WE may get an instructive light on the whole question by taking it for awhile from the other side, asking not so much what God is likely to give as what man seems to need. Taking him then as we find him, in a state of rebellion against the order of things, and subject to the three great evils of ignorance, guilt, and division thereupon ensuing, we ask what sort of outward helps may be needed to give him the possibility of peace with the order of things, and specially with himself and with his fellow-men. The possibility only, because omnipotence itself can give him no more. If his will is forced, he becomes a machine instead of a man; and if it is not, he can always insist on going his own bad way.
These needs of human nature may be studied either in the average man, who is the easier object lesson for us, or in the best man, who feels them more acutely, and may be supposed to know more of their meaning. But either way will bring us to nearly the same result; for even genius, in religion as elsewhere, cannot do more than see clearly what common men see more or less obscurely. Taking then the average man as our most convenient guide—for popular religion has always been much of a muchness in all countries—the first thing we notice is his want of practical self-confidence. He is not generally wanting in some sort of religious feeling good or bad, for comparatively few succeed in getting entirely rid of it; but he shrinks from a direct approach to the divine, and tries to shelter himself behind somebody he supposes to be on better terms with heaven than he is himself. His cry is always, Speak thou with us, and we will hear: but let not God speak with us, lest we die. What he wants is a prophet, to speak for God to him—not necessarily or even chiefly to foretell the future, though he is glad of this too—but to tell him with authority the meaning of the present in its relation to unseen powers, or in the higher religions, in its relation to a living God. Such authority he may suppose given by outside credentials; but he is not unlikely to see more and more clearly that the moral or intrinsic authority of a holy life is more fundamental and less easily discredited by scandals and intellectual doubts: In short, he needs a man who can light up the obscure leadings of his conscience by telling him more exactly what he ought to do, or rather what he ought to be; for if the lower religions largely deal in works of law, the higher point with increasing urgency to character as the only thing in man which can have any moral value.
Again, the average man is never quite at ease with himself. He may obscure his conscience by excess, or harden himself against it, or deaden it by simple neglect; or he may try to reason himself out of it, and even boast that he does not know what it means; but neither the practical nor the intellectual method of getting rid of it is quite successful. However he may banish the dread spectre of remorse from common life, he never knows when or with what awful power it may return. So he usually keeps on terms with religion; and even where men do not, the women do. Yet here again he shrinks from direct relations with the divine, and seeks the mediation of those who seem more worthy than himself to speak with heaven. Strange and varied rites of sacrifice bear witness in all ages to the terrible power over him of this consciousness of sin, and to his inability to overcome it for himself. We scarcely hear of “the efficacy of repentance,” except from the Deists; and modern science has thrown a lurid light on the indelible consequences of our evil doings. Sacrificing priests are found in most religions, and have crept into some which like Christianity originally had none. Yet the priests are only men a little better or may be a little worse than the worshippers, and their ceremonies are sometimes immoral, often irrational, always arbitrary in having no true relation to sin. Even if the sacrifices be supposed to remove the guilt of particular sins, the need of repeating them is proof enough that they cannot touch the roots of sin. The man he needs to speak for him to God is, if it be possible, a priest of a better sort, not constituted by custom or by positive law, but by personal character, for no common sinner can be supposed to do effectually what these conventional sacrifices only do in a limited and superficial way.
These two needs are conspicuous in history, and most religions have aimed at the ideals corresponding to them. A third which is no less real, though less prominent in past ages, seems likely to be more and more distinctly recognized in the future. The average man is not quite unconscious of his deep estrangement from his fellowmen. He may get on with his neighbours, and even with his kinsmen at the ends of the earth; though we hear of class divisions and family quarrels, and have ample experience that the closest of all ties has no charm that cannot be broken by bitter hatred. Still less are nations united. The very links of commerce, religion, and general intercourse that bring them together are turned into occasions for quarrels. The civilized world has not quite outgrown the old heathen feeling that the stranger is an enemy, and that coloured people at any rate are made to be plundered by their betters. The official declarations have always been edifying, from the days of Henry VII and Ferdinand of Aragon to the last Russian manifesto, and I will not venture to say that there is no truth at all in them; but none the less the great powers of Europe are little better than robbers on the watch, all armed to the teeth, most of them coveting pieces of their neighbour's territory, and all but England intent on strangling their neighbour's commerce with protective tariffs. His prosperity is so much insult to them; and they will sooner do themselves harm than not do harm to him. Nothing but selfish fears keep some of them from trying to stamp out their rivals entirely, or—what seems the modern ideal of glory—to “destroy their material and moral resources,” as the Germans put it, by ruinous indemnities, commercial restrictions, and financial receiverships. We have come back in a very civilized way to the Red Indian war cry, Let us go and eat up that nation.
This is truth; but it is not the whole truth, nor even I think the most significant part of the truth. It is only blood and iron—a survival of the barbarian's mailed fist. It is not the power of the future. Though the nations hate each other more actively than they did half a century ago, there is more unity among them, and more consciousness of unity. Commerce is international, so is thought, and so is civilization generally; so that civilized people all over the world are growing more like each other in manners, in administration, and in ways of thinking. Even Japan is not now so very unlike Europe.1 The forces of the future make for unity, and are seen to make for unity. The value of the individual, which is our great inheritance from the nineteenth century, gave new value to the nations in which he is grouped; but it implies even more the unity of mankind, and nothing less than an Armageddon of the nations utterly shattering civilization can prevent that unity from more and more asserting itself and seeking some visible form. I agree with Mr. Wells that civilized states in course of time will come to have some unity of government; but a trade union of plotting engineers is only a vulgar conspiracy of the South American sort. Even a Samurai class would be no better. Unless all history bears false witness, no one class can be trusted to use absolute power in any interest but its own. If the Samurais were all saints to begin with, they would soon be mostly sinners. Can we see no worthier ideal on the far horizon of a better age than ours? Is no nobler issue conceivable for the great historic evolution of the higher from the lower, of unity through diversity?
There have been few more impressive scenes in history than the cry which rang one Christmas morning through St. Peter's church at Rome,—CAROLO AUGUSTO, A DEO CORONATO, MAGNO ET PACIFICO IMPERATORI, VITA ET VICTORIA. There is a truth we have not exhausted yet in the ideal of the Holy Roman Empire. Premature it was in those rude times, when even the nations were not in being, whose diversities are needed to form a true unity; but it remains none the less a parable for all ages. Karl the Great had to begin by getting a whole code of law and morals into the oath of fealty; but it is not the distinctive office of a king to make laws. That in civilized states he best leaves his people to do for themselves, for the effective sanction of a law is not in his command, but in the general recognition of its rightness. Eastern kings are despots, and Western kings have often been generals and nothing more; but the Teutonic king from the first embodied the unity of his people, and to that highest function he seems now returning. If Germany is a great exception, the reason is that notwithstanding her splendid organization, her constitutional development is behind the Tudor stage. But the ideal king, if we may imagine him possible, is constituted neither by a false pretence of divine right, nor by an intrigue of Polish nobles, nor by a lying plébiscite, nor even by a regular and lawful Act of Settlement, but by some such intrinsic and unquestioned force of character as we see in founders of religions. Indeed, we can hardly imagine a true king of men without a good deal of the prophet in him, and peradventure something also of the priest, for the archaic thought was not mistaken which ruled that the king of Salem must also be priest of the most high God. Just as philosophy had to take up some of the functions of religion in the evil days which followed Alexander, so the church was obliged to take up some of the duties of the state in the evil days we call the Middle Ages; and now that the state is taking back its rightful work, the cry is raised for separation. Such cry does not always come from the encroaching section of the church or the irreligious part of the state; but the separation would be a clear step backward, and at best an unavoidable calamity to both. It may suit the dualism of good and evil which counts the church holy and the state profane; but the true ideal of the future is their close alliance in some form higher and more spiritual than the old one, even if it should prove that our unhappy divisions make us unworthy even to maintain such union as we have already.
If you say that I am influenced here as elsewhere by Christian hope, I will not deny it. I cannot forswear that spirit of hope which is the breath of life in every Christian man; but I submit that the hope which is specifically Christian is also generically theistic. It seems implied in every sort of Theism, though in its Christian form it is more definite and confident, because it claims assurance from certain alleged historical facts to which I am no way now appealing. On purely theistic grounds, I do not see how any serious person can refuse to allow that the Christians have a good deal of reason for their sure and certain hope, that the all-ruling God who has guided the world-wide evolution hitherto will not stay his onward course in future ages till its last ideal has been made real, in this life or another, before the face of living men. The only question he can raise is whether that ideal is rightly stated.
It is a far-off goal, a goal our children and our children's children will not live to see; but it is none the less the goal towards which the long course of history seems pointing. It is none the worse for being the Christian ideal, if it is also—as I think it is—the ideal suggested by a broad survey of the facts of the world and of the needs of human nature in its present state. And the ideals which rise above practical politics are the powers of the future. We are all agreed, except the pessimists, that some uplifting force is working in the world. Whether we call it divine or not, no others will dispute the action of such a force in geological and in historic times; and no Theist will feel it safe to place limits on the possibilities of its future working. Nor will any ideal fairly indicated by the deepest needs of human nature seem impossible to those who measure the ages of the future by the ages of the past; and even less will those dismiss it as a dream who believe in the life after death which is postulated by every human thought and every human feeling which is not entirely bestial.
If then men could rise above their baser passions and with clear insight ask for that help which their deepest nature needs, some ideal of this kind seems to be the thing for which they would ask. I am not saying that the natural man would ask for it, or that he would welcome it if it came to him. Much the reverse. He bids the prophets prophesy smooth things, and expects the priests to soothe his conscience with stately rituals and all the husks of outward worship, while to the king his cry is not, Do right between us, but Avenge me of mine adversary. It is doubtless a strange and horrible thing when “the prophets prophesy lies, and my people love to have it so”; but it is not an uncommon thing. The bitterest of haters are the men who know or more than half suspect that they are hating truth. Did not Plato tell us that if ever the perfect man appeared he was sure to be crucified? The persecutor is never a lover of truth; he is always a hater of truth, either because he knows it to be true, or because he cannot bear the thought that it may prove true. Yet the men who killed the prophets will often build their tombs. Deeper than they know is the appeal which blood has sealed. All religions are rooted in something deeper than the conscious thought of men, and all religions point more or less in the direction of the ideal I have laid before you, while the highest religions point to it more clearly than others. And if this ideal truly corresponds to our deepest needs, we may not unreasonably hope that a God who cares enough for men to give them any sort of revelation will not refuse in one way or another, at one time or another, in one world or another, to satisfy the highest aspirations of the nature he has given them.
By whatever method it may please God to deal with sin, we are bound on all principles of Theism to believe that he will not fail sooner or later to deal with it effectively. This means first that he is able so to deal with it. Otherwise we could not trust him, and all thought (including this) would be idle fancy. But more precisely, what does it mean? Were sin illusion, as it is in pantheistic and some other systems, it would suffice for him to lift the vail of sense and shew us the truth sub specie æternitatis. But if conscience is real, sin is real too. Again, if evil were no more than ripening good, sin might be left to grow into something better. But here again the witness of conscience is clear, that sin is not an undeveloped form of good, but a direct contradiction of that which is divine. It is rebellion against an order which God has established, not as an arbitrary law which might have been otherwise, but as the expression and revelation of his nature to us; so that such rebellion resembles rather a personal attack on the sovereign than a common breach of law which need not come directly under his notice. To use an old phrase, we make him a liar when we act as if what pleases us were better than the law which he sets before us in the order of things. This deeper and truer view of sin was rightly given, though in a distorted way, by the old argument that every offence against an infinite Person is infinite, and deserves infinite punishment. If then we do wrong with our eyes open or wilfully shut, we are not as it were committing a petty breach of the peace, but flatly saying, We will not have this man to reign over us.
Now if this is the true meaning of sin, it follows that God's relation to it must be one of absolute enmity. He may tolerate it for a time, or use it as a means of training for us in spite of itself, but in the end he must conquer it. There is no alternative. Either God will conquer sin, or sin will conquer God. Therefore even now he is doing everything to combat it, short of uncreating man by taking away the freedom which is needed to make good real as well as evil. The natural order still speaks to us of beauty and of lavish goodness, after all that men have done to disfigure and corrupt it; the moral order in all the relations of life does not cease to preach truth and tenderness and mercy, after all that sinners have done to make it a school of selfishness and vice; and the terrors of conscience in God's name watch over all our goings. It is not the gate of paradise but that of hell which is
With dreadful faces thronged, and fiery arms.
But though the flaming sword shall mark the sinner as he passes in, not all the host of heaven can bar the downward road.
Here is the trial of our faith. He that will go the way of death, go he must, and onward to the end, for sin too must work out its results in this world or another to the uttermost. So long as he chooses to go that way, no power in earth or heaven can stop him by force, in this world or another. It is not a matter of difficulty which power might be supposed great enough to overcome, but a self-contradiction before which omnipotence itself is impotent. The great white throne, the opened books, the formal sentence of the day of doom—all these cannot be more than signs and parables of something more august and awful still. The decision will not be some day launched upon us like the lightning from on high, for here and now the moral order is compelling us day by day to spell it out with unrelenting truth. It is our own choice, and we are ourselves the books of record; and even if the lips that speak it are divine they can only declare that which we ourselves have written. In this world Nature has no forgiveness. She punishes one sin with another, and pursues it to the bitter end. And she knows of none hereafter. Remorseless and inflexible as ever, she faces without a qualm the furthest ages of the future to pronounce her final word of doom—He that is unjust, let him be unjust still.
Here then the most tremendous of all moral difficulties rises to confront us, like some grim and terrible spirit from
The dark unbottomed infinite abyss.
If only we can hold our ground at this point the victory of faith is won, for in this last great strife all others are summed up. But intellect is powerless here, imagination fails, and only faith remains. If we had that divine and surer word of which Plato speaks, there might be much to confirm it in the world around us. Could we be assured that there is one that liveth and was dead, and is alive for evermore, our flesh might rest in hope. But there are no such assurances as these in Natural Theology. The question is not simply of such forgiveness as man can give, which is simply one more force working in the world for good, but of unravelling the whole tangle of misery which sin has wrought upon this earth of ours. It seems impossible to suppose that perfect goodness will rest content with less than this.
There is some confusion of thought in the reply commonly made here, that as seeds are wasted in nature, so may men be wasted. This means that a seed is “wasted” if it becomes food for birds or insects or simply enriches the ground where it falls, instead of growing up into a plant; and the argument is that men play be similarly “wasted” instead of growing up into such higher state as some religions promise them. But some seeds do grow into plants; if then this argument were valid, we should conclude that some men (though only some) might reach the higher state. It would concede something, though not what we are contending for. However, it is not valid. It assumes that man is a purely physical being. The seed is a means to an end, and the end may as well be the bird or the insect as the plant; and man qua physical may very well come to similar ends. But the image of God in man cannot be simply a means like the seed. It must be an end in itself, the one true end of the entire cycle; and it cannot miss its higher growth unless the evolution of the ages which led tip to it is a failure, and therefore a delusion.
For it is further to be noted that a personal God cannot be supposed to view the universe only in a general way as we do. We know men only in classes, and only recognize an individual when class-marks enough meet in him. But God must know the individual directly, and have an individual use and meaning for him in the general plan, so that such general plan cannot be carried out unless the individual plan is carried out along with it. If indeed we could imagine some men no more than supernumeraries, the general plan might be fully carried out without regard to them; but in a divine plan the superfluous is as incredible as the defective.
If sin is a mystery, its reversal is a deeper mystery; yet if it is never to be reversed, the confusion will be as final as if there were no God at all. Hard as it is for mortal weakness even to imagine how this thing can be, it is flatly unthinkable that sin shall have the final victory. The one is no more than an unfathomed mystery which may be true, the other a contradiction in terms which cannot but be false. The one impossibility which overrides all others is that any perversity of created beings should finally defeat the purpose of all-enduring patience and all-sovereign goodness.
That purpose plainly rises far above the highest flights of human thought. The majestic evolution of the ages on this earth of ours cannot be more than a tiny fragment of a scheme of right and goodness that must reach outward from the crumblings of atoms to the building of the mightiest star that walks the frozen verge of heaven, and forward from beyond the furthest past which the astronomer can discern to beyond the furthest future which the prophet can divine. Yet if our theistic faith is not illusion we have some true knowledge of the eternal purpose; and we can but bear witness of the best our God has given us to know. With all reserve then—God pardon human ignorance and rashness—the perfect victory of perfect goodness would seem finally to require the willing submission of all moral beings in the universe. Great as the difficulties are, especially from the standpoint of the Christians, who take so serious a view of sin, they are no way lessened if we suppose that God will annihilate the sinners, or shut up hardened and impenitent rebels in hell for ever. Nor is there much gained by the theory that the penalty for the misuse of free will is the deprivation of it, so that the sinners will hereafter do right, but only as machines. This too would seem a confession that freedom is a failure. But from the Christian point of view the point is rather that the punishment is sure and certain, terrible and irretrievable, than that it has no end. May there not even be a fallacy in the question whether it has an end or not, if the state we call eternal is not a state of space and time? All that we can do is to hold on for very life to the theistic faith without which all thought is idle, and rest in sure and certain hope that as God is God, perfect goodness in the end must have its perfect victory, and the love that beareth all things must also be the love that overcometh all things.
At this point we may do well to pause. We have traced something like an outline of the form in which a revelation is likely to be given; and though my own belief is that Natural Theology would carry us a little further, it may be safer to stop here and leave you to judge for yourselves how far our work has been well done. If I have taken hints and borrowed phrases from all quarters, I have worked on grounds of reason only, and scrupulously avoided anything like an appeal to an alleged miracle in proof of anything, though sometimes it has been worth while to point out what would follow if such miracle were true. Hope that is Christian I have expressed only so far as it seems involved in Theism generally; and in our examination of doctrines that are Christian we have limited ourselves to such of them as can conveniently be discussed without raising the historical question of the truth of particular miracles. The problems, however, that cone next are full of meaning, and some of then as urgent as any that we have touched already. For instance, even those who are most firmly convinced that the Christian claim on behalf of Jesus of Nazareth is false can hardly dispute that if there is any doubt at all, it lays on us the most solemn duty to use all our powers of heart and soul and mind in the endeavour to clear it up. Whether that claim be true or false in fact, no condemnation can be too severe for the man who snatches at the first excuse for accepting or rejecting it. Right or wrong, he is gambling with truth.
It may be that our position would have been strengthened if we had seen our way to go further. As a matter of history, the sovereignty of God and the freedom of man have not gone well together. One of the two ideas tends to exclude the other. Either God absorbs man in Pantheism, or man banishes God in Deism. Either man is wholly subject to some universal law, or he stands out in the godless isolation of that which is right in his own eyes.2 There is no escape from the dilemma, unless God and man are joined by some true affinity which destroys their mutual exclusiveness. Such an affinity is found by the philosophical doctrine that there is a spark of the divine in main; and it might have been worth while to ask whether the Christian doctrine of an incarnation does not put the philosophical in its strongest form, and if so, whether this may not be a presumption in its favour.
Or suppose we had taken the full doctrine that Christ is on one side the eternal and sufficient object of the Father's love, and on another the archetype of man, the ground of the natural and the organic head of the spiritual order. Such a conception involves difficulties, maybe some serious difficulties; but if it be supposed true, it certainly throws a flood of light on such various questions as God's independence of the world, the harmony of transcendence and immanence, the revelation of the eternal in things of time, the meaning and possibilities of human nature, and the sufficiency of one who was man to fulfil the highest needs and aspirations of mankind. This last, if I am not mistaken, is more than almost any other a question which needs closer attention than is commonly given to it in current literature even on the Christian side, for I am not saying this as a fling at opponents. Assuming the very highest view of his divinity, I still cannot see my way to account for moral influence which only grows as ages pass, unless he stands in a closer relation to individuals than professing Christians have commonly realized. In any case, the question needs attention.
Or take the doctrine of the Trinity, not as a conundrum of the dogmatists, but as the expression of a belief that divine life as well as human has a social element. Is not such a belief the most emphatic of protests that all relations whatever imply duties on both sides? If God himself is not arbitrary, the existence of despotism or slavery on earth must stand condemned. A God whose relations are as binding for himself as for his creatures is neither the inscrutable Emptiness of the Agnostic and the Pantheist nor the inscrutable Power of the Muslim and the Latin, but a living Father to his erring children. This is the real meaning of the decision at Nicaæa, The divine ideal set forth by Athanasius was never quite forgotten in the Middle Ages; and it gives the august sanction of divine example to that broad sense of mutual duty which is the first necessity of civilized society.
Or take the most distinctive of all Christian doctrines—that of Christ in us and us in Christ. Some will answer that it is mystic, as indeed it is, and for that reason summarily reject it; but let us put the supposition that it may be true. There can be no question that it accounts at once for many things that greatly need to be accounted for. Many faiths have inspired noble characters—far be it from me to count any doer of truth an alien from the Church of God—many have diffused religion after their kind through all ranks of men or every act of life, and some have guided nations with little change for centuries. But low religions can shew lofty characters, low religions can pervade life, low religions can cry their Semper eadem. It is neither intensity nor diffusion nor permanence, but the combination of the three, and all in so high degree, which makes Christianity unique in history; and for this combination as well as for its moral purity the unbeliever is as much bound as the believer to find serious and sufficient causes. The author of the mightiest moral force we know in history and life must have at the lowest a very eminent and special place as a man among men, and I find no consideration of Natural Theology which forbids the higher view of him held by Christians; but the positive evidence they offer for it is too closely connected with alleged miraculous facts to be disentangled from them by any criticism that is reasonable. If we undertook to cut out the miraculous element from the Gospels we should have to cut out nearly all the rest as inseparable from it, and might come to a remainder as meagre as Schmiedel's nine genuine sayings of Jesus, though it would be surprising if any fair-minded man selected those nine.
As we must not raise the historical question of miracles there is but one thing more to say at this point. As I look back on history, and on my own forty years of a student's quiet life, the thing that overawes me is not the increase of knowledge but the widening of the outlook and the quickening of the pulse of life. On all sides we see the partial theories crowded out, the partial questions melting into universals, as if the whole field of human knowledge were being levelled for some final contest. Polytheism is a survival, and the old dualism of good and evil is now untenable. Deism is forgotten, Materialism is discredited, Agnosticism is going the same way, and the choice that now remains is between some form of Theism and the iron yoke of a pantheistic necessity. But Theism has never ruled a nation except in its Christian form, and we may be certain that it never will. A few of the elect may live by logic, but common mortals cannot do without feeling. It is a deeper thing than reasoning, and nearly always overcomes it when the two conflict together. Human nature cries aloud for a living God who gives us some assurance of his love, a God at whose feet we may find our true self in a knowledge which is life and a service which is perfect freedom. The Determinist may answer that human nature is in a state of total depravity; but in any case the fact remains—and it must be a fact of weighty meaning—that human nature turns to a religion of feeling as surely as the needle turns to the north, and in sonic such religion seeks to satisfy this its deepest need: and of such religions, Christianity seems the highest. Judaism may be tenable, if it be taken in the old way, as resting on historical assurances of God's goodness, and as no more than provisional, till Messias comes “who shall tell US all things.” If it is not so taken, it becomes a very ordinary sort of Unitarianism: and Unitarianism is always in unstable equilibrium. It can speak of God, and it can speak of man; but it cannot firmly link the two together. Each in turn swallows up the other. On one side is the deistic phase where God is all and man is nothing; and this endangers the image of God in wan, without which experience can have no rational weaning. On the other is the pantheistic version, that wan is as necessary to God as God to man: and this is destructive of all religion. These are the Scylla and Charybdis of Unitarianism, and no safe course between has yet been found. We may be thankful for the efforts of men like Martineau and Harnack to see in Jesus of Nazareth assurance as well as preaching of the Fatherhood of God without confessing his divinity. This is much; but no mere child of man can be the everlasting link we need. The sovereign claim of God to human trust will never be fully vindicated till His right and goodness are no longer viewed as attributes of power, but made the eternal ground of everything divine, and an eternal assurance of this is found in facts which are facts of the eternal world as well as facts of time.
Christianity is at least logical, for the link it finds belongs as much to the eternal world as to that of time. But it stands or falls by its Founder's claim to be divine as well as human, and the more profoundly natural for being something more than natural in the narrow sense. You may accept that claim or you may reject it; but you cannot compromise it. Half measures like Arianism are folly. Whatever the difficulty may be, it must be thoroughly dealt with, not glossed over. It may be that living power is not needed to account for the facts; but if it is, a theory which fails to provide it is self-condemned as insufficient. Whether you are moving towards belief or unbelief, there is no rest in the halting half and half theories which look for living power to a purely human Christ who never rose with power from the dead. Some day possibly the research of the learned will discover some truer and better link between the eternal and the things of time; but until that is done (if we can seriously expect such a thing) there are but two self-consistent and so far tenable positions. You may worship Christ, or you may seat Necessity upon the throne of God, and worship that.
This was written before the war.
Andrew Seth (Pringle Pattison), Hegelianism and Personality, 162. Both philosophy and religion bear ample testimony to the almost in superable difficulty of finding room in the universe for God and man. When speculation basics itself with the relation of these two, each in turn tends to swallow up the other. The pendulum of human thought swings continually between the two extremes of Individualism, leading to Antheism, and Universalism, leading to the Pantheism or Akosmism.