Chapter II. Indications of a Spiritual Constitution

When I was speaking of the Quaker system, I noticed one practical inconsistency which seemed to lie at the root of it, and to affect all its workings. The member of the Society of Friends ought to be the conscious disciple of a Divine Teacher. But every child born to a Quaker is actually considered and treated as a Friend till, by some act of rebellion, he has deprived himself of the title. Something of the same anomaly we have traced in the Protestant systems. Consciously justified men ought to constitute the Evangelical Church; persons conscious of a divine Election the Reformed: yet neither of these have had the courage to exclude their children from all religious fellowship, to treat them absolutely as heathens. The Anabaptists have made the nearest approach to that practice; but even in them there are very evident indications of timidity and inconsistency.

When we examined the schemes of the world which had been constructed by philosophers, we observed that they had been encountered by a knot, not unlike that which had perplexed the authors of religious sects, and that they had found themselves compelled with more or less of ceremony to cut it. It was next to impossible to organise a universal society, while the distinction of families prevailed. In such a society men must be so many separate units. But there is this glaring fact of family life to prove that they are not units; that they are bound together by a certain law, which may be set at naught, and made almost utterly inefficient, but which cannot be entirely repealed.

I. Now this fact, that men exist in families, which seems so grievously to disturb the inventors of systems, is perhaps the very one which would be most likely to suggest the thought to a plain person, that there must be a moral or spiritual constitution for mankind. We are obliged to speak of every man as being in two conditions. He is in a world of objects which offer themselves to his senses, and which his senses may be fitted to entertain. He is a son, perhaps he is a brother. These two states are equally inevitable; they are also perfectly distinct. You cannot by any artifice reduce them under the same law or name. To describe the one you must speak of what we see, or hear, or handle or smell; to describe the other, you must speak of what we are; “I am a son,” “I am a brother.” It is impossible therefore to use the word “circumstances” in reference to the one state with the same strictness with which you apply it to the other. All the things which I have to do with, I naturally and rightly call my circumstances—they stand round me: but that which is necessary in an account of myself, seems to be entitled to another name. We commonly call it a relationship. And this difference soon becomes more conspicuous. We speak of a man having a bad digestion or a bad hearing; we speak of his being a bad brother or a bad son. By both these phrases we imply that there is a want of harmony between the man and his condition. But by the one we evidently wish to signify that there need not be this want of harmony, that he is voluntarily acting as if he were not in a relation in which nevertheless he is, and must remain. This inconsistency we describe by the term moral evil, or whatever equivalent phrase we may have invented; for some equivalent, whether we like it or not, we must have.

It might seem to follow from these observations, that the family state is the natural one for man; and accordingly we speak of the affections which correspond to this state, as especially natural affections. But it should be remembered that we use another phrase which is apparently inconsistent with this; we describe the savage condition, that is to say, the one in which man is striving to be independent, as the natural state of society. And though it may be doubtful whether that should be called a state of society, which is the contradiction of all states and of all society, yet there seems a very considerable justification for the application of the word natural to it: seeing that we cannot be acquainted with a family, or be members of a family, without knowing in others, without feeling in ourselves, certain inclinations which tend to the dissolution of its bonds, and to the setting up of that separate independent life, which when exhibited on a large scale we name the savage or wild life. These inclinations are kept down by discipline, and the affections which attract us to the members of our family are called out in opposition to them; surely, therefore, it cannot be a mistake to describe them by the name which we ordinarily apply to plants that spring up in a soil, uncultivated and uncalled for.

We have here some of the indications of a spiritual constitution; that is to say, we have the marks of a state which is designed for a voluntary creature; which is his, whether he approve it or no; against which, he has a nature or inclination to rebel. But still, most persons would mean something more by the phrase than this; they would ask how you could call that spiritual, which had no reference to religion. Now the histories and mythologies of all the people with whom we are acquainted bear unequivocal witness to this fact, that men have connected the ideas of fathers, children, husbands, brothers, sisters, with the beings whom they worshipped. This is the first, rudest observation which we make upon them. But, when we search further, we begin to see that this simple observation has the most intimate connection with the whole of mythology; that it is not merely a fact in reference to it, but the fact, without which all others which encounter us are unintelligible. You say all kinds of offices are attributed to the gods and goddesses; they rule over this town and that river, they dispense this blessing or send that curse. Be it so; but who are they who exercise these powers? The mythology tells you of relations existing between them; also of relations between them and the objects of their bounty and their enmity. In later ages, when we are studying the differences in the mythology of different nations, it is no wonder that we should notice the character of the soil, the nature of the climate, the beauty or the dreariness of the country, the rains or the inundations which watered it, as circumstances helping to determine the views which the inhabitants entertained of their unseen rulers. And then the transition is very easy to the belief, that by these observations we have accounted for their faith, and that the histories of the gods are merely accidental poetical embellishments. But, if we consider that the worshippers evidently felt that which we call accidental to be essential; that the merging the gods in the objects with which they were connected was merely an artifice of later philosophy; that the circumstances of soil and climate did indeed occasion some important differences between the objects reverenced in various nations, but that the circumstance of their being parents, brothers, and sisters, so far as we know, was common to all, or only wanting in those which were utterly savage, that is, in which the human relations were disregarded; if we observe that those who endeavour to explain mythology by the phenomena of the world, are obliged to beg what they call ‘a law of nature,’ alleging that we are naturally inclined to inquire into the origin of any great and remarkable objects which we see; if we will notice how utterly inconsistent it is with all experience and observation to attribute such a disposition as this to men whose feelings and faculties have not been by some means previously awakened, how very little a savage is struck by any except the most glaring and alarming phenomena, and how much less he thinks about them: if we will reflect upon these points, we may perhaps be led to adopt the opinion that the simplest method of solving the difficulty is the best; that it is not our being surrounded with a strange world of sensible objects which leads us to think of objects with which we do not sensibly converse, but that these perceptions come to us through our family relationships; that we become more and more merely idolaters when these relationships are lost sight of, and the other facts of our condition only regarded; that a world without family relationships would have no worship, and on the other hand, that without worship all the feelings and affections of family life would have utterly perished.

II. But is there no meaning in that savage wish for independence? Is it merely the dissolution and destruction of those family bonds which are meant for men, or is it the indication that men were meant for other bonds than these, not perhaps of necessity incompatible with them? History seems to decide the question in favour of the latter opinion. It seems to say, that as there is a worse state of society than the patriarchal, there is also a better and more advanced one; it declares that the faculties which are given to man never have had their proper development and expansion, except in a national community. Now if we examine any such community, taking our specimen from the Pagan world, we shall perceive that the member of it had a more distinct feeling of himself, of his own personality, than the mere dweller in a family could have. It may seem to us very puzzling that it should be so; for if we look at Sparta or Rome—at any commonwealth except Athens—it seems as if the society were imposing the severest restraints upon each man’s own taste, judgment, and will. Nevertheless, it is the manifestation of energetic purpose in particular leaders, and the assurance we feel that there was the same kind of purpose, though in a less degree, existing in those who composed every rank of their armies, which gives the interest to the better times of these republics; as it is the feeling of a change in this respect—of the armies having become a body of soldiers merely, not of men, which makes the declining ages of them so mournful. We have evidence, therefore, coming in a way in which it might least be expected, that this personal feeling is connected with the sense of national union.

Of all men the savage¹ has least of the feelings of dignity and personal self-respect; he is most emphatically a mere workman or tool, the habitual slave of his own chance necessities and inclinations, and therefore commonly of other men’s also. He who understands the force of the words, ‘I am a brother,’ has taken a mighty step in advance of this individual man, even in that respect on which he most prides himself; he is more of a person, more of a freeman. But he is not enough of a person, not enough of a freeman. If he will be more, he must be able to say, “I am a citizen;” this is the true onward step; if he aim at freedom by any other, he relapses into an independence which is only another name for slavery. Now, we may observe several facts, too obvious to escape the most careless student of history, except it should be from their very obviousness, which are closely connected with this. One is, that in every organised nation at its commencement, there is a high respect for family relations, that they embody themselves necessarily in the national constitution; another is, that there is a struggle between these relations and the national polity, although they form so great an element in it; the legislator feeling that each brother, husband, father, is a citizen, and that as such, he comes directly under his cognizance.

In Sparta, we see the principle of family life, though distinctly recognised, sacrificed in a great degree to the Laws. In Athens, we see the legislator, in his anxiety to leave men to themselves, allowing the growth of an independence which proved incompatible both with family relations and with national society. In Rome, we see the legislation so exquisitely interwoven with the family principle, that so soon as that became weak, the commonwealth inevitably fell.

These facts lead us to ask what this legislation means, wherein its power lies, and in what way it comes to be so connected with, and yet diverse from, these relationships? In trying to find the answer to this question we are at once struck with this observation—Law takes each man apart from his fellows; it addresses him with a Thou; it makes him feel that there is an eye fixed upon his doings; that there is a penalty overhanging him. It is therefore, in this point of view, the direct opposite of a relationship by which we are bound to each other, and are made to feel that we cannot exist apart from each other. But, again, we find that the Law denounces those acts which make union and fellowship impossible, those acts which result from the determination of men to live and act as if they were independent of each other, as if they might set up themselves and make self-pleasing their end. The Law declares to each man that he is in a fellowship, that he shall not do any act which is inconsistent with that position. That therefore which is the great foe to family relationship, the desire for individuality, is the very thing which Law, even while it deals with men as distinct persons, is threatening and cursing. A nation then, like a family, would seem to possess some of the characteristics of a spiritual constitution. If we take the word spiritual in that sense in which it is used by modern philosophers, we have abundant proofs that where there is no feeling of national union, there is a most precarious and imperfect exercise of intellectual power. If we take it in the sense of voluntary we find here a constitution evidently meant for creatures which have wills; seeing that it is one which men do not create for themselves, that is one which may be violated, nay, which there is a natural inclination in every man to violate; and that by the words “bad citizen,” we express moral reprobation, just as we do when we speak of a bad father or mother. And if we ask whether there are any religious feelings connected with national life, as we found there were with family life, the mythology of the old world is just as decisive in its reply. If the Homeric gods were fathers, brothers, husbands, they were also kings; one character is just as prominent, just as essential as the other. It is possible that the former may have been the most ancient, and this would explain the notion of scholars that traces of an earlier worship are discoverable in the Iliad. In Homer’s time the two characters, the domestic and the kingly, were incorporated, and the offices of the gods as connected with nature, though they might be gradually mingling themselves with these characters, and threatening to become identical with them, are nevertheless distinct from them. The princes of Agamemnon’s league felt that there must be higher princes than they; they could use no authority, take no counsel, except in that belief. And though they spoke of these rulers as compelling the clouds and winds, they did not look upon this exercise of power as higher or more real, than that of putting wisdom and spirit into Diomed, and arming Hector for the fight. And hence the leaders were always types of the gods in every country which had attained the forms of a national polity. Wherever these existed, invisible rulers were recognised; a class of men interpreted the meaning of their judgments; they were invoked as the guides in battles; sacrifices were offered to avert their displeasure or to claim their protection.

But a time came, when thoughts were awakened in men’s minds of something more comprehensive than either this family or this national constitution. The former belonged to all men; yet in another respect it was narrow, separating men from each other. The latter was obviously exclusive; a nation was limited to a small locality; it actually treated all that lay beyond it, and whom it could not subdue to itself, as aliens, if not enemies. If this exclusion were to continue, there was certainly some nation which ought to reign, which had a right to make its polity universal. Great Asiatic monarchies there had been, which had swallowed all tribes and kingdoms into themselves, but these had established a rule of mere physical force.

Might not Greece, the land of intellectual force, shew that it was meant to rule over all? The young hero of Macedon went forth in this hope, and in a few years accomplished his dream. In a few more his empire was broken in pieces; Greece was not to be the lord of the world: still in the Egyptian and Syrian dynasties which she sent forth she asserted a mental supremacy. But a nation which paid no homage to art or to philosophy swallowed up all these dynasties, and with them all that remained of Greece herself. A universal polity was established in the world, and the national life, the family life, of Rome, perished at the very moment in which she established it.

Was there a religion connected with this universal polity as there was with the family and the national? We find that there was. The Emperor was the great God. To him all people and nations and languages were to bow. Subject to this supreme divinity all others might be tolerated and recognised. No form of religion was to be proscribed unless it were absolutely incompatible with the worship of a Tiberius and a Vitellius. It has been suggested already, that this Roman Empire answers exactly to the idea of a universal world. If there is to be anything different from this, if there is to be a universal Church, we ought to know of what elements it is to be composed, we ought to know whether it also sets aside family or national life, or whether it justifies their existence, reconciles them to itself, and interprets the problems of ancient history concerning their mysterious meaning.