Chapter IV: The Religion of Ideal Humanity
In the course of the last lecture we made a fresh start with the idea that religion consists essentially in self-devotion, not in self-devotion to one particular kind of object—a non-phenomenal one. We accepted this idea and verified it in cases where a man is said to ‘worship’, ‘idolise’, ‘make a god of’ some finite person, thing, or pursuit. This, we found, is religion; but on examination it showed itself to be imperfect religion, mainly because the object of worship is fatally deficient in power over the world, and because the religion is not moral or more than moral, but unmoral or immoral.
We then passed to a second kind of religion, based on morality, but still not the worship of anything non-phenomenal or beyond man—a purely human religion therefore. The object here may be called human perfection, or ideal humanity, human nature completely realised and enjoying true happiness, though we saw that what the worshipper has before his mind in worship does not of necessity take this form; he may worship, for example, the powers, human and moral, which work towards the realisation of this ideal and will themselves be perfected in it, powers all describable in the end as forms of the good will.
We saw that this is a religion, and also that, if it is not entirely satisfactory, still, any more satisfactory religion would not be the denial of it, so far as it is positive, but must contain it while also going beyond it.
We now pass to some examination of it, and we must at once observe that there are many persons who hold it confessedly as in part a matter of faith. That is to say, it involves, in their case, beliefs, about the world, or universe, and man's place in it, which go beyond positive knowledge, though they do not contradict it and are held to be far less extensive and hazardous than the beliefs of supernatural religion. With these persons, however, we are not here concerned, but only with those who hold this religion in its strict form, and according to whom its peculiar advantage is that it does not involve any faith (in that sense), implies no belief about the universe or nature of things, but is purely human. ‘Human beings, we ourselves,’ they would say, ‘produce or create the ideal we worship; and, again, the content of this ideal is human nature or ourselves perfected. We freely set it before ourselves, it is not imposed on us. We say and believe nothing whatever about its relation to anything outside us. It is not based on theoretical judgments as to what is, but on our judgments of value, as to what is desirable, good, satisfying, what should be. It cannot therefore conflict with our knowledge of what is.’
Now it is obvious at once that on this view, consistently held, the religion before us cannot do all that other religions have done, because its object is defective in the element of power. Power it certainly has, for the constructions of morality are solid and immense; but then they are confessedly imperfect, and the ideal which they only partially realise is, as such, something that ought to be, and possibly is to be, but at present is not. Nor has the worshipper, whatever he may hope, the slightest guarantee that it ever will be, or indeed that it may not gradually die away or be blown into star-dust tomorrow, for he excludes any belief as to its relation to the nature of things. Meanwhile there is plenty of evil within him and around him. Non-phenomenal religion provides the worshipper with an escape from this evil in his identification of himself with something actually existing and free from it. But the worshipper in our human religion has no such escape, for the something he worships does not yet exist. To say this is not, of course, to imply that his religion must be false, and he may reasonably reply that it is the best available, because we have no ground for belief in a power actually existing and free from evil. I am only pointing out—what he himself admits—that his religion cannot do what (legitimately or otherwise) other religions have done and what it is clearly the ideal of religion to do. His religion, that is, is on one side very imperfect.
This admitted, the further questions will be (1) ‘Does this religion after all keep within the bounds assigned to it? Does it involve no belief, however latent, about the nature of things? Does it really confine itself to judgments of value and keep entirely to the human sphere?’ And (2) where its object is said to be merely human or ourselves perfected, and again to be produced, created, freely set up by man or ourselves, what are we to understand by ‘human’, ‘man’, ‘ourselves’? But, as before with the religion of the visible phenomenal, I do not wish simply to criticise this religion, but also to see what can be learnt from it about any religion that can now satisfy, and also to deal, in connection with it, with some of the ideas contained in those three views from which our examination of religion in the wider sense began.
(1) In the first place, then, when the object of worship here is said to be a ‘human’ product, this cannot mean that, for the worshipper, it is the product of fancy, whether his own or that of other men. If he so regarded it, he could not regard it as his moral ideal, something which lays an obligation on him, neither could he worship it. To this he would at once assent; and I dwell on the point mainly for the sake of the general conclusion it carries, and in order to dispose of the notion mentioned earlier, that religious ideas, though regarded as mere constructions of fancy, should yet be retained for the delight or exaltation they bring; just as we value highly in this way the creations of poetry or other arts, though we are well aware that they are mere inventions. Now, accepting for the moment the statement that we do regard these creations as mere inventions of fancy, I wish to insist that to treat an idea thus is not to treat it as a religious idea at all, nor even as a moral one. For (you will be weary of the assertion, but there is no assertion which in these matters requires more repetition) morality and religion are not mere contemplative activities; they are movements of the will, the obedience or devotion of the will to an object; and you simply cannot regard as rightly claiming this obedience or devotion what at the same time you regard as a mere invention of fancy. To retain religious ideas, therefore, as mere beautiful fictions, is not to retain even a shred of their religious value, and the proposal to do this has no connection with the problem of a positive religion.
‘Well, but’, it may be objected, ‘surely we do find more than aesthetic pleasure in some creations of poetry and other art? We get inspiration from them, and they even affect our will; for the ideals they represent appeal to us as the very thing we should wish to be, and that stimulates us to imitate them, and to try and carry them out in our lives. In a sense we may even worship these ideals; and so the work of art is a vehicle of worship, though not itself the object of worship.’ ‘Certainly,’ I answer, ‘this is so, but then it is so because you do not really regard the work of art as a mere fiction or product of fancy. Or, if you prefer to put it thus, you regard the work of art itself as such a product, but you do not so regard the ideal which it represents. Shakespeare made or invented his Cordelia; if he had never lived she would not have existed. But the ideal qualities embodied in Cordelia he certainly did not make or invent. And, if you thought them the mere product of his fancy, the picture of them would have no effect upon your will, either morally or religiously.’
This is clear enough in a case where you can actually name some of the ideal qualities exhibited in the fictitious character. But it is equally true where that which is represented or symbolised is much less distinctly conceivable or is not clearly conceivable at all. Take, for instance, the passage where Wordsworth speaks of
Something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air.
If a man thinks this ‘something’ a mere fancy of Wordsworth's, that need not destroy or perhaps diminish his sense of the beauty of the passage, but he certainly will not be affected by it religiously. it he is thus affected, it is because, knowingly or not, momentarily or permanently, he takes this ‘something’ to be more than any man's fiction—though that need not mean that he takes what the poet says of it to be a perfectly adequate expression. We have the same thing when a man is religiously moved by music—I mean purely instrumental music. The composer made or invented it, but it conveys to the hearer (as perhaps it did to the composer) something which he could not define, and probably would not think of defining, but which stirs in him this sense of religion. And the composer did not make or invent that: if the hearer thought he did, his religious feeling would die in an instant. On the contrary, he would probably say, that made the composer and his music, and in some sort reveals itself through them.
You cannot, then, treat religious ideas as you do poetic ideas and yet treat them religiously, if, that is, you take poetic ideas to be mere fictions or inventions. Whether, supposing you regard poetic ideas as more than fictions, as imaginative symbols of realities, you can or should regard religious ideas in the same way, this is not the place to ask.
(2) Let us return to the object of worship in the religion of ideal humanity. This, we saw, though human, is certainly not, to the worshipper, the creation of his or any other man's fancy. Are we to say, then, that it is made by his fancy out of his wishes or desires, and that it is thus ultimately produced by them, as according to one view the God of super-natural religion is produced? Clearly not:—in a moral religion that cannot be, for the object of worship does not consist of these wishes or desires fully gratified. It consists (if we use the word ‘wish’ at all) only of the higher or good wishes or those that the good will in the man approves; or it consists in those powers in man which work for the realisation of those good wishes. And they can be realised only by the subjugation of many other wishes. It is therefore quite inaccurate to say that the object of worship in this religion (or for that matter in any moral non-phenomenal religion) is man's wishes imagined as perfectly fulfilled. And indeed, strictly, it is inaccurate to speak of wishes or desires at all; for a moral religion has not to do with what I merely wish, but with what I, as religious, will, and one may even say that what I want in religion is to be rid of the clamour of my mere wishes and desires.
Let me put this in another way. The ideal in this religion, we saw, may be defined as human life raised to its highest level, or the fullest development of humanity. But that cannot mean the greatest possible affirmation or intensification of human life, or of men taken as empirical facts, as they stand. That would be the perfection of folly and wickedness as well as of wisdom and goodness. Nor again can it mean the intensification of man's natural being, for that is a collection of impulses, each of which wants its own gratification and cares nothing for that of the rest; and simply to develop that would be to develop anarchy. The idea of a merely affirmative progress of man, though it is so popular, is evidently, when you think of it, an empty delusion; and the perfect man, supposing him possible, would be harmonious only because he was the result of a prolonged process of conflict, in which the higher in him had subdued the lower and made it serviceable to other ends than its own.
And this the religion we are considering implicitly recognises, for it is a moral religion; it starts from the basis that we set an absolute value on certain activities (or on a certain kind of happiness) and subordinate others to them. When, then, it says that its object of worship is human, or the perfection of man or of ourselves, this ‘humanity’, ‘man’, or ‘ourselves’ is emphatically not the man or self we find existing as an empirical fact, nor is it what man, as this or that empirical individual, taken in the lump as you find him, sets freely before himself; but it may be something exceedingly different. It is what the good in him, or the ideal itself in him, desires and sets before itself. That is the reason why the ideal appears to him, as this empirical individual, on the one side as an object of aspiration, but on the other as a demand, an ought-to-be, which imposes on him an obligation, and one which inevitably entails not the fulfilment but the sacrifice of many of his wishes and the non-development of many of his possibilities. His religion is the devotion of himself to this power, or the identification of his will with its will, which suppresses his humanity in one sense while affirming it in another, and which itself contains the same suppression of humanity.
As the ideal, then, consists in the perfection of man only in this sense, but not in the intensification of man as he stands, or taken (if I may put it so) in the lump, so it is not the product or creation of man so taken, but only of the good in man. Selfishness, ignorance and ugliness, if they created an ideal, would not create the ideal of their opposites but of themselves. The object of worship cannot be their creation. If not produced by itself, still it can be produced only by an imperfect form of itself:—not by me therefore, so far as I am alien to it, nor by me as the phenomenon in which good and evil are at war, but by me solely as akin to it. This means by me as a good will, together with such other excellences—physical, intellectual or aesthetic—as harmonise with that and are approved by it. And it is only thus that I can call it my product or the product of myself.
Obviously, therefore, it is only in this sense that it is any other man's product or again the product of all men. It is not the fact that another man, and not I, wishes for something that can make the something right or give it a place in the ideal; another may want something foolish and bad just as much as I may, and it is not a whit the better because it is he that wants it and not I. Nor would it be the ideal or a part of it merely because all the people in the world, the whole of existing humanity, wanted it. It is so only because the good in all these people wants and wills it. Comte understood this quite clearly. The collective humanity, the ‘Great Being’ of which he speaks, is not the aggregate of men, past, present and future, taken as empirical individuals. It is an organism, and the evil in these beings is expressly excluded from it.
Now what does all this imply? It implies that the man or humanity, or human nature, which sets up the ideal, pursues it and, if perfected, would be it, is something common or universal in individual men, i.e. the good which wills in them and which, in that sense, is their will, though not the will of them as particular or as mere empirical individuals. And this is not difficult to see though the phraseology may be disliked.
When I will the ideal, I put aside, ignore, am prepared to sacrifice, every impulse and wish in me which is opposed to it and is not its impulse and wish. These belong to me as apart from it, mere me. If they assert themselves, the will which seeks the ideal, the will of the ideal in me, presents itself to me as a moral law forbidding me to pay any attention to them. And so it does in every other particular person. It is in that sense a universal will.
In the same way it says to me: ‘You are not to consider your particular interests or life before those of others, except in any case where I tell you to do so. And I shall not tell you so out of any regard for you in particular, for neither you nor anybody else, as merely particular, is of any consequence to me at all. I care for nothing but the good in you and the rest.’
Again it says to me: ‘You have particular capacities and opportunities and a particular position in the world. And therefore the things I bid you do are not exactly the things I bid any other man to do. But your obligation to do your particular duty is precisely the same as every other man's obligation to do his, and has nothing to do with your peculiarities or his. It is universal.’
It would be easy to extend these reflections, but to do so probably would not make clearer the point I am trying to bring out. It is that the ‘man’ or ‘self’ which produces the ideal, and in whose perfection the ideal consists, is not the empirical individual man or self, nor any number of them. If the adherent of this religion objects to calling the ideal the universal substance or essence of man, and to calling the will that seeks it the universal will, on the ground that these are metaphysical figments, he must still make a distinction in the individual man or self. That which produces, and which, perfected, would be the ideal, is not this whole man or self, but a part of it, and the perfection of this part can only be sought and gained by its subjugating and moulding to its own likeness the rest of the man or self.
Well, then, this universal substance or essence, or this part of man—is it what the adherent of this religion would call a phenomenon which falls within the limits of positive knowledge? Is it not, in reality, what he would call a metaphysical figment, and is he not unconsciously basing his religion on, and taking for the object of his worship, something non-phenomenal? It would appear that he is, and if his religion is that of Comte it appears quite clear that he is. A humanity like Comte's, a ‘Great Being’, not an aggregate but an organism, and one from which the evil in man is excluded, surely takes us a long way beyond the region of phenomena and positive knowledge and what is commonly called man?
The object of worship, the ideal, is not determined by any theoretic judgments as to what is, but by judgments of value, as to what is desirable, what ought to be, what would satisfy, what we will. It is an end or aim, that we freely choose, not something imposed upon us, not something that is. These seem to be correct statements about a moral ideal. And yet they can hardly be the whole truth. For, as we have just seen, it is not every act of will or judgment of value that goes to determine the ideal or is in consonance with it. On the contrary, many conflict with it. There are desires for happiness which are not desires for our true happiness or what really would satisfy us; and there are activities which, as they stand, could form no part of the full development of humanity.
But what does all this imply? Does it not imply that this true happiness, this state that would satisfy, this full development, is something which, though not yet in being, has nevertheless a thoroughly determinate nature, a nature which is not settled and cannot be altered by our desires and wishes, nor even by our will, any more than the course of a planet can? That we can make mistakes about it, and will against it, must mean that there is something to make a mistake about, a not-yet, which all the same, if it ever is, will be definitely of one kind and not of another. That is the peculiarity of a moral end or idea. On the one side it is an end, an object of desire, our satisfaction, not imposed on our will but the very thing our will wants; we are free in pursuing it, we ourselves construct it and bring it partially into being, and it never can come into being except by our willing it and bringing it into being. All that stands firm. But, on the other side, it appears that it does not lie with us to choose what it shall be; we cannot say ‘this and that shall satisfy us’, but have to discover what will do so. There is a law of our nature or will, and our freedom is agreement with that. We do not merely set one end before us, but there is an end set before us. Our end is also our destination. Our judgments of value are also theoretical judgments which may be false or true; and in moving towards the ideal, we are not merely changing ourselves into what we wish and will to be, but discovering what we really are. I do not see how this conclusion is to be avoided, but it certainly could not be gathered from the statement that man's ideal is determined simply by ‘man’ and his judgments of value. His ideal seems rather to be determined by something working in him of which he becomes partially conscious, so that he forms an idea of it and makes it an object of his will, and then its will is also his will. But he also forms very inadequate ideas of it, makes mistakes about it and wills against it, and, it would seem, never could form a perfectly adequate idea of it until he himself was it.
You may call this something ‘human’, for it certainly is in man, but as certainly it is not the empirical phenomenon man; and if it falls within the realm of positive knowledge, that term cannot bear the sense commonly assigned to it by adherents of this religion.
Thus we have found that (1) and (2) both show the same thing—that the adherents of this human religion fail to appreciate the double-sided nature of man—that there is something more in him than he actually is, something beyond him, but which is, in some guise, a fact.
(3) And now there is a third point. The safety of this human religion is supposed to lie in its confining itself to man and implying no belief about the rest of the universe. But by what right do we separate this ‘man’, and what is in him, from the rest of the universe or the nature of things, and talk as if his will and his judgments of value were things independent of all others, and operating in vacuo, so that in speaking of them and his end or ideal we can avoid any assertion about anything except himself? Surely that is a most extraordinary assumption, and one that goes in the teeth of appearances and of our positive knowledge? And yet it is made, apparently without any hesitation, not by some fanatic in the supposed cause of free will, but by those who make a point of not going against or beyond phenomena. Surely we are bound, unless we have some excellent reason to the contrary, to respect the obvious appearance of man's being (at least on one side) a part of the universe, dependent on other parts; and surely we are bound in some sense to attribute to this universe whatever we find in any part of it? Then we must say, whatever else it may be, the universe, or nature of things, is such as to produce the creature called man—a creature with capacities of so definite a kind that their complete realisation and his complete satisfaction are attainable, if at all, only in a definite form, the character of which it does not lie with him to choose, though the process of seeking and attaining it requires that he should form ideas of it and endeavour to carry them out. All this, I say, the production of man, his capacities, his consequent end, his ideas of it and his effort to reach it, we must, prima facie, attribute to that nature of things of which he forms a part. To do, without reason given, anything else, and to suppose that you can say anything about man which is not a statement about the nature of things is an immense assumption, though it is made as if it were a self-evident truth.
(4) I come to a fourth point which is not so clear as the others, for it depends on a certain interpretation of the state of mind of the worshipper of the moral ideal.
On this view—a view which, as it stands, I do not assert to be complete—man's ideal is in a sense determined by, and an expression of, the nature of things. But, it will be observed, it does not follow that it is a perfectly true expression, or indeed truer than any chance fancy of his. For all the evil in him and all his fancies and false notions of happiness are, prima facie, on this view equally products of the nature of things, which may have settled (so to speak) that, if he is to be satisfied, it can be only in one way, but may also have settled that he is not to be satisfied but to be the transitory prey of illusions. Nor does this seem, on the surface, very improbable, for the nature of things produces a great deal that appears to contradict and oppose his ideal.
But—this is the point I want to bring out—the worshipper of the ideal does not believe that things stand thus with it. We have seen already that he could not worship it, if he took it for his own or any other man's fancy. And it appears to me he goes much further. Though he professes to say and imply nothing about the nature of things and to speak only of man, I think he unconsciously but practically believes that, in some way and to some extent, his ideal and his judgments of value are true and essential expressions of the nature of things—so that, in his pursuit of the ideal, he has behind him or in him (it makes no difference) a power or force much greater than his own. I do not mean that he implicitly believes more than this—that he believes, for instance, that this power is the central principle and only ultimate power in the universe, so that everything in himself and outside himself that opposes the ideal is somehow overruled and forced to contribute to it. That would be religion complete, and I do not say that he even approaches it. But his attitude does seem to imply, to put it at the lowest, a belief that the production of his ideal is no mere freak, or accident, or result of forces utterly alien to it or so trifling that their efforts are doomed to utter failure. I find it impossible to imagine how, without such an unconscious belief, he could persist in his worship, could resist the doubt whether his ideal was not a fancy, or, if he resisted it, could escape despair; and much more how he could feel that energy and even joy and peace in its service that in some cases he does show. And in almost all cases that I have known it has seemed to me that such a faith as I describe was unconsciously present, though its existence might be denied.
In this connection it must be remembered that we are never without evidence of the actual power of the ideal, and that it cannot fail to influence us.
Though in its fulness it is for the worshipper a mere ought-to-be, it is not merely that, but partly already is and acts; for, to the believer, everything good that man does is its partial realisation. And of this there is much, however some believers may in their haste belittle it: and mercy, pity, peace and love are no impotent agents in the world. But suppose this were quite otherwise. Suppose the amount of good were infinitesimal. Suppose that the worshipper found that its operation in him and others was almost wholly without effect, that it was as weak as a broken wave, while the evil within him and around him stood as firm as a sea-cliff, what would happen? According to his theory his worship ought to remain unaffected, and mercy, pity, peace and love would seem just as adorable as before. But what would happen in fact would be, I cannot help thinking, in almost all cases, that he would gradually come to think that his ideal and the obligation it imposed on him were fancies, and his religion would die, unless indeed he himself preferred to die. And if this were not so, it would be because, unconsciously, he was relying on the faith that, although for the time the universe seemed to be almost wholly against him, yet in it there was power on his side which, though latent or defeated now, would some day assert itself. And this, if true, may serve to show that a religion of mere aspiration, a religion whose object is adorable but of inconsiderable power, if possible at all, must be extremely imperfect; not because to the religious mind power adds to the adorableness of the object, but because, if this power is inconsiderable, it is scarcely possible to believe that the object is more than a beautiful dream. A man may believe in his ideal, though the enormous majority is against him, and I suppose he might believe in it though every other man on earth should disbelieve; but it would be because he also, however unknowingly, believed that his ideal represented something beyond all human opinion—in fact, that the universe (to use the vaguest term) had revealed to him a part of its meaning which was hidden from all other men.
The total and ultimate separation of might and right is, I venture to say, a thing man cannot believe in; and for this there are good metaphysical reasons.
If these ideas are sound, and unless some justification can be shown for the total separation of man from the world, it follows that a religion of ideal humanity must really include some belief about the nature of things, and that its minimum requirement is a belief that the object of worship, and the forces that work for it, are expressions of a considerable power in the universe. And indeed this seems to be the minimum necessary for any worship beyond that of a visible finite person or thing.
But, it may be said, suppose this belief is not attainable, what is to happen? And the obvious answer is that we must then fall back on mere morality, as has been done, openly, or more often silently, by many men who have found in morality a firm foundation for noble living.
Yet I venture to doubt whether this answer, however practically sound, expresses the truth. For all morality that rises at all high, like the morality of these men, seems to me to involve religion. I am not referring to the fact that the morality of the great majority is bound up with their religion—religion in the accepted sense—in such a way that they do not clearly distinguish between the two, and, if asked why they should do their duty, would answer, in one form or another, that it is God's will. What I mean is that, where morality is dissociated from religion, in the ordinary sense, and professes to stand by itself, and where it is not conventional but a powerful force, it implies that same unconscious belief of which I have been speaking. The moral law or the types of excellence to which the man devotes himself have, for him, a constraining obligation or absolute value which distinguishes them sharply from the wishes, desires or opinions of himself or any number of other men. And though he may perhaps theoretically account for this obligation or absolute value by attributing the feeling of it to accumulated experiences of expediency which he has inherited from his race, still when he feels it and is conscious of its reality, he does in effect regard it as rooted in, expressive of, deriving its power over him from, something in the nature of things. It is true that it is difficult, or impossible, for anyone to be certain of this in the case of any mind but his own, and that it appears impertinent to pretend to go behind what many very able men have reported of their own minds; but in reading these reports I find it impossible not to believe that they are incomplete.
It may be worth while, before we proceed, to illustrate some of the points touched on in this lecture by reference to a religion which was a religion of ideal humanity, but of something more, and which may show the direction in which such religion naturally moves when the intellect permits.
The religion of Mazzini, though it included the idea of God, was closely allied to the human religion we have been examining. It rested on a conviction of the supreme value of those powers of good that appear in the human soul. It was also a religion of progress; he believed that humanity was slowly but continuously advancing to a more perfect state on earth, a much fuller realisation of its possibilities. But then this progress was for him inherent in man, the law of his being; the end he struggles to gain is also his destination; and in each forward step he is not merely changing himself into something he wishes to be, but is discovering what he really is, and is destined to be. And this is so because the gradual discovery and application of the law of man's life is the progressive revelation of God. God is eternally, that is to say, all and much more than all that man longs and strives to be, and man's striving is at the same time the manifestation and fulfilment of the divine purpose—a purpose which cannot be thwarted, since, for Mazzini, in spite of all appearance, there is no force anywhere in the universe that can resist God.
If this had not been Mazzini's creed, he never would have acted as he did. But his passionate insistence on the necessity of religion was a matter of surprise to many of his fellow democrats. They could not make out what he wanted with a God, the belief in whom seemed to them to ally him with the powers of reaction. But the necessity of this belief to him is not hard to understand. It was, doubtless, in part intellectual—without it he could get no way of looking at the world that could satisfy his mind. But that, I think, was not the principal need for him; nor was this the need of what is sometimes distinguished as personal religion, for he had a strong feeling that a man should think much about other people and not much about his own soul. But he was engaged in the gigantic work of creating a nation and altering the map of Europe, at the cost not only of great unhappiness to those he personally loved, but also of the lives of some of the best young men of his generation. He could not have done that without an absolute conviction that he was doing, not his own will or any other man's, but God's will, fulfilling the purpose of that perfection which alone can assign his duty and his end to man. You may say this conviction was a great presumption, and I might answer that prophets have a way of being presumptuous; but in fact this conviction in some form is essential to religion. It is the inmost tendency and requirement of the religious mind to hold that its ideal must be given to it or forced on it, and not made by it—must be the expression of a power immensely greater than its own, and even of a power in which the ideal which ought to be realised is realised. And this requirement, as I have tried to show, appears secretly where, owing to intellectual difficulties, it cannot appear openly.