THUS is the unspeakable but intelligible and practicable meaning of the world conveyed to man, the immortal pupil, in every object of sense. To this one end of Discipline, all parts of nature conspire.
In this way, every object we sense conveys the world's meaning to humanity, the immortal student. This meaning cannot be expressed in words, but it can be understood and put into practice. All parts of nature work together toward this one goal of teaching.
A noble doubt perpetually suggests itself, whether this end be not the Final Cause of the Universe; and whether nature outwardly exists. It is a sufficient account of that Appearance we call the World, that God will teach a human mind, and so makes it the receiver of a certain number of congruent sensations, which we call sun and moon, man and woman, house and trade. In my utter impotence to test the authenticity of the report of my senses, to know whether the impressions they make on me correspond with outlying objects, what difference does it make, whether Orion is up there in heaven, or some god paints the image in the firmament of the soul? The relations of parts and the end of the whole remaining the same, what is the difference, whether land and sea interact, and worlds revolve and intermingle without number or end,—deep yawning under deep, and galaxy balancing galaxy, throughout absolute space,—or, whether, without relations of time and space, the same appearances are inscribed in the constant faith of man? Whether nature enjoy a substantial existence without, or is only in the apocalypse of the mind, it is alike useful and alike venerable to me. Be it what it may, it is ideal to me, so long as I cannot try the accuracy of my senses.
A profound question keeps arising. Is this purpose the ultimate purpose of the universe, and does nature exist outside the mind? This is enough to explain the appearance we call the world: God wishes to teach a human mind. So he gives it a set of consistent sensations. We call them sun and moon, man and woman, house and trade. I am utterly unable to verify what my senses report. I cannot know whether my impressions correspond to objects outside me. What difference does it make whether Orion is up there in the sky? Or whether some god paints its image in the sky of the soul? The relationships among the parts and the purpose of the whole remain the same. What difference, then, does it make whether land and sea interact, and countless worlds revolve and mingle without end? Depth opens beneath depth, and galaxy balances galaxy throughout absolute space. Or perhaps these same appearances, independent of time and space, are written into humanity’s enduring faith. Whether nature has a real existence outside the mind or exists only as a revelation within it makes no difference. It is equally useful and equally worthy of reverence to me. Whatever it may be, it exists for me as an idea, as long as I cannot test my senses’ accuracy.
The frivolous make themselves merry with the Ideal theory, if its consequences were burlesque; as if it affected the stability of nature. It surely does not. God never jests with us, and will not compromise the end of nature, by permitting any inconsequence in its procession. Any distrust of the permanence of laws, would paralyze the faculties of man. Their permanence is sacredly respected, and his faith therein is perfect. The wheels and springs of man are all set to the hypothesis of the permanence of nature. We are not built like a ship to be tossed, but like a house to stand. It is a natural consequence of this structure, that, so long as the active powers predominate over the reflective, we resist with indignation any hint that nature is more short-lived or mutable than spirit. The broker, the wheelwright, the carpenter, the toll-man, are much displeased at the intimation.
Frivolous people mock the theory of idealism, as if its consequences were absurd, as if it threatened nature’s stability. It certainly does not. God never plays tricks on us. He will not undermine nature’s purpose by allowing any inconsistency in its course. Any doubt that nature’s laws will endure would paralyze human abilities. Their permanence is held sacred, and human faith in it is complete. All the wheels and springs of human nature are set to assume that nature will endure. We are not built like a ship to be tossed about, but like a house to stand firm. A natural consequence follows from this structure. As long as our drive to act outweighs our tendency to reflect, we indignantly resist any such suggestion. We reject the idea that nature is shorter-lived or more changeable than spirit. The broker, the wheelwright, the carpenter, and the toll collector are deeply displeased by the suggestion.
But whilst we acquiesce entirely in the permanence of natural laws, the question of the absolute existence of nature still remains open. It is the uniform effect of culture on the human mind, not to shake our faith in the stability of particular phenomena, as of heat, water, azote; but to lead us to regard nature as a phenomenon, not a substance; to attribute necessary existence to spirit; to esteem nature as an accident and an effect.
We fully accept that natural laws are permanent. Yet the question of whether nature exists independently remains open. Education and learning always affect the human mind in the same way. They do not weaken our faith in the stability of specific phenomena, such as heat, water, and nitrogen. Instead, they lead us to see nature as an appearance, not an underlying reality. They lead us to view spirit as necessarily existing, and nature as something dependent and caused.
To the senses and the unrenewed understanding, belongs a sort of instinctive belief in the absolute existence of nature. In their view, man and nature are indissolubly joined. Things are ultimates, and they never look beyond their sphere. The presence of Reason mars this faith. The first effort of thought tends to relax this despotism of the senses, which binds us to nature as if we were a part of it, and shows us nature aloof, and, as it were, afloat. Until this higher agency intervened, the animal eye sees, with wonderful accuracy, sharp outlines and colored surfaces. When the eye of Reason opens, to outline and surface are at once added, grace and expression. These proceed from imagination and affection, and abate somewhat of the angular distinctness of objects. If the Reason be stimulated to more earnest vision, outlines and surfaces become transparent, and are no longer seen; causes and spirits are seen through them. The best moments of life are these delicious awakenings of the higher powers, and the reverential withdrawing of nature before its God.
The senses and the mind, before its spiritual renewal, instinctively believe that nature exists absolutely in its own right. To them, humanity and nature are inseparably joined. Things are the final reality, and they never look beyond them. Reason unsettles this faith. The first act of thought begins to loosen the senses’ tyrannical hold, which binds us to nature as part of it. Thought shows us nature standing apart and, as it were, floating free. Before this higher power intervenes, the animal eye sees sharp outlines and colored surfaces with wonderful accuracy. When the eye of Reason opens, grace and expression are immediately added to outline and surface. These come from imagination and affection, softening the sharp edges that distinguish objects. If Reason is stirred to see more deeply, outlines and surfaces become transparent and disappear from view. Through them, we see causes and spirits. Life’s best moments are these delightful awakenings of our higher powers, when nature reverently draws back before its God.
Let us proceed to indicate the effects of culture. 1. Our first institution in the Ideal philosophy is a hint from nature herself.
Let us now outline the effects of culture. 1. Our first lesson in idealist philosophy comes from a hint from nature herself.
Nature is made to conspire with spirit to emancipate us. Certain mechanical changes, a small alteration in our local position apprizes us of a dualism. We are strangely affected by seeing the shore from a moving ship, from a balloon, or through the tints of an unusual sky. The least change in our point of view, gives the whole world a pictorial air. A man who seldom rides, needs only to get into a coach and traverse his own town, to turn the street into a puppet-show. The men, the women,—talking, running, bartering, fighting,—the earnest mechanic, the lounger, the beggar, the boys, the dogs, are unrealized at once, or, at least, wholly detached from all relation to the observer, and seen as apparent, not substantial beings. What new thoughts are suggested by seeing a face of country quite familiar, in the rapid movement of the rail-road car! Nay, the most wonted objects, (make a very slight change in the point of vision,) please us most. In a camera obscura, the butcher's cart, and the figure of one of our own family amuse us. So a portrait of a well-known face gratifies us. Turn the eyes upside down, by looking at the landscape through your legs, and how agreeable is the picture, though you have seen it any time these twenty years!
Nature is made to work with spirit to set us free. Certain physical changes, a slight shift in our position, make us aware of a division between mind and matter. Seeing the shore from a moving ship, from a balloon, or beneath an unusually colored sky affects us strangely. The slightest change in our viewpoint makes the whole world look like a picture. A man who seldom rides need only take a carriage through his own town to turn its streets into a puppet show. The men and women talking, running, trading, and fighting suddenly seem unreal. So do the hardworking craftsman, the idler, the beggar, the boys, and the dogs. Or at least, they seem completely disconnected from the observer, appearing as images rather than solid beings. What new thoughts arise when we see familiar countryside from a fast-moving train! Indeed, the most familiar objects please us most when we shift our viewpoint even slightly. In a camera obscura, which projects an image of its surroundings, a butcher's cart or a family member amuses us. In the same way, a portrait of a familiar face gives us pleasure. Look at the landscape upside down through your legs. How pleasing the picture becomes, even though you have seen it regularly for twenty years!
In these cases, by mechanical means, is suggested the difference between the observer and the spectacle,—between man and nature. Hence arises a pleasure mixed with awe; I may say, a low degree of the sublime is felt from the fact, probably, that man is hereby apprized, that, whilst the world is a spectacle, something in himself is stable.
In these cases, mechanical means suggest the difference between the observer and the scene, between humanity and nature. This brings a pleasure mixed with awe. I might call it a faint sense of the sublime. It probably comes from realizing that, while the world is a spectacle, something within us remains stable.
2. In a higher manner, the poet communicates the same pleasure. By a few strokes he delineates, as on air, the sun, the mountain, the camp, the city, the hero, the maiden, not different from what we know them, but only lifted from the ground and afloat before the eye. He unfixes the land and the sea, makes them revolve around the axis of his primary thought, and disposes them anew. Possessed himself by a heroic passion, he uses matter as symbols of it. The sensual man conforms thoughts to things; the poet conforms things to his thoughts. The one esteems nature as rooted and fast; the other, as fluid, and impresses his being thereon. To him, the refractory world is ductile and flexible; he invests dust and stones with humanity, and makes them the words of the Reason. The Imagination may be defined to be, the use which the Reason makes of the material world. Shakspeare possesses the power of subordinating nature for the purposes of expression, beyond all poets. His imperial muse tosses the creation like a bauble from hand to hand, and uses it to embody any caprice of thought that is upper-most in his mind. The remotest spaces of nature are visited, and the farthest sundered things are brought together, by a subtle spiritual connection. We are made aware that magnitude of material things is relative, and all objects shrink and expand to serve the passion of the poet. Thus, in his sonnets, the lays of birds, the scents and dyes of flowers, he finds to be the shadow of his beloved; time, which keeps her from him, is his chest; the suspicion she has awakened, is her ornament;
2. The poet communicates the same pleasure on a higher level. With a few strokes, he sketches the sun, the mountain, the camp, the city, the hero, and the maiden. He seems to draw them in the air. They remain as we know them, but rise from the ground and float before our eyes. He loosens the land and sea from their places. He makes them revolve around his central thought and arranges them anew. Filled with a heroic passion, he uses material things as its symbols. The person ruled by the senses shapes thoughts to fit things. The poet shapes things to fit his thoughts. One sees nature as rooted and fixed. The other sees it as fluid and leaves his own imprint on it. To him, the stubborn world becomes pliable and flexible. He gives dust and stones human qualities and makes them the words of Reason. Imagination may be defined as the use Reason makes of the material world. Shakespeare has more power than any other poet to make nature serve his expression. His commanding muse tosses creation from hand to hand like a toy. He uses it to embody whatever passing thought is uppermost in his mind. Through a subtle spiritual connection, he visits nature’s remotest spaces and brings together the things farthest apart. We become aware that the size of material things is relative. All objects shrink and expand to serve the poet’s passion. Thus, in his sonnets, he finds birds’ songs and flowers’ scents and colors to be the shadow of his beloved. Time, which keeps her from him, is his chest. The suspicion she has awakened is her ornament.
The ornament of beauty is Suspect, A crow which flies in heaven's sweetest air.
Beauty’s adornment is suspicion, a crow flying through heaven’s sweetest air.
His passion is not the fruit of chance; it swells, as he speaks, to a city, or a state.
His passion is no accident. As he speaks, it grows to encompass a city or a state.
No, it was builded far from accident; It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Under the brow of thralling discontent; It fears not policy, that heretic, That works on leases of short numbered hours, But all alone stands hugely politic.
No, it was built far beyond the reach of chance. It does not suffer amid smiling splendor. Nor does it fall beneath the scowl of crushing discontent. It does not fear political calculation, that heretic whose plans last only a few brief hours. Instead, it stands entirely alone, supremely wise.
In the strength of his constancy, the Pyramids seem to him recent and transitory. The freshness of youth and love dazzles him with its resemblance to morning.
His sense of lasting strength makes the Pyramids seem new and short-lived to him. The freshness of youth and love dazzles him because it is so much like morning.
Take those lips away Which so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes,—the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn.
Take away those lips that swore such sweet, false vows. And those eyes, like daybreak, whose light deceives the morning.
The wild beauty of this hyperbole, I may say, in passing, it would not be easy to match in literature.
The wild beauty of this exaggeration, I might add, would be hard to match in literature.
This transfiguration which all material objects undergo through the passion of the poet,—this power which he exerts to dwarf the great, to magnify the small,—might be illustrated by a thousand examples from his Plays. I have before me the Tempest, and will cite only these few lines.
The poet’s passion transforms all material objects. His power makes the great seem small and the small seem great. A thousand examples from his plays could illustrate this. I have The Tempest before me and will quote only these few lines.
ARIEL. The strong based promontory Have I made shake, and by the spurs plucked up The pine and cedar.
ARIEL. I have shaken the firmly rooted headland. I have torn up pine and cedar trees by their roots.
Prospero calls for music to soothe the frantic Alonzo, and his companions;
Prospero calls for music to calm the frantic Alonzo and his companions.
A solemn air, and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains Now useless, boiled within thy skull.
Let this solemn music, the best comfort for a troubled mind, heal your brain. It is now useless, overheated inside your skull.
Again;
Again,
The charm dissolves apace, And, as the morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason. Their understanding Begins to swell: and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shores That now lie foul and muddy.
The spell is quickly fading. As morning creeps over night and melts the darkness, their awakening senses begin to clear the fog of ignorance. That fog has clouded their clearer reason. Their understanding begins to grow. The rising tide will soon fill the shores of reason that now lie dirty and muddy.
The perception of real affinities between events, (that is to say, of ideal affinities, for those only are real,) enables the poet thus to make free with the most imposing forms and phenomena of the world, and to assert the predominance of the soul.
The poet sees real connections between events, that is, ideal connections, since only these are real. This allows the poet to take such liberties with the world’s most imposing forms and phenomena. In doing so, the poet declares the soul’s supremacy.
3. Whilst thus the poet animates nature with his own thoughts, he differs from the philosopher only herein, that the one proposes Beauty as his main end; the other Truth. But the philosopher, not less than the poet, postpones the apparent order and relations of things to the empire of thought. "The problem of philosophy," according to Plato, "is, for all that exists conditionally, to find a ground unconditioned and absolute." It proceeds on the faith that a law determines all phenomena, which being known, the phenomena can be predicted. That law, when in the mind, is an idea. Its beauty is infinite. The true philosopher and the true poet are one, and a beauty, which is truth, and a truth, which is beauty, is the aim of both. Is not the charm of one of Plato's or Aristotle's definitions, strictly like that of the Antigone of Sophocles? It is, in both cases, that a spiritual life has been imparted to nature; that the solid seeming block of matter has been pervaded and dissolved by a thought; that this feeble human being has penetrated the vast masses of nature with an informing soul, and recognised itself in their harmony, that is, seized their law. In physics, when this is attained, the memory disburthens itself of its cumbrous catalogues of particulars, and carries centuries of observation in a single formula.
3. The poet brings nature to life with his own thoughts. He differs from the philosopher in only one way. The poet’s main goal is Beauty, while the philosopher’s is Truth. But the philosopher, like the poet, places thought above the apparent order and relationships of things. According to Plato, "The problem of philosophy is to find an unconditional, absolute foundation for everything whose existence depends on conditions." Philosophy rests on the belief that a law governs all phenomena. Once that law is known, the phenomena can be predicted. In the mind, that law is an idea. Its beauty is infinite. The true philosopher and the true poet are one. Both seek a beauty that is truth, and a truth that is beauty. Isn’t the appeal of a definition by Plato or Aristotle exactly like that of Sophocles’ Antigone? In both cases, nature has been given a spiritual life. Thought has penetrated and dissolved what seemed to be a solid block of matter. This frail human being has filled nature’s vast masses with a soul that gives them form and meaning. The human being has recognized itself in their harmony, grasping the law that governs them. In physics, once this understanding is reached, memory frees itself from its burdensome lists of individual facts. It holds centuries of observation in a single formula.
Thus even in physics, the material is degraded before the spiritual. The astronomer, the geometer, rely on their irrefragable analysis, and disdain the results of observation. The sublime remark of Euler on his law of arches, "This will be found contrary to all experience, yet is true;" had already transferred nature into the mind, and left matter like an outcast corpse.
Thus, even in physics, the material is lowered in rank before the spiritual. Astronomers and geometers rely on their irrefutable analysis and dismiss the results of observation. Euler made a profound remark about his law of arches: "This will contradict all experience, yet it is true." That remark had already moved nature into the mind and left matter like a discarded corpse.
4. Intellectual science has been observed to beget invariably a doubt of the existence of matter. Turgot said, "He that has never doubted the existence of matter, may be assured he has no aptitude for metaphysical inquiries." It fastens the attention upon immortal necessary uncreated natures, that is, upon Ideas; and in their presence, we feel that the outward circumstance is a dream and a shade. Whilst we wait in this Olympus of gods, we think of nature as an appendix to the soul. We ascend into their region, and know that these are the thoughts of the Supreme Being. "These are they who were set up from everlasting, from the beginning, or ever the earth was. When he prepared the heavens, they were there; when he established the clouds above, when he strengthened the fountains of the deep. Then they were by him, as one brought up with him. Of them took he counsel."
4. The study of the mind has always been observed to raise doubts about the existence of matter. Turgot said, "Anyone who has never doubted the existence of matter can be sure they have no talent for metaphysical inquiry." This study fixes our attention on immortal, necessary, uncreated realities, that is, on Ideas. In their presence, we feel that the external world is a dream and a shadow. While we linger in this Olympus of gods, we think of nature as an addition to the soul. We rise into their realm and know that these are the thoughts of the Supreme Being. "These are the ones established from eternity, from the beginning, before the earth existed. When he prepared the heavens, they were there. They were there when he established the clouds above and secured the springs of the deep. Then they were beside him, like one raised with him. He sought their counsel."
Their influence is proportionate. As objects of science, they are accessible to few men. Yet all men are capable of being raised by piety or by passion, into their region. And no man touches these divine natures, without becoming, in some degree, himself divine. Like a new soul, they renew the body. We become physically nimble and lightsome; we tread on air; life is no longer irksome, and we think it will never be so. No man fears age or misfortune or death, in their serene company, for he is transported out of the district of change. Whilst we behold unveiled the nature of Justice and Truth, we learn the difference between the absolute and the conditional or relative. We apprehend the absolute. As it were, for the first time, we exist. We become immortal, for we learn that time and space are relations of matter; that, with a perception of truth, or a virtuous will, they have no affinity.
Their influence is equally great. As subjects of scientific study, they are accessible to few people. Yet everyone can be lifted into their realm by devotion or passion. And no one encounters these divine natures without becoming, to some degree, divine themselves. Like a new soul, they renew the body. We become physically agile and light. We walk on air. Life is no longer a burden, and we think it never will be again. No one fears old age, misfortune, or death in their serene company. They carry us beyond the realm of change. As we see the true nature of Justice and Truth, we learn to distinguish the absolute from the conditional or relative. We grasp the absolute. It is as though, for the first time, we exist. We become immortal. We learn that time and space are relationships of matter. They have no connection with the perception of truth or with a will directed toward goodness.
5. Finally, religion and ethics, which may be fitly called,—the practice of ideas, or the introduction of ideas into life,—have an analogous effect with all lower culture, in degrading nature and suggesting its dependence on spirit. Ethics and religion differ herein; that the one is the system of human duties commencing from man; the other, from God. Religion includes the personality of God; Ethics does not. They are one to our present design. They both put nature under foot. The first and last lesson of religion is, "The things that are seen, are temporal; the things that are unseen, are eternal." It puts an affront upon nature. It does that for the unschooled, which philosophy does for Berkeley and Viasa. The uniform language that may be heard in the churches of the most ignorant sects, is,—"Contemn the unsubstantial shows of the world; they are vanities, dreams, shadows, unrealities; seek the realities of religion." The devotee flouts nature. Some theosophists have arrived at a certain hostility and indignation towards matter, as the Manichean and Plotinus. They distrusted in themselves any looking back to these flesh-pots of Egypt. Plotinus was ashamed of his body. In short, they might all say of matter, what Michael Angelo said of external beauty, "it is the frail and weary weed, in which God dresses the soul, which he has called into time."
5. Finally, religion and ethics can rightly be called the practice of ideas, or bringing ideas into life. Like all less elevated forms of culture, they lower nature’s status and suggest its dependence on spirit. Ethics and religion differ in their starting points. Ethics is a system of human duties that begins with humanity. Religion begins with God. Religion includes a personal God. Ethics does not. For our present purpose, they are one. Both put nature beneath their feet. The first and last lesson of religion is, "What is seen is temporary. What is unseen is eternal." Religion insults nature. It does for the uneducated what philosophy does for Berkeley and Viasa. Even in the churches of the least educated sects, the same message is heard. "Scorn the world’s insubstantial appearances. They are empty things, dreams, shadows, illusions. Seek the realities of religion." The devout believer scorns nature. Some theosophists, such as the Manichaeans and Plotinus, came to feel hostility and anger toward matter. They distrusted any impulse in themselves to return to material comforts, those flesh-pots of Egypt. Plotinus was ashamed of his body. In short, they might all describe matter as Michelangelo described outward beauty. "It is the fragile, worn-out garment in which God clothes the soul he has called into time."
It appears that motion, poetry, physical and intellectual science, and religion, all tend to affect our convictions of the reality of the external world. But I own there is something ungrateful in expanding too curiously the particulars of the general proposition, that all culture tends to imbue us with idealism. I have no hostility to nature, but a child's love to it. I expand and live in the warm day like corn and melons. Let us speak her fair. I do not wish to fling stones at my beautiful mother, nor soil my gentle nest. I only wish to indicate the true position of nature in regard to man, wherein to establish man, all right education tends; as the ground which to attain is the object of human life, that is, of man's connection with nature. Culture inverts the vulgar views of nature, and brings the mind to call that apparent, which it uses to call real, and that real, which it uses to call visionary. Children, it is true, believe in the external world. The belief that it appears only, is an afterthought, but with culture, this faith will as surely arise on the mind as did the first.
It seems that motion, poetry, physical and intellectual science, and religion all affect our belief in the external world's reality. But I admit that exploring this general claim too closely feels ungrateful: all culture leads us toward idealism. I have no hostility toward nature, only a child's love for her. I grow and thrive in the warm day like corn and melons. Let us speak kindly of her. I do not wish to throw stones at my beautiful mother or dirty my gentle nest. I only wish to show nature's true position in relation to humanity. All sound education seeks to establish us in that relationship. Reaching that understanding is the purpose of human life, of our connection with nature. Culture reverses ordinary views of nature. It leads the mind to call what it once considered real a mere appearance. What it once considered imaginary, it now calls real. Children, it is true, believe in the external world. The belief that it is only an appearance comes later. But with culture, this belief will arise in the mind as surely as the first did.
The advantage of the ideal theory over the popular faith, is this, that it presents the world in precisely that view which is most desirable to the mind. It is, in fact, the view which Reason, both speculative and practical, that is, philosophy and virtue, take. For, seen in the light of thought, the world always is phenomenal; and virtue subordinates it to the mind. Idealism sees the world in God. It beholds the whole circle of persons and things, of actions and events, of country and religion, not as painfully accumulated, atom after atom, act after act, in an aged creeping Past, but as one vast picture, which God paints on the instant eternity, for the contemplation of the soul. Therefore the soul holds itself off from a too trivial and microscopic study of the universal tablet. It respects the end too much, to immerse itself in the means. It sees something more important in Christianity, than the scandals of ecclesiastical history, or the niceties of criticism; and, very incurious concerning persons or miracles, and not at all disturbed by chasms of historical evidence, it accepts from God the phenomenon, as it finds it, as the pure and awful form of religion in the world. It is not hot and passionate at the appearance of what it calls its own good or bad fortune, at the union or opposition of other persons. No man is its enemy. It accepts whatsoever befalls, as part of its lesson. It is a watcher more than a doer, and it is a doer, only that it may the better watch.
Idealism has this advantage over popular belief. It presents the world in exactly the way most desirable to the mind. This is, in fact, the view taken by reason in both thought and action, by philosophy and virtue. Seen through thought, the world is always a world of appearances. Virtue makes it subordinate to the mind. Idealism sees the world in God. It sees the full range of people and things, actions and events, nations and religions as one vast picture. They have not painfully accumulated, atom by atom, act by act, through an ancient, slow-moving past. Instead, God paints this picture in the eternal present for the soul to contemplate. The soul therefore avoids an overly detailed, microscopic study of this universal picture. It respects the purpose too much to lose itself in the means. It sees something more important in Christianity than the scandals of church history or the fine points of textual criticism. It has little curiosity about individuals or miracles. Gaps in historical evidence do not disturb it at all. It accepts Christianity from God as it finds it, as religion’s pure and awe-inspiring form in the world. The soul does not grow heated or passionate over what it calls its own good or bad fortune. Nor does it react this way when others join or oppose it. No one is its enemy. It accepts whatever happens as part of its lesson. It observes more than it acts, and it acts only to observe better.