perceive a wide
interval between his pleasure in admiring the glowing rose, and his
pleasure in adding to the scanty luxuries of the poor sick child.
Thus, although a benevolent action be a truly beautiful thing, yet
there is a difference between the rose grower's impressions of mere
beauty, and of pure benevolence. A difference too between his enjoyment
of beauty, and his enjoyment in benevolently resigning to another,
the object which charmed him because it was beautiful. Time, also,
makes a vast difference between the two emotions. We cannot recal a
delicious odour, as truly as we can reproduce a pretty sight before
our retrovertive eye. The image of the rose remains, after its sweet
fragrance has departed. But much, much longer than either, remains the
moral impression graved upon the mind. That little pleasure enjoyed in
a brief self-denial, will repeat itself through half a century of years.
Permanence is, indeed, one characteristic which demonstrates the
paramount excellence of all moral impressions. It is so _difficult_
to repeat to ourselves the sensation of physical pleasure or physical
pain, that many writers on pathologic topics speak of it as a thing
impossible. Certainly, its greatest vividness is in dreams; and above
all, "ægri somnia"--sick visions--seem to possess the strongest
reproductive power. It is curious, however, to observe the manner in
which dreams themselves put on a moral meaning. Who does not remember
Sir W. Scott's lines in the "Lady of the Lake," on the returning
phantoms of early youth,--change, loss, and separation? But those
phantoms are pale shadows, compared with what we have all felt in our
visionary hours,--the consciousness of our own absolute loneliness,--of
our death,--of a hopeless, endless isolation. Even the very thought of
our spiritual life,[222] as distinguished from mere corporeal life, is
terrible to us and hardly to be borne. So overwhelming is the idea of
the demand of Justice upon each of us;--the law of human Responsibility.
It is remarkable, too, that the most common-sense practical people
sometimes feel these impressions the most acutely. One reason may arise
from the circumstance, that the spiritually imaginative temperament
of such persons is vigorous,--has few occasions of employment; and
throws its unexhausted force into those strong "Michel-Angelesque"
realizations.
Whatever may be thought on this point, there is no truth of our whole
Manhood more striking, as well as more evident, than the _independent
vitality_ of our Moral Consciousness. Let us suppose, for example's
sake, that the reader was once unhappy enough to injure a neighbour,
a friend, or relation. Let the injury be something which you in your
heart know to be truly injurious;--a thing impossible in your better
moments,--but still a thing done. Now, let years elapse, and when the
thought recurs and the deed is reacted, you feel how wrongful it was.
And when you grow old, and there are few left to love you, the feeling
will become far more deep. Put oceans, continents, tropics, between
yourself and your injured one; the reality is not at all less real.
The same stars no longer look down upon you by night,--the sun does
not bring back the same seasons at the same time,--but your act is
_Timeless_;--and, though night and day vary, its criminality remains
the same. And worst of all,--the injured one may die, whilst no act of
reparation may have been performed by you,--no word of love or ruth
escaped your lips. The deed is irremediable, and you are the doer of
it. Neither Space nor Duration of years can alter the fact. There
is a moral mark set upon your conscience; and no human sympathy can
heal, nor even alleviate the sorrow. Most likely, you never attempt to
explain to others the pain you feel, because were the case another's
you would hardly comprehend it yourself. Thousands have gone to the
grave, carrying heavy burdens of this kind almost or altogether
unsuspected.
Exemption from the laws of Time and Space, is perhaps the most
_wonderful_ characteristic of our Moral Consciousness. With this
solitary exception, we seem to find ourselves in perpetual subjection
to those laws. But in the realm of Morals it is the reverse. The
endless theoretical contradictions about the Finite and the Infinite,
(to which we have more than once alluded,) bear witness to this
fact. Morality at once puts the two together;--what in its sphere of
commission was a finite crime, is likewise an infinite immorality. We
count up our faults as sins; but, when viewed awhile in the light of
conscience, they are most burdensome to us as being, not _sins_, but
_Sin_. Look at the pre-Christian Eumenides; the last writing of St.
John the Evangelist; the confessions of Augustine; and the life of John
Bunyan; to which we might add more than one great Oxford life;--and,
through them all, the profound sense of Sin underlies every other
utterance.
Another salient character of the moral sense, actually existing among
mankind, may be outlined as follows. We have already considered the
manner in which laws appear to human intelligence, as types, ideas, or
relations. Amongst them, we paid particular attention to the relativity
between Power and Function. And, when viewing these as polar opposites,
with a chain or nexus between them, we saw that the opposition was, in
a certain sense, _fluent_. Function changed into Power more than once,
before each complex process of production became entirely accomplished.
Power, in accomplishing its errand, continually was lost, and vanished
away in Function. But between Right and Wrong, the opposition is
fixed, contradictory, and enduring. Any Logic or Rhetoric which
attempts to make the antithesis appear fluent, is justly condemned
as special pleading, and the art of an oratorical Sophist. The only
question asked of the Sophistical speaker, is whether the error he
tries to excuse was wilful, or unintentional; whether it was a mistake,
or a confusion of distinctly-opposed moral dictates. So Demosthenes
says to OEschines, "Among all other men I observe these principles
and these distinctions to prevail. Does any one wilfully do wrong? He
is the object of indignation and of punishment. Does any one commit an
error unintentionally? He is pardoned, not punished.... All this is
established not only in all our jurisprudence, but by Nature herself
in her unwritten laws, and in the very constitution of the human
mind."[223]
And we may all feel quite sure that this is the normal decision of
Mankind.
Right and Wrong stand out as irreconcileable antagonists, contending
for the empire of the world. A man who watches the strife without deep
interest, and never mingles in the fray because he thinks its issue
immaterial, is no better than a Pessimist.
Compare a Duty with a Function, (in the wide sense we assigned to
the latter conception,) and two points will at once be evident.
First, how strong the contrast, how wide the interval, between the
Law of productive work, and the law of moral activity. Secondly, how
inextinguishable the contradiction between Right and Wrong. One man
undertakes some mechanical utilitarian function, dependent on the
pleasure or life of a superior; to whom he is in no other respect
bound, nor in any way accountable. Another is a husband, a father, or
a son. The object of his natural affection, is also the being to whom
his tender offices of devotion are morally due. For different reasons,
the daily lives of both these men have become first irksome,--then,
very wearisome,--finally, almost odious to themselves. The man of
routine goes to visit his ailing superior, and is permitted to enter
the sick room. He undraws a curtain and looks upon the face of a dead
man. Between the departed and himself, there existed no natural love,
nor any acquired hate, neither duty nor demand. The link was simply
official, and it is broken. Next month, there will be a new Superior
who knows not Joseph. Another subordinate will occupy the post of
routine; and, under the circumstances, to be released from the old toil
is a sort of happiness. The tedious function of the past is over; and
he carries his powers into a more hopeful employment. Yet Man is always
something to Man, if both are genuine; and there arise a thousand
regretful memories, and thoughts of kindly interchange of gestures,
looks, and words. After a time, the last change of all is thought of as
a thing to be deplored, but gone by,--a thing simply irremediable.
But how different, when the man who has been morally bound--say the
son--sees a dead face upturned from his father's pillow! Here is
another link of service broken;--service of another kind,--a duty. It
is gone, the sick bed attendance, the harass, the vexation, endured
with a recalcitrant feeling, and sometimes an openly determined
opposition. And how much is gone besides! The feeling of resistance
vanishes, when there is no longer a Will to be resisted; the harass
and vexation appear unwholesome phantoms. To look on the life of a
father or a near friend, after death, is like looking on a moonlighted
landscape; its harsher features are lost in lengthening shadow; all
that we thought rugged and stern, appears subdued and blended with a
thousand fondly-remembered softnesses. A mild and silvery radiance
flows over the whole familiar scene;--we gaze and sigh,--and sigh and
gaze again. To think of its becoming veiled from our eyes, seems like
losing a portion of our own existence.
And what more is gone besides? The son's thought, which used to mingle
so strangely with his feelings of distaste,--that, some day, he would
fill up the measure of that which was consciously lacking in his filial
duty and devotion. He has now no power of offering sorrow to obtain the
remission of claims unsatisfied, no possibility of saying, "Father,
I have sinned"! He would die by inches, if, with each slow degree of
mortality he could revoke a short period of the Past.
In other concerns of life all beyond human cure is also beyond human
care; but this concern is a matter of Right and Wrong. To say the Wrong
is irremediable, is to utter the sharpest cry of Remorse,--the last
word of a long Despair.
It is always thus, when the moral rule intervenes. It is so, when
an injured friend dies,--the injurer is fast bound by the crime he
has committed. It is so, when the Son thinks he has to face things
undone which ought to have been done,--the opportunity of doing them
now lost for ever. Inability to remedy a wrong makes our sorrow
inextinguishable. And we know by experience, that such a sorrow is
unlike every other sorrow. It differs in _kind_ from all trains of
ordinary feeling, and seems to belong less to our emotional life than
to be a dictate of our sovereign reason. And the moral rule is so.
In the eye of Practical Reason which (so far as human nature goes),
constitutes our supreme guide, a claim of Morality is absolutely
rigorous--absolutely supreme--and if unsatisfied, absolutely inexorable.
To suppose anything less, would be to annihilate the whole moral law.
For, how can you, or I, or any one, be required to immolate our life,
freedom, fortune, or even our ordinary enjoyments, unless the rule be
perfectly unyielding; perfectly unchangeable? To be binding _now_,--it
must be binding under _all_ circumstances, and binding _always_. If a
single claim remain unsatisfied the admission is fatal. Broken once,
the law is broken everlastingly. Every man might conceive that his
own case was, possibly, just one marked for exception. Who, then,
would sacrifice at the altar of Right-doing all earthly goods; undergo
chains, ignominy, dungeon-solitude, pain, lingering hopelessness,
and death? Who, then, would be able to stand by, and see all these
inflictions undergone by one he loves best, when compliance with
wrong-doing would surely set the sufferer free? It is the certainty
of an equal and unrelenting law, which makes all kinds of endurance
possible.
If no other reason existed, this one would suffice to prove that,
unless human nature is a falsehood, happiness must ultimately coincide
with virtue. How distantly removed their final coincidence may be, is
a point which can have no influence on the certitude of our knowledge.
We speak here, as we speak of parallel lines which cannot meet through
infinity;--only we speak the reverse way;--it is for all infinity that
virtue must become happiness. If a man will seriously sit down, and
try the contrary hypothesis out to himself, he will see that if held
true, Morality ceases to be imperial, and Man ceases to be human. The
claim of Right is to rule the Universe, entire, and in every part.
Before that claim, all knowledge, scientific, phenomenal, inferential,
must fail and vanish away. Whatever else be true or untrue, this
must be rigorous, unalterable, imperishable truth. Upon this truth,
each reasonable being, percipient of it, is required to act in his
own individual person. Therefore, in the case of each individual it
must hold absolutely true. And thus the moral endowment of Man is
not a _general_ sense of Morality; no indeterminate impulse towards
excellence floating before him; no mere thought that past generations
were made for us, and we for a coming race. What we really know and
acknowledge as moral truth, is _each_ Man's strict accountability,
individual, isolated, and inalienable. Otherwise, individual rightness
cannot be demanded, and individual suffering for conscience-sake must
become, in some eyes Utopian,--to most sufferers intolerable. The
moral law is therefore supreme, or it would be ineffectual. It is
individually specializing, otherwise it could not claim individual
obedience. And to be supreme, both in final effect and present empire
over each human being, it must obviously be--(as our practical Reason
apprehends it)--Universal. To such a sovereignty there is nothing
great, nothing small. Time sets no bounds, while Reason beholds in it
the ultimate perfection and sum of all that went before it.
Towards that complete coincidence of happiness with virtue, the
aspiration of good and the sighs of sorrowful souls, have been breathed
continually. In its realization alone, can our noblest capabilities be
realized. For, there is nothing in this world commensurate with the
capacious longings of the human spirit. Here, too often, it droops
like a beautiful plant in a strange unkindly soil; and, when it blooms
its brightest, we feel that under other influences it might bloom more
brightly still. True humanity is marked by its own specific character,
as the fit inhabitant of a far more excellent sphere.
We ask with some eagerness, how may these things be? And the _primary_
answer to this question lies within the circuit of our knowledge. Our
own consciousness, the facts of life, and the reason of the thing, all
agree in one result. Moral law exists only in, and for, a Will; and by
a Will alone can it be made effectual. In this respect, it resembles
the Law of Production, which, apprehended ideally by intelligence,
becomes realized by the moving force of Will. Moreover, we have seen
that Will is true Causation, and therefore in Will exists the first
ground of Movement. We know in fact of no other. Neither is any other
Causality conceivable by us, even in hypothesis; and we _think_
this causative power of Will only by knowing its real existence and
verifying its workings through their issues.
Yet further. The Moral Law, as a sovereign command, is addressed to our
Wills; and unless it were the Expression of a Will, we know it could
never be executed. The Law would remain a dead letter,--a _thought_
of Intelligence,--an abstract speculation,--ineffective because
impractical. Therefore, when we speak of a Supreme Moral law, we speak
of a Supreme Moral Will; an idea we sometimes express by true Being, or
true Personality. We speak, that is, of God.
Experience deepens to us every day the meaning of this final word. In
the world of our present habitation, we see a confused mass of striving
Wills,--the good and just not always in the ascendant,--rightful
commands disregarded,--a sovereign rule not visibly asserted. To
affirm the possible continuance of these practical contradictions,
would be to deny the ultimate Moral Unity of moral purposes. This
Divine consummation is, then, the finality towards which all things
must in reason be tending. For even as human nature explains all other
nature,--as the Moral Law explains all other law,--so God explains Man.
Explains his existence, otherwise inexplicable, by the anticipated
victory of Right over Wrong,--and the complete satisfaction of his
unsatisfied aspirations. By presenting, that is to say, an adequate
object,--a Personality infinitely great and infinitely good,--to
the eye of Man's reason,--the desire of his heart,--the striving
endeavour, and ceaseless energy of Man's whole essential being;--his
affections, his will, his spirit.
This elevating thought comes home to each one of us, bringing with it
a peace of mind unutterable. We know that the time must come, when
thought and memory shall grow faint. Our brain will lose its quick
apprehensive motion, and all our bodily powers must sink and languish.
Our eyes will refuse to see the faces of those we love; our hands to
return their kindly pressure; our nerves to thrill at their voices.
But, whosoever has learnt the lesson which God's world, and God's gifts
to Man, were meant to teach him, may truthfully say--"My flesh and my
heart faileth, but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for
Ever."
* * * * *
_Corollary._--One reflection will probably have occurred to every
reader of the last few pages. The rigour of the moral law demonstrates
to us the necessary existence of a future state of recompense, and the
supremacy of a sovereign Will--a divine Judge. Now, does not this very
rigour leave man as hopeless, as if he were altogether without God? Can
he ever expect to perform the behests of that pure and perfect Will?
This difficulty would appear valid, were there nothing in the idea of
God thus given us, to furnish rejoinders, such for example, as the
following.--How could the Supreme Judge make any difference between
those who are His anxious servants, and those who turn away from His
infinite purity with hatred or indifference, if all men were alike
overwhelmed in one common failure by reason of an inexorable law? How,
again, could He satisfy the aspirations of earnest but half-hopeless
human souls, without gathering them to His presence and to Himself?
The manner in which such a happiness results to men, may be an enigma,
so far as Natural Theology is concerned;--but if so, it is an enigma,
of which, those who reason on this ground, may foresee that there will
certainly be granted some solution. And we are not left quite in the
dark as to _how_ that solution may be found;--a truth we may perceive
from the ensuing considerations:--
The moral law is presented to Man's practical reason with all its
consequences. The divine Idea, when once apprehended, becomes the
object of Man's noblest affections. God, Who graved His law of Right
and Wrong upon the conscious will of His creature, wrote also a law of
love upon His creature's human heart.
Hence we view the Supreme Being, as a God who formed and endowed Man
for Himself. It was thus, that Man's nature received its only possible
explanation. Hence, also, the sufficient account of a capacity for
happiness which this world can never give;--and, along with it, the
earnest of its ultimate satisfaction.
But these evidences of the Divine finger, prove also a Divine
_intention_. The supreme ruler of the Universe has, by them, written
upon Man's nature a purpose of making His creature happy. And if so,
we cannot but conclude that to the Divine attribute of love, which
inspired the glad promise, we may look for its certain fulfilment. In
this point of view, a miracle worked for such a moral and spiritual
purpose as the ennoblement and blessedness of Humanity, ceases in one
sense to be a miracle. It becomes not only credible, but probable. And
in reality, any event appears _less improbable_ than that incredible
and most unlovely issue,--the self-contradictory thought, that God has
made Man in vain.
These considerations are drawn from our Moral nature, as just
described. There are other considerations at hand to confirm them.
In treating the subject of Production, we saw Intelligence involved in
every Idea, and preceding every process. When referred to the Universe,
Intelligence was necessarily conceived as vast and immeasurable. In
order to discern the other attributes of that universal Intelligence,
we examined the characteristics of Design apparent in nature, and
saw everywhere a spirit of superhuman tenderness breathed over our
beautiful world. Thus, if there be any personal relation between the
Author of Nature and our race, it ought to be one of trust on our side,
demanded by care and beneficence on His. And this feeling is heightened
by the charm of lavish kindness,--the prodigality of a love Divine.
Again, if we turn to one chapter of this Essay farther back, and bring
to mind the rise and progress of our primary beliefs, we cannot but
ask ourselves the question, how is it that the first religious idea
of the Aryan race--the "Heaven-father"--should coincide with the most
typical utterances of our loveliest childhood, and our most advanced
manhood, _now_?--Is He really our Father? If so, may we not expect much
from His hand? He is a _Person_, not an Abstract Entity,--a Force,--or
a Thing. Our Father will give us, not a stone--but bread;--bread from
Heaven--bread from Himself. And we see that He giveth liberally, and
upbraideth not.
This is not all. The rigour of the Moral Law is an irreconcileable
Antithesis between Right and Wrong,--a gulf which no human subtlety
can bridge. But with all this rigour, it leaves unresolved, to a very
considerable extent, one set of doubts perpetually recurring to an
honest mind. Is _this_ or _that_ particular point a duty;--is it right
or wrong;--or is its observance open to debate? There are obvious
reasons, arising from the necessities of moral culture and improvement,
why such points should, within certain limits, be indeterminate. This
whole topic, however, belongs properly to Natural Religion, a separate
subject from Natural Theology. Still, for our present purpose, an
important consequence of the inexactness is clear.--It gives rise to a
reasonable expectation of some more extensive code not unlikely to be
vouchsafed us, harmonizing with, and supplementary to, the law of our
moral consciousness. And at every age of Man's history, and throughout
every country of his habitation, there always did, in fact, prevail
an expectant attitude of mind, looking on all sides for the tokens
of Divine Revelation. It was felt also by the wisest, that no human
foresight could decide beforehand, what aids to higher knowledge and
moral virtue might be given along with it. Certainly, every reasonable
idea of the great and good God, formed a ground for hope and confident
anticipation of the _Highest_ and the _Best_.
* * * * *
This Essay has reached its close. May it be permitted its writer to
drop the tone of an Essayist, and to say that every word of it has come
from his heart?
May he likewise ask two favours of the intelligent reader; neither of
them he trusts unreasonably onerous?
His first request is that the _convergent_ effect of the separate
considerations urged in this Essay, may be fairly taken into account.
Indeed, the writer once thought of appending a kind of conspectus
or "summing up."--But he would thus have added another full chapter
to a book which has grown considerably in his hands. Neither might
the summary be altogether welcome to the more candid minds amongst
those who doubt, yet honestly debate. Most such readers prefer
putting results and consilient reasonings into a connected shape for
themselves. The writer may however venture on soliciting some special
attention to the breadth of field ranged over;--the wide circumference
from which his various arguments and illustrations have converged.
This point is one of considerable value. Great credit is given to the
accordant testimony of witnesses who have come together from distant
parts of the world.
The _other_ favour requested, is that every person who desires to form
a deliberate judgment on the grand topics at issue, will carefully
weigh in the balance _what_ alternative he can embrace, if he refuses
to be a Theist. An alternative, that is, sufficient to account for
the human Will and Reason, for such a world as our own, and for so
symmetrical and beautiful a Universe.
The system we have advocated on grounds of Reason, asserts that the
first Cause of all Things and all Beings known to us, is God. This
account alone is sufficingly complete, and coherent. Against it alone,
no fatal objection has ever been alleged. And this single fact ought to
have a preponderating weight in the balance.
* * * * *
When finally compared together, the _motives_ of our Choice (as
presented by Natural Theology), stand thus:--
If explanations of the Universe explain unequally, _that_ account ought
to be chosen which is easiest in itself, explains the most, and is the
least self-contradictory.
If several explanations appear equal to the deliberative eye, then we
must choose the noblest _per se_; and, as Men, we ought to prefer that
which is the most elevating, and most germane to Humanity. In it, will
be contained the only true Law of human Progress.
_Either_ motive of our final Choice--still more, _both_ these
motives--will bring us to God; and with reason--"For we are also His
offspring."
FOOTNOTES:
[221] Every reader of Ben Jonson must recal the Alchemical process of
"Exaltation":--
"Son, be not hasty, I _exalt_ our med'cine,
By hanging him _in balneo vaporoso_,
And giving him solution; then _congeal_ him;
And then _dissolve_ him; then again _congeal_ him."
_The Alchemist_, Act II. Scene i.
But who would wish the congelation of our Moral sense? If indeed it
could possibly survive the rest of the process.
Reading these lines, can any one wonder at the celebrated chemical
analysis of bygone days, which ended in discovering an undetermined
residuum of dirt?
[222] Compare Job iv. 13, seq.
[223] De Corona. Sect. 274. The translation in the text is Lord
Brougham's, and his note on this passage is worth perusal. Trans. p.
185.
THE END.
Watson and Hazell, Printers, London and Aylesbury
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
Typographical errors have been silently corrected.
Variable hyphenation within the text has been standardised, and, where
possible, inconsistent use of quotes.
Other variations in spelling, accents, and punctuation are
as in the original.
The author has used recal (instead of recall) throughout. This has not
been changed.
Italics are represnted thus _italic_. [=u] represents u with a macron.