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Mark Rutherford >> Pages from a Journal with Other Papers
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Spinoza, it is clear, holds that in some way--in what way he will not
venture to determine--the more our souls are possessed by the
intellectual love of God, the less is death to be dreaded, for the
smaller is that part of us which can die. Three parallel passages may
be appended. One will show that this was Spinoza's belief from early
years and the other two that it is not peculiar to him. "If the soul is
united with some other thing which is and remains unchangeable, it must
also remain unchangeable and permanent." {56b} "Further, this creative
reason does not at one time think, at another time not think [it thinks
eternally]: and when separated from the body it remains nothing but
what it essentially is: and thus it is alone immortal and eternal. Of
this unceasing work of thought, however, we retain no memory, because
this reason is unaffected by its objects; whereas the receptive, passive
intellect (which is affected) is perishable, and can really think
nothing without the support of the creative intellect." {57a} The third
quotation is from a great philosophic writer, but one to whom perhaps we
should not turn for such a coincidence. "I believe," said Pantagruel,
"that all intellectual souls are exempt from the scissors of Atropos.
They are all immortal." {57b}
I have not tried to write an essay on Spinoza, for in writing an essay
there is a temptation to a consistency and completeness which are
contributed by the writer and are not to be found in his subject. The
warning must be reiterated that here as elsewhere we are too desirous,
both writers and readers, of clear definition where none is possible.
We do not stop where the object of our contemplation stops for our eyes.
For my own part I must say that there is much in Spinoza which is beyond
me, much which I cannot EXTEND, and much which, if it can be extended,
seems to involve contradiction. But I have also found his works
productive beyond those of almost any man I know of that acquiescentia
mentis which enables us to live.
SUPPLEMENTARY NOTE ON THE DEVIL
Spinoza denies the existence of the Devil, and says, in the Short
Treatise, that if he is the mere opposite of God and has nothing from
God, he is simply the Nothing. But if a philosophical doctrine be true,
it does not follow that as it stands it is applicable to practical
problems. For these a rule may have to be provided, which, although it
may not be inconsistent with the scientific theorem, differs from it in
form. The Devil is not an invention of priests for priestly purposes,
nor is he merely a hypothesis to account for facts, but he has been
forced upon us in order that we may be able to deal with them. Unless
we act as though there were an enemy to be resisted and chained, if we
fritter away differences of kind into differences of degree, we shall
make poor work of life. Spinoza himself assumes that other commands
than God's may be given to us, but that we are unhesitatingly to obey
His and His only. "Ad fidem ergo catholicam," he says, "ea solummodo
pertinent, quae erga Deum OBEDIENTIA absolute ponit." Consciousness
seems to testify to the presence of two mortal foes within us--one
Divine and the other diabolic--and perhaps the strongest evidence is not
the rebellion of the passions, but the picturing and the mental
processes which are almost entirely beyond our control, and often
greatly distress us. We look down upon them; they are not ours, and yet
they are ours, and we cry out with St. Paul against the law warring with
the law of our minds. Bunyan of course knows the practical problem and
the rule, and to him the Devil is not merely the tempter to crimes, but
the great Adversary. In the Holy War the chosen regiments of Diabolus
are the Doubters, and notwithstanding their theologic names, they
carried deadlier weapons than the theologic doubters of to-day. The
captain over the Grace-doubters was Captain Damnation; he over the
Felicity-doubters was Captain Past-hope, and his ancient-bearer was Mr.
Despair. The nature of the Doubters is "to put a question upon every
one of the truths of Emanuel, and their country is called the Land of
Doubting, and that land lieth off and furthest remote to the north
between the land of Darkness and that called the Valley of the Shadow of
Death." They are not children of the sun, and although they are not
sinners in the common sense of the word, those that were caught in
Mansoul were promptly executed.
There is nothing to be done but to fight and wait for the superior help
which will come if we do what we can. Emanuel at first delayed his aid
in the great battle, and the first brunt was left to Captain Credence.
Presently, however, Emanuel appeared "with colours flying, trumpets
sounding, and the feet of his men scarce touched the ground; they hasted
with such celerity towards the captains that were engaged that . . .
there was not left so much as one Doubter alive, they lay spread upon
the ground dead men as one would spread dung on the land." The dead
were buried "lest the fumes and ill-favours that would arise from them
might infect the air and so annoy the famous town of Mansoul." But it
will be a fight to the end for Diabolus, and the lords of the pit
escaped.
After Emanuel had finally occupied Mansoul he gave the citizens some
advice. The policy of Diabolus was "to make of their castle a
warehouse." Emanuel made it a fortress and a palace, and garrisoned the
town. "O my Mansoul," he said, "nourish my captains; make not my
captains sick, O Mansoul."
INJUSTICE
A notion, self-begotten in me, of the limitations of my friend is
answerable for the barrenness of my intercourse with him. I set him
down as hard; I speak to him as if he were hard and from that which is
hard in myself. Naturally I evoke only that which is hard, although
there may be fountains of tenderness in him of which I am altogether
unaware. It is far better in conversation not to regulate it according
to supposed capacities or tempers, which are generally those of some
fictitious being, but to be simply ourselves. We shall often find
unexpected and welcome response.
Our estimates of persons, unless they are frequently revived by personal
intercourse, are apt to alter insensibly and to become untrue. They
acquire increased definiteness but they lose in comprehensiveness.
Especially is this true of those who are dead. If I do not read a great
author for some time my mental abstract of him becomes summary and
false. I turn to him again, all summary judgments upon him become
impossible, and he partakes of infinitude. Writers, and people who are
in society and talk much are apt to be satisfied with an algebraic
symbol for a man of note, and their work is done not with him but with
x.
TIME SETTLES CONTROVERSIES
We ought to let Time have his own way in the settlement of our disputes.
It is a commonplace how much he is able to do with some of our troubles,
such as loss of friends or wealth; but we do not sufficiently estimate
his power to help our arguments. If I permit myself to dispute, I
always go beyond what is necessary for my purpose, and my continual
iteration and insistence do nothing but provoke opposition. Much better
would it be simply to state my case and leave it. To do more is not
only to distrust it, but to distrust that in my friend which is my best
ally, and will more surely assist me than all my vehemence. Sometimes--
nay, often--it is better to say nothing, for there is a constant
tendency in Nature towards rectification, and her quiet protest and
persuasiveness are hindered by personal interference. If anybody very
dear to me were to fall into any heresy of belief or of conduct, I am
not sure that I ought to rebuke him, and that he would not sooner be
converted by observing my silent respect for him than by preaching to
him.
TALKING ABOUT OUR TROUBLES
We may talk about our troubles to those persons who can give us direct
help, but even in this case we ought as much as possible to come to a
provisional conclusion before consultation; to be perfectly clear to
ourselves within our own limits. Some people have a foolish trick of
applying for aid before they have done anything whatever to aid
themselves, and in fact try to talk themselves into perspicuity. The
only way in which they can think is by talking, and their speech
consequently is not the expression of opinion already and carefully
formed, but the manufacture of it.
We may also tell our troubles to those who are suffering if we can
lessen their own. It may be a very great relief to them to know that
others have passed through trials equal to theirs and have survived.
There are obscure, nervous diseases, hypochondriac fancies, almost
uncontrollable impulses, which terrify by their apparent singularity.
If we could believe that they are common, the worst of the fear would
vanish.
But, as a rule, we should be very careful for our own sake not to speak
much about what distresses us. Expression is apt to carry with it
exaggeration, and this exaggerated form becomes henceforth that under
which we represent our miseries to ourselves, so that they are thereby
increased. By reserve, on the other hand, they are diminished, for we
attach less importance to that which it was not worth while to mention.
Secrecy, in fact, may be our salvation.
It is injurious to be always treated as if something were the matter
with us. It is health-giving to be dealt with as if we were healthy,
and the man who imagines his wits are failing becomes stronger and
sounder by being entrusted with a difficult problem than by all the
assurances of a doctor.
They are poor creatures who are always craving for pity. If we are
sick, let us prefer conversation upon any subject rather than upon
ourselves. Let it turn on matters that lie outside the dark chamber,
upon the last new discovery, or the last new idea. So shall we seem
still to be linked to the living world. By perpetually asking for
sympathy an end is put to real friendship. The friend is afraid to
intrude anything which has no direct reference to the patient's
condition lest it should be thought irrelevant. No love even can long
endure without complaint, silent it may be, an invalid who is entirely
self-centred; and what an agony it is to know that we are tended simply
as a duty by those who are nearest to us, and that they will really be
relieved when we have departed! From this torture we may be saved if we
early apprentice ourselves to the art of self-suppression and sternly
apply the gag to eloquence upon our own woes. Nobody who really cares
for us will mind waiting on us even to the long-delayed last hour if we
endure in fortitude.
There is no harm in confronting our disorders or misfortunes. On the
contrary, the attempt is wholesome. Much of what we dread is really due
to indistinctness of outline. If we have the courage to say to
ourselves, What IS this thing, then? let the worst come to the worst,
and what then? we shall frequently find that after all it is not so
terrible. What we have to do is to subdue tremulous, nervous, insane
fright. Fright is often prior to an object; that is to say, the fright
comes first and something is invented or discovered to account for it.
There are certain states of body and mind which are productive of
objectless fright, and the most ridiculous thing in the world is able to
provoke it to activity. It is perhaps not too much to say that any
calamity the moment it is apprehended by the reason alone loses nearly
all its power to disturb and unfix us. The conclusions which are so
alarming are not those of the reason, but, to use Spinoza's words, of
the "affects."
FAITH
Faith is nobly seen when a man, standing like Columbus upon the shore
with a dark, stormy Atlantic before him, resolves to sail, and although
week after week no land be visible, still believes and still sails on;
but it is nobler when there is no America as the goal of our venture,
but something which is unsubstantial, as, for example, self-control and
self-purification. It is curious, by the way, that discipline of this
kind should almost have disappeared. Possibly it is because religion is
now a matter of belief in certain propositions; but, whatever the cause
may be, we do not train ourselves day by day to become better as we
train ourselves to learn languages or science. To return from this
parenthesis, we say that when no applause nor even recognition is
expected, to proceed steadily and alone for its own sake in the work of
saving the soul is truer heroism than that which leads a martyr
cheerfully to the stake.
Faith is at its best when we have to wrestle with despair, not only of
ourselves but of the Universe; when we strain our eyes and see nothing
but blackness. In the Gorgias Socrates maintains, not only that it is
always better to suffer injustice than to commit it, but that it is
better to be punished for injustice than to escape, and better to die
than to do wrong; and it is better not only because of the effect on
others but for our own sake. We are naturally led to ask what support a
righteous man unjustly condemned could find, supposing he were about to
be executed, if he had no faith in personal immortality and knew that
his martyrdom could not have the least effect for good. Imagine him,
for example, shut up in a dungeon and about to be strangled in it and
that not a single inquiry will be made about him--where will he look for
help? what hope will compose him? He may say that in a few hours he
will be asleep, and that nothing will then be of any consequence to him,
but that thought surely will hardly content him. He may reflect that he
at least prevents the evil which would be produced by his apostasy; and
very frequently in life, when we abstain from doing wrong, we have to be
satisfied with a negative result and with the simple absence (which
nobody notices) of some direct mischief, although the abstention may
cost more than positive well-doing. This too, however, is but cold
consolation when the cord is brought and the grave is already dug.
It must be admitted that Reason cannot give any answer. Socrates, when
his reasoning comes to an end, often permits himself to tell a story.
"My dialectic," he seems to say, "is of no further use; but here is a
tale for you," and as he goes on with it we can see his satyr eyes gleam
with an intensity which shows that he did not consider he was inventing
a mere fable. That was the way in which he taught theology. Perhaps we
may find that something less than logic and more than a dream may be of
use to us. We may figure to ourselves that this universe of souls is
the manifold expression of the One, and that in this expression there is
a purpose which gives importance to all the means of which it avails
itself. Apparent failure may therefore be a success, for the mind which
has been developed into perfect virtue falls back into the One, having
served (by its achievements) the end of its existence. The potential in
the One has become actual, has become real, and the One is the richer
thereby.
PATIENCE
What is most to be envied in really religious people of the earlier type
is their intellectual and moral peace. They had obtained certain
convictions, a certain conception of the Universe, by which they could
live. Their horizon may have been encompassed with darkness; experience
sometimes contradicted their faith, but they trusted--nay, they knew--
that the opposition was not real and that the truths were not to be
shaken. Their conduct was marked by a corresponding unity. They
determined once for all that there were rules which had to be obeyed,
and when any particular case arose it was not judged according to the
caprice of the moment, but by statute.
We, on the other hand, can only doubt. So far as those subjects are
concerned on which we are most anxious to be informed, we are sure of
nothing. What we have to do is to accept the facts and wait. We must
take care not to deny beauty and love because we are forced also to
admit ugliness and hatred. Let us yield ourselves up utterly to the
magnificence and tenderness of the sunrise, though the East End of
London lies over the horizon. That very same Power, and it is no other,
which blasts a country with the cholera or drives the best of us to
madness has put the smile in a child's face and is the parent of Love.
It is curious, too, that the curse seems in no way to qualify the
blessing. The sweetness and majesty of Nature are so exquisite, so
pure, that when they are before us we cannot imagine they could be
better if they proceeded from an omnipotently merciful Being and no
pestilence had ever been known. We must not worry ourselves with
attempts at reconciliation. We must be satisfied with a hint here and
there, with a ray of sunshine at our feet, and we must do what we can to
make the best of what we possess. Hints and sunshine will not be
wanting, and science, which was once considered to be the enemy of
religion, is dissolving by its later discoveries the old gross
materialism, the source of so much despair.
The conduct of life is more important than speculation, but the lives of
most of us are regulated by no principle whatever. We read our Bible,
Thomas a Kempis, and Bunyan, and we are persuaded that our salvation
lies in the perpetual struggle of the higher against the lower self, the
spirit against the flesh, and that the success of the flesh is
damnation. We take down Horace and Rabelais and we admit that the body
also has its claims. We have no power to dominate both sets of books,
and consequently they supersede one another alternately. Perhaps life
is too large for any code we can as yet frame, and the dissolution of
all codes, the fluid, unstable condition of which we complain, may be a
necessary antecedent of new and more lasting combinations. One thing is
certain, that there is not a single code now in existence which is not
false; that the graduation of the vices and virtues is wrong, and that
in the future it will be altered. We must not hand ourselves over to a
despotism with no Divine right, even if there be a risk of anarchy. In
the determination of our own action, and in our criticism of other
people, we must use the whole of ourselves and not mere fragments. If
we do this we need not fear. We may suppose we are in danger because
the stone tables of the Decalogue have gone to dust, but it is more
dangerous to attempt to control men by fictions. Better no chart
whatever than one which shows no actually existing perils, but warns us
against Scylla, Charybdis, and the Cyclops. If we are perfectly honest
with ourselves we shall not find it difficult to settle whether we ought
to do this or that particular thing, and we may be content. The new
legislation will come naturally at the appointed time, and it is not
impossible to live while it is on the way.
AN APOLOGY
In these latter days of anarchy and tumult, when there is no gospel of
faith or morals, when democracy seems bent on falsifying every
prediction of earlier democratic enthusiasts by developing worse dangers
to liberty than any which our forefathers had to encounter, and when the
misery of cities is so great, it appears absurd, not to say wrong, that
we should sit still and read books. I am ashamed when I go into my own
little room and open Milton or Shakespeare after looking at a newspaper
or walking through the streets of London. I feel that Milton and
Shakespeare are luxuries, and that I really belong to the class which
builds palaces for its pleasure, although men and women may be starving
on the roads.
Nevertheless, if I were placed on a platform I should be obliged to say,
"My brethren, I plainly perceive the world is all wrong, but I cannot
see how it is to be set right," and I should descend the steps and go
home. There may be others who have a clearer perception than mine, and
who may be convinced that this way or that way lies regeneration. I do
not wish to discourage them; I wish them God-speed, but I cannot help
them nor become their disciple. Possibly I am doing nothing better than
devising excuses for lotus-eating, but here they are.
To take up something merely because I am idle is useless. The message
must come to me, and with such urgency that I cannot help delivering it.
Nor is it of any use to attempt to give my natural thoughts a force
which is not inherent in them.
The disease is often obvious, but the remedies are doubtful. The
accumulation of wealth in a few hands, generally by swindling, is
shocking, but if it were distributed to-morrow we should gain nothing.
The working man objects to the millionaire, but would gladly become a
millionaire himself, even if his million could be piled up in no other
way than by sweating thousands of his fellows. The usurpation of
government by the ignorant will bring disaster, but how in these days
could a wise man reign any longer than ignorance permitted him? The
everlasting veerings of the majority, without any reason meanwhile for
the change, show that, except on rare occasions of excitement, the
opinion of the voters is of no significance. But when we are asked what
substitute for elections can be proposed, none can be found. So with
the relationship between man and woman, the marriage laws and divorce.
The calculus has not been invented which can deal with such
complexities. We are in the same position as that in which Leverrier
and Adams would have been, if, observing the irregularities of Uranus,
which led to the discovery of Neptune, they had known nothing but the
first six books of Euclid and a little algebra.
There has never been any reformation as yet without dogma and
supernaturalism. Ordinary people acknowledge no real reasons for virtue
except heaven and hell-fire. When heaven and hell-fire cease to
persuade, custom for a while is partly efficacious, but its strength
soon decays. Some good men, knowing the uselessness of rational means
to convert or to sustain their fellows, have clung to dogma with
hysterical energy, but without any genuine faith in it. They have
failed, for dogma cannot be successful unless it be the INEVITABLE
expression of the inward conviction.
The voices now are so many and so contradictory that it is impossible to
hear any one of them distinctly, no matter what its claim on our
attention may be. The newspaper, the circulating library, the free
library, and the magazine are doing their best to prevent unity of
direction and the din and confusion of tongues beget a doubt whether
literature and the printing press have actually been such a blessing to
the race as enlightenment universally proclaims them to be.
The great currents of human destiny seem more than ever to move by
forces which tend to no particular point. There is a drift, tremendous
and overpowering, due to nobody in particular, but to hundreds of
millions of small impulses. Achilles is dead, and the turn of the
Myrmidons has come.
"Myrmdons, race feconde
Myrmidons,
Enfin nous commandons:
Jupiter livre le monde
Aux Myrmidons, aux Myrmidons.
Voyant qu' Achille succombe,
Ses Myrmidons, hors des rangs,
Disent: Dansons sur sa tombe
Ses petits vont etre grands."
My last defence is that the Universe is an organic unity, and so subtle
and far-reaching are the invisible threads which pass from one part of
it to another that it is impossible to limit the effect which even an
insignificant life may have. "Were a single dust-atom destroyed, the
universe would collapse."
" . . . who of men can tell
That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell
To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail,
The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale,
The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones,
The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones,
Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet
If human souls did never kiss and greet?"
BELIEF, UNBELIEF, AND SUPERSTITION
True belief is rare and difficult. There is no security that the
fictitious beliefs which have been obtained by no genuine mental
process, that is to say, are not vitally held, may not be discarded for
those which are exactly contrary. We flatter ourselves that we have
secured a method and freedom of thought which will not permit us to be
the victims of the absurdities of the Middle Ages, but, in fact, there
is no solid obstacle to our conversion to some new grotesque religion
more miraculous than Roman Catholicism. Modern scepticism,
distinguishing it from scholarly scepticism, is nothing but stupidity or
weakness. Few people like to confess outright that they do not believe
in a God, although the belief in a personal devil is considered to be a
sign of imbecility. Nevertheless, men, as a rule, have no ground for
believing in God a whit more respectable than for disbelief in a devil.
The devil is not seen nor is God seen. The work of the devil is as
obvious as that of God. Nay, as the devil is a limited personality,
belief in him is not encumbered with the perplexities which arise when
we attempt to apprehend the infinite Being. Belief may often be tested;
that is to say, we may be able to discover whether it is an active
belief or not by inquiring what disbelief it involves. So also the test
of disbelief is its correspondent belief.
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