eyes "grossly disingenuous"; not that I deemed it necessary to
maintain that the Apostles had any idea of the period of time which
was to intervene between the first promulgation of the Gospel and
the consummation of all things; for when I found our Lord himself
acknowledging, "Of that day and that hour knoweth no man, not even
the angels, nor even the Son, but the Father only," I could not
wonder that the Apostles were left to mere conjectures on a subject
which was then veiled even from his humanity. I said I even thought
it probable that their vivid feeling anticipated the day,--that the
interval between, so to speak, was "foreshortened" to them; but that
I could not see how the question of their inspiration, or the
truth of Christianity, was at all involved in their ignorance on
that point; unless, indeed, it could be proved that they had
positively stated that the predicted event would take place in their
own time. This, I acknowledged, I could not find,--but much to the
contrary; that the charge, indeed, had been so often repeated by
the infidel school, that they had persuaded themselves of it, and
spoke of it as if it were a decided point; but that as long as the
second Epistle of St. Paul to the Thessalonians remained, in which
the Apostle expressly corrected misapprehensions similar to those
which infidelity still professes to found on the first Epistle, I
should continue to doubt whether Paul did not know his own mind
better than his modern commentators. I told him that we do not
hear that the Thessalonians persisted in believing that they had
rightly interpreted Paul's words after he had himself disowned the
meaning they had put upon them; that this was a degree of assurance
only possible to modern critics; and that I was surprised that
Mr. Newman should have quietly assumed the alleged "mistake" in
his "Phases of Faith," without thinking it worth while even to state
the opposing argument from the Second Epistle. I added, that the
repeated references which both Paul and Peter make to their own
deaths, as certain to take place before the dissolution of all
things, sufficiently prove that, however their view of the future
might be contracted, they did not expect the world to end in their
day, and ought to have silenced the perverse criticism on the
popular expression, "Then we which are alive and remain," &c.
Having briefly stated my opinion, Fellowes said he saw that he and
I were as little likely to agree as Harrington and he. "However," he
continued, turning to his friend, "to go back to the point from which
we digressed. My new faith, at all events, makes me happy, which it
is plain--too plain--that your want of all faith does not make you."
"Whether it is your new faith," said the other, "makes you happy,
--whether you were not as happy in your old faith--whether there are
not thousands of Christians who are as happy with their faith (they
would say much happier, and I should say so too, if they not only
say they believe it, but believe it and practise it.), I will not
inquire; that my want of faith does not make me happy is a sad truth,
which I do not think it worth while to deny; though I must confess
that there have been many who have shared in my scepticism who have
not shared in my misery. It is just because they have not realized
what they did not believe; even as there are thousands of soi-disant
Christians who do not realize what they say they do believe; neither
the one nor the other are the happier or the more sorrowful for their
pretended tenets. This is simply because they stand in no need of
the admirable correctives supplied by your new theology; the present
engrosses their solicitudes and affections; and the mere talk of the
belief or the no-belief suffices to hush and tranquillize the heart
in relation to those most momentous subjects, on which if man has
not thought at all, he is a fool indeed. In either case the 'future'
and the 'eternal' seem so far removed that they seem to be an 'eternal
futurity.' Such parties look at that distant future much as children
at the stars; it is a point, an invisible speck, in the firmament.
A sixpence held near the eye appears larger; and brought sufficiently
close shuts out the universe altogether. But let us also forget the
future, and have a little talk of the past."
They resumed their conversation on subjects indifferent as far as this
journal is concerned, and I bade them good night.
---
July 5. We were sitting in the library after breakfast. The two
college friends soon fell into chat, while I sat writing at my
separate table, but ready to resume my capacity of reporter, should
any polemical discussion take place. I soon had plenty of employment.
After about an hour I heard Harrington say:--
"But I shall be happy, I assure you, to fill the void whenever you
will give me something solid wherewith to fill it."
It was impossible that even a believer in the doctrine that no
"creed" can be taught, and that an "external revelation" is an
impossibility, could be insensible to the charm of making a
proselyte.
"What is it," said Fellowes, "that you want?"
"What do I want? I want certainty, or quasi-certainty, on those
points on which if a man is content to remain uncertain, he is a
fool or a brute; points respecting which it is no more possible
for a genuine sceptic--for I speak not of the thoughtless lover
paradox, or the queer dogmatist who resolves that nothing is
true--to still the soul, than nakedness can render us insensible
to cold; or hunger cure its own pangs by saying, 'Go to, now; I have
nothing to eat.' The generality of mankind are insensible to these
questions only because they imagine, even though it may be falsely,
that they possess certainty. They are problems which, whenever there
is elevation of mind enough to appreciate their importance, engage
the real doubter in a life-long conflict; and to attempt to appease
restlessness of such a mind by the old prescriptions,--the old
quackish Epicurean nostrum of 'Carpe diem,'--'Let us eat, drink,
and be merry, for to-morrow die,'--'We do not know what the morrow may
bring--is like attempting to call back the soul from a moral syncope
by applying to the nostrils a drop of eau de Cologne. 'Enjoy to-day,
we do not know what the morrow will bring!' Why, that is the very
thought which poisons to-day. No, a soul of any worth cannot but
feel an intense wish for the solution of its doubts, even while it
doubts whether they can be solved."
"'Carpe diem' certainly would not be my sole prescription," said
Fellowes; "you have not told me yet what you want."
"No, but I will. The questions on which I want certainty are indeed
questions about which philosophers will often argue just to display
their vanity, as human vanity will argue about any thing; but they
are no sooner felt in their true grandeur, than they absorb the soul."
"Still, what is it you want?"
"I want to know---whence I came; whither I am going. Whether there be,
in truth, as so many say there is, a God,--a tremendous personality,
to whose infinite faculties the 'great' and the 'little' (as we call
them) equally vanish,--whose universal presence fills all space,
in any point of which he exists entire in the amplitude of all his
infinite attributes,--whose universal government extends even to me,
and my fellow-atoms, called men,--within whose sheltering embrace
even I am not too mean for protection;--whether, if there be such
a being, he is truly infinite; or whether this vast machine of the
universe may not have developed tendencies or involved consequences
which eluded his forethought, and are now beyond even his control;
--whether, for this reason, or for some other necessity, such infinite
sorrows have been permitted to invade it;--whether, above all, He be
propitious or offended with a world in which I feel too surely, in
the profound and various misery of man, that his aspects are not all
benignant;--how, if he be offended, he is to be reconciled;--whether
he is at all accessible, or one to whom the pleasures and the
sufferings of the poor child of dust are equally subjects of horrible
indifference;--whether, if such Omnipotent Being created the world, he
has now abandoned it to be the sport of chance, and I am thus an orphan
in the universe;--whether this 'universal frame' be indeed without a
mind, and we are, in fact, the only forms of conscious existence;
--whether, as the Pantheist declares, the universe itself be God,--
ever making, never made,--the product of an evolution of an infinite
series of 'antecedents' and 'consequents'; a God of which--for I
cannot say of whom--you and I are bits; perishable fragments of a
Divinity, itself imperishable only because there will always be bits
of it to perish;--whether, even upon some such supposition, this
conscious existence of ours is to be renewed; and, if under what
conditions; or whether, when we have finished our little day, no
other dawn is to break upon our night;--whether the vale, vale in
eternum vale, is really the proper utterance of a breaking heart as it
closes the sepulchre on the object of its love."
His voice faltered; and I was confirmed in my suspicions, that some
deep, secret sorrow had had to do with his morbid state of mind. In
a moment, he resumed:--
"These are the questions, and others like the them, which I have
vainly toiled to solve. I, like you, have been rudely driven out
of my old beliefs; my early Christian faith has given way to doubt;
the little hut on the mountain-side, in which I thought to dwell in
pastoral simplicity, has been scattered to the tempest, and I am
turned out to the blast without a shelter. I have wandered long and
far, but have not found that rest which you tell me is to be obtained.
As I examine all other theories, they seem, to me, pressed by at
least equal difficulties with that I have abandoned. I cannot make
myself contented, as others do, with believing nothing, and yet I
have nothing to believe; I have wrestled long and hard with my
Titan foes,--but not successfully. I have turned to every quarter
of the universe in vain; I have interrogated my own soul, but it
answers not; I have gazed upon nature, but its many voices speak no
articulate language to me; and, more especially, when I gaze upon
the bright page of the midnight heavens, those orbs gleam upon
me with so cold a light, and amidst so portentous a silence, that
I am, with Pascal, terrified at the spectacle of the infinite
solitudes,--'de ces espaces infinis.' I declare to you that I know
nothing in nature so beautiful or so terrible as those mute oracles."
"They are indeed mute," said Fellowes; "but not so that still voice
which whispers its oracles within. You have but to look inwards, and
you may see, by the direct gaze of 'the spiritual faculty,' bright
and clear, those great 'intuitions' of spiritual truth which the
gauds and splendors of the external universe can no more illustrate
than can the illuminated characters of an old missal;--just as little
can any book teach these truths. You have truly said, the stars will
shed no light upon them; they, on the contrary, must illumine the
stars; I mean, they must themselves be seen before the outward
universe can assume intelligible meaning; must utter their voices
before any of the phenomena of the external world can have any real
significance!"
"How different," said Harrington, "are the experiences of mankind!
You well described those internal oracles, if there are indeed such,
as whispering their responses; if they utter them at all, it is to
me in a whisper so low that I cannot distinctly catch them. Strange
paradoxes! the soul speaks, and the soul listens, and the soul cannot
tell what the soul says. That is, the soul speaks to itself, and says,
'What have I said?' I assure you that the ear of my soul (if I may so
speak) has often ached with intense effort to listen to what the tongue
of the soul mutters, and yet I cannot catch it. You tell me I have
only to look down into the depths within. Well, I have. I assure you
that I have endeavoured to do so, as far as I know, honestly; and,
so far from seeing clear and bright those splendors which you speak
of, I can only see as in the depths of a cavern occasional gleams of
a tremulous flickering light, which distinctly shows me nothing, and
which, I half suspect, comes from without into these recesses: or I
feel as if gazing down an abyss, the bottom of which is filled with
water; the light--and that, too, for aught I know, reflected from
without--only throws a transient glimpse of my own image on the
surface of the dark water; that image itself broken and renewed as
the water boils up from its hidden fountain. Or, if I may recur to
your own metaphor, instead of hearing in those deep caverns the
clear oracles of which you boast, I can distinguish nothing but
a scarcely audible murmur; I know not whether it be any thing more
than the lingering echoes of what I heard in my childhood: or,
rather, my soul speaks to me on all these momentous subjects much
as one in sleep often does; the lips move, but no sound issues
from them. I retire from these attempts, as those of old from the
cave of Trophonius, pale, terrified, and dejected. In short," he
continued, "I feel much as Descartes says he did when he had denuded
himself of all his traditional opinions,--a condition so graphically
described in the beginning of the second of his Meditations. There is
this difference, however, and in his favor: that he imposed upon
himself only a self-inflicted doubt, which he could terminate at any
time. His opinions had been but temporarily laid aside. They were on
the shelf, close at hand, ready to be taken down again when wanted. But
enough of this. You will, I know, aid me, if you can. And, now I think
of it, do so on one point, by justifying your assertion, made the
other evening, as to Mr. Newman's dilemma of the 'impossibility of
a book-revelation.'"
"I said, I think, that Mr. Newman has satisfactorily proved to me
that a book-revelation of moral and spiritual truth is impossible;
that God reveals himself to us within, and not from without."
"As to what is impossible," said the other, "I fancy it would be
difficult to get one thoroughly convinced of his ignorance and
feebleness to be other than very cautious how he used the word.
Perhaps, however, Mr. Newman may be more readily excused than most
men for the strength with which he pronounces his opinions; for,
as he has passed through an infinity of experiences, it may have
given him 'insight' into many absurdities which, to the generality
of mankind, do not appear such. I think if I had believed half so
many things, I should have lost all confidence in myself. What a
strong mind, or what buoyant faith, he must have!"
"Both,--both," said Fellowes.
"Well, be it so. But let us, as you promised yesterday, examine this
very point." This led on to a dialogue in which it was distinctly
proved that
THAT MAY BE POSSIBLE WITH MAN, WHICH IS
IMPOSSIBLE WITH GOD.
"Mr. Newman affirms, you say," said Harrington, "that in his judgment
every book-'revelation' is an absurdity and a contradiction; or, in
the words quoted by you, 'impossible.'"
"Yes,--of 'moral and spiritual truth.'"
"And of any other truth--as of historical truth--you say such
revelation is unnecessary?"
"Yes."
"Moreover, as you and Mr. Newman affirm, the bulk of mankind are
not competent to investigate the claims of such an historic
revelation?"
"Certainly."
"And, therefore, it is impossible in fact, if not per se, unless
God is to be supposed doing something both unnecessary and futile."
"I think so, of course," said Fellowes.
"So that all book-revelation is impossible."
"I affirm it."
"Very well,--I do not dispute it. There still remain one or two
difficulties on which I should like to have your judgment towards
forming an opinion: and they are on the very threshold of the subject.
And, first, I suppose you do not mean to restrict your term of a
'book-revelation' to that only which is literally consigned to a
book in our modern sense. You mean an external revelation?"
"Certainly."
"If, for example, you could recover a genuine manuscript of Isaiah
or Paul, you would not think it entitled to any more respect, as
authority, than a modern translation in a printed book,--though it
might be free from some errors?"
"I should not."
"You would not allow that parchment, however ancient, has any
advantage in this respect over paper, however modern?"
"Certainly not."
"Nor Hebrew or Greek over English or German?
"No."
"All such matters are in very deed but 'leather and prunella'?"
"Nothing more."
"And for a similar reason, surely, you would reject at once the oral
teaching of any such man as Paul or Matthew, or any body else, if
he professed that what he said was dictated by divine inspiration,
concurrently or not with the use of his own faculties? You would
repudiate at once his claims, however authenticated, to be your
infallible guide; to tell you what you are to believe, and how you
are to act? For surely you will not pretend that there is any
difference between statements which are merely expressed by the
living voice, and those same statements as consigned to a book;
except that, if any difference be supposed at all, one would, for
some reasons, rather have their in the last shape than in the first."
"Of course there is no difference: to object to a book-revelation
and grant a 'lip-revelation' from God, or to deny that lip-revelation
(when it is made permanent and diffusible) the authority it had when
first given, would be a childish hatred of a book indeed," answered
Fellowes.
"I perfectly agree with you," replied Harrington.
"I understand you, then, to deny that any revelation professedly
given to you or to me does, or ever can, come to us through any
external channel, printed or on parchment, ancient or modern, by the
living voice or in a written character; and that this is a proper
translation, in a generalized form, of the phrase 'a book-revelation'?"
"I admit it. For surely, as already said, it would be truly ridiculous
to allow that Paul, if we could but hear his living voice, was to be
listened to with implicit reverence as an authorized teacher of divine
truth; but that his deliberate utterances, recorded in a permanent
form, were to be regarded not merely as less authoritative, but of
no authority at all."
"So that if you saw Peter or Paul to-morrow, you would tell him the
same story?"
"Of course I should," replied Mr. Fellowes.
"And you would of course also reject any such revelation, coming
from any external source, even though the party proclaiming it
confirmed it by miracles? For I cannot see how, if it be true that
an external revelation is impossible, and that God always reveals
himself 'within us' and never 'out of us,' (which is the principle
affirmed,)--I say I cannot see how miracles can make any difference
in the case."
"No, certainly not. But surely you forget that miracles are impossible
on my notion: for, as Mr. Newman says---"
"Whatever he says, I suppose you will not deny that they are
conceivable; and that is all I am thinking of at present. Their
impossibility or possibility I will not dispute with you just now.
I am disposed to with you; only, as usual, I have some doubts, which
I wish you would endeavor to solve; but of that another time. Meantime,
my good friend, be so obliging as to give me an answer to my
question,--whether you would deem it to be your duty to reject any
such claims to authoritative teaching, even if backed by the
performance of miracles? for, admitting miracles never to have
occurred, and even that they never will, you, I think, would hesitate
to affirm that you clearly perceive that the very notion involves a
contradiction. They are, at least, imaginable, and that is sufficient
to supply you with an answer to my question. I once more ask you,
therefore, whether, if such a teacher of a book-revelation, in the
comprehensive sense of these words already defined, were to authenticate
(as he affirmed) his claims to reverence by any number, variety, or
splendor of miracles,--undoubted miracles,--you would any the more feel
bound to believe him?"
"What! upon the supposition that there was any thing morally
objectionable in his doctrine?"
"I will release you on that score too." said Harrington, in a most
accommodating manner. "Morally, I will assume there is nothing in his
doctrine but what you approve; and as for the rest,--to confirm which
I will suppose the revelation given,--I will assume nothing in it
which you could demonstrate to be false or contradictory; in fact,
nothing more difficult to be believed than many undeniable phenomena of
the external universe,--matters, for example, which you acknowledge you
do not comprehend, but which may possibly be true for aught you can
tell to the contrary."
"But if the supposed revelation contain nothing but what, appealing
thus to my judgment, I can approve, where is the necessity of a
revelation at all?"
"Did I say, my friend, that it was to contain nothing but what is
referred to your judgment? nothing but what you would know and approve
just as well without it? or even did I concede that you could have
known and approved without it that which, when it is proposed, you do
approve? I simply wish an answer to the question, whether, if a teacher
of an ethical system such as you entirely approved, with some doctrines
attached, incomprehensible it may be, but not demonstratively false or
immoral, were to substantiate (as he affirmed) his claims to your
belief by the performance of miracles, you would or would not feel
constrained any the more to believe him?"
"But I do not see the use of discussing a question under circumstances
which it is admitted never did nor ever can occur?"
"You 'fight hard,' as Socrates says to one of his antagonists on a
similar occasion; but I really must request an answer to the question.
The case is an imaginable one; and you may surely say how, upon the
principles you have laid down, you think those principles would compel
you to act in the hypothetical case."
"Well, then, if I must give all answer, I should say that upon the
principles on which Mr. Newman has argued the question,--that all
revelation, except which is internal, is impossible,--I should not
believe the supposed envoy's claims."
"Whatever the number or the splendor of his miracles?"
"Certainly," said Fellowes, with some hesitation however, and
speaking slowly.
"For that does not affect the principles we are agreed upon?"
"No,"--not seeming, however, perfectly satisfied.
"Very well," resumed Harrington, "that is what I call a plain answer
to a plain question. I fancy (waverer that I am!) that I should
believe the man's claims. I should be even greatly tempted to think
that those things which I could not entirely see ought to be
contained in the said revelation, were to be believed. But all that
is doubtless only because I am much weaker in mind and will than
either Mr. Newman or yourself. You must pardon me; it will in no degree
practically affect the question, except on the supposition that the
same infirmity is also a characteristic of man in general; that not
I, from my weakness, am an exception to rule; but you, in your strength.
But to dismiss that. You have agreed that a book-revelation is
impossible, and not to be believed, even if avouched by miracles.
Have men in general been disposed to believe a book-revelation
impossible? for if not, I am afraid they would be very liable to run
into error, if they share in my weaknesses."
"Liable to run into error!" said Fellowes. "Man has been perpetually
running into this very error, always and everywhere."
"If it be true, as you say, that man has always and everywhere manifested
a remarkable facility of falling into this error, many will be tempted
to think that the thing is not so plainly impossible. It seems so
strange that men in general should believe things to be possible when
they are impossible. However, you admit it as a too certain fact."
"I do, for I can not honestly deny it; but it has been because they
have confounded what is historical or intellectual with moral and
spiritual truth."