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Part II
Part II
If we now, with a practical medical view, examine, by this same test of
Unconsciousness, the Condition of our own Era, and of man`s Life therein, the
diagnosis we arrive at is nowise of a flattering sort. The state of Society in
our days is, of all possible states, the least an unconscious one: this is
specially the Era when all manner of Inquiries into what was once the unfelt,
involuntary sphere of man`s existence, find their place, and, as it were,
occupy the whole domain of thought. What, for example, is all this that we
hear, for the last generation or two, about the Improvement of the Age, the
Spirit of the Age, Destruction of Prejudice, Progress of the Species, and the
March of Intellect, but an unhealthy state of self-sentence, self-survey; the
precursor and prognostic of still worse health? That Intellect do march, if
possible at double-quick time, is very desirable; nevertheless, why should she
turn round at every stride, and cry: See you what a stride I have taken! Such
a marching of Intellect is distinctly of the spavined kind; what the Jockeys
call `all action and no go.` Or at best, if we examine well, it is the
marching of that gouty Patient, whom his Doctors had clapt on a metal floor
artificially heated to the searing point, so that he was obliged to march, and
did march with a vengeance - nowhither. Intellect did not awaken for the first
time yesterday; but has been under way from Noah`s Flood downwards: greatly
her best progress, moreover, was in the old times, when she said nothing about
it. In those same `dark ages,` Intellect (metaphorically as well as literally)
could invent glass, which now she has enough ado to grind into spectacles.
Intellect built not only Churches, but a Church, the Church, based on this
firm Earth, yet reaching up, and leading up, as high as Heaven; and now it is
all she can do to keep its doors bolted, that there be no tearing of the
Surplices, no robbery of the Alms-box. She built a Senate-house likewise,
glorious in its kind; and now it costs her a well-nigh mortal effort to sweep
it clear of vermin, and get the roof made rain-tight.
But the truth is, with Intellect, as with most other things, we are now
passing from that first or boastful stage of Self-sentience into the second or
painful one: out of these often-asseverated declarations that `our system is
in high order,` we come now, by natural sequence, to the melancholy conviction
that it is altogether the reverse. Thus, for instance, in the matter of
Government, the period of the `Invaluable Constitution` has to be followed by
a Reform Bill; to laudatory De Lolmes succeed objurgatory Benthams. At any
rate, what Treatises on the Social Contract, on the Elective Franchise, the
Rights of Man, the Rights of Property, Codifications, Institutions,
Constitutions, have we not, for long years, groaned under! Or again, with a
wider survey, consider those Essays on Man, Thoughts on Man, Inquiries
concerning Man; not to mention Evidences of the Christian Faith, Theories of
Poetry, Considerations on the Origin of Evil, which during the last century
have accumulated on us to a frightful extent. Never since the beginning of
Time was there, that we hear or read of, so intensely self-conscious a
Society. Our whole relations to the Universe and to our fellow-man have become
an Inquiry, a Doubt; nothing will go on of its own accord, and do its function
quietly; but all things must be probed into, the whole working of man`s world
be anatomically studied. Alas, anatomically studied, that it may be medically
studied, that it may be medically aided! Till at length indeed, we have come
to such a pass, that except in this same medicine, with its artifices and
appliances, few can so much as imagine any strength or hope to remain for us.
The whole Life of Society must now be carried on by drugs: doctor after doctor
appears with his nostrum, of Cooperative Societies, Universal Suffrage,
Cottage-and-Cow systems, Repression of Population, Vote by ballot. To such
height has the dyspepsia of Society reached: as indeed the constant grinding
internal pain, or from time to time the mad spasmodic throes, of all Society
do otherwise too mournfully indicate.
Far be it from us to attribute, as some unwise persons do, the disease
itself to this unhappy sensation that there is a disease! The Encyclopedists
did not produce the troubles of France; but the troubles of France produced
the Encyclopedists, and much else. The Self-consciousness is the symptom
merely; nay, it is also the attempt towards cure. We record the fact, without
special censure; not wondering that Society should feel itself, and in all
ways complain of aches and twinges, for it has suffered enough. Napoleon was
but a Job`s-comforter, when he told his wounded staff-officer, twice unhorsed
by cannon-balls, and with half his limbs blown to pieces: "Vous vous ecoutez
trop!"
On the outward, as it were Physical diseases of Society, it were beside
our purpose to insist here. These are diseases which he who runs may read; and
sorrow over, with or without hope. Wealth has accumulated itself into masses;
and Poverty, also id accumulation enough, lies impassably separated from it;
opposed, uncommunicating, like forces in positive and negative poles. The gods
of this lower world sit aloft on glittering thrones, less happy than Epicurus`
gods, but as indolent, as impotent; while the boundless living chaos of
Ignorance and Hunger welters terrific, in its dark fury, under their feet. How
much among us might be likened to a whited sepulchre; outwardly all pomp and
strength; but inwardly full of horror and despair and dead-men`s bones! Iron
highways, with their wains fire-winged, are uniting all ends of the firm Land;
quays and moles, with their innumerable stately fleets, tame the Ocean into
our pliant bearer of burdens; Labour`s thousand arms of sinew and of metal,
all-conquering everywhere, from the tops of the mountain down to the depths of
the mine and the caverns of the sea, ply unweariedly for the service of man:
yet man remains unserved. He has subdued this Planet, his habitation and
inheritance; yet reaps no profit from the victory.
Sad to look upon: in the highest stage of civilisation, nine-tenths of
mankind have to struggle in the lowest battle of savage or even animal man,
the battle against Famine. Countries are rich, prosperous in all manner of
increase, beyond example: but the Men of those countries are poor, needier
than ever of all sustenance outward and inward; of Belief, of Knowledge, of
Money, of Food. The rule, Sic vos non vobis, never altogether to be got rid of
in men`s Industry, now presses with such incubus weight, that Industry must
shake it off, or utterly be strangled under it; and, alas, can as yet but gasp
and rave, and aimlessly struggle, like one in the final deliration. Thus
Change, or the inevitable approach of Change, is manifest everywhere. In one
Country we have seen lava-torrents of fever-frenzy envelop all things;
Government succeed Government, like the phantasms of a dying brain. In another
Country, we can even now see, in maddest alternation, the Peasant governed by
such guidance as this: To labour earnestly one month in raising wheat, and the
next month labour earnestly in burning it. So that Society, were it not by
nature immortal, and its death ever a newbirth, might appear, as it does in
the eyes of some, to be sick to dissolution, and even now writhing in its last
agony. Sick enough we must admit it to be, with disease enough, a whole
nosology of diseases; wherein he perhaps is happiest that is not called to
prescribe as physician; - wherein, however, one small piece of policy, that of
summoning the Wisest in the Commonwealth, by the sole method yet known or
thought of, to come together and with their whole soul consult for it, might,
but for late tedious experiences, have seemed unquestionable enough.
But leaving this, let us rather look within, into the Spiritual condition
of Society, and see what aspects and prospects offer themselves there. For
after all, it is there properly that the secret and origin of the whole is to
be sought: the Physical derangements of Society are but the image and impress
of its Spiritual; while the heart continues sound, all other sickness is
superficial, and temporary. False Action is the fruit of false Speculation;
let the spirit of Society be free and strong, that is to say, let true
Principles inspire the members of Society, then neither can disorders
accumulate in its Practice; each disorder will be promptly, faithfully
inquired into, and remedied as it arises. But alas, with us the Spiritual
condition of Society is no less sickly than the Physical. Examine man`s
internal world, in any of its social relations and performances, here too all
seems diseased self-consciousness, collision and mutually-destructive
struggle. Nothing acts from within outwards in undivided healthy force;
everything lies impotent, lamed, its force turned inwards, and painfully
`listens to itself.`
To begin with our highest Spiritual function, with Religion, we might
ask, Whither has Religion now fled? Of Churches and their establishments we
here say nothing; nor of the unhappy domains of Unbelief, and how innumerable
men, blinded in their minds, have grown to `live without God in the world`;
but, taking the fairest side of the matter, we ask, What is the nature of that
same Religion, which still lingers in the hearts of the few who are called,
and call themselves, specially the Religious? Is it a healthy religion, vital,
unconscious of itself; that shines forth spontaneously in doing of the Work,
or even in preaching of the Word? Unhappily, no. Instead of heroic martyr
Conduct, and inspired and soul-inspiring Eloquence, whereby Religion itself
were brought home to our living bosoms, to live and reign there, we have
`Discourses on the Evidences,` endeavouring, with smallest result, to make it
probable that such a thing as Religion exists. The most enthusiastic
Evangelicals do not preach a Gospel, but keep describing how it should and
might be preached: to awaken the sacred fire of faith, as by a sacred
contagion, is not their endeavour; but, at most, to describe how Faith shows
and acts, and scientifically distinguish true Faith from false. Religion, like
all else, is conscious of itself, listens to itself; it becomes less and less
creative, vital; more and more mechanical. Considered as a whole, the
Christian Religion of late ages has been continually dissipating itself into
Metaphysics; and threatens now to disappear, as some rivers do, in deserts of
barren sand.
Of Literature, and its deep-seated, wide-spread maladies, why speak?
Literature is but a branch of Religion, and always participates in its
character: however, in our time, it is the only branch that still shows any
greenness; and, as some think, must one day become the main stem. Now, apart
from the subterranean and tartarean regions of Literature; - leaving out of
view the frightful, scandalous statistics of Puffing, the mystery of Slander,
Falsehood, Hatred and other convulsion-work of rabid Imbecility, and all that
has rendered Literature on that side a perfect `Babylon the mother of
Abominations,` in very deed making the world `drunk` with the wine of her
iniquity; - forgetting all this, let us look only to the regions of the upper
air; to such Literature as can be said to have some attempt towards truth in
it, some tone of music, and if it be not poetical, to hold of the poetical.
Among other characteristics, is not this manifest enough: that it knows
itself? Spontaneous devotedness to the object, being wholly possessed by the
object, what we can call Inspiration, has well-nigh ceased to appear in
Literature. Which melodious Singer forgets that he is singing melodiously?
We have not the love of greatness, but the love of the love of greatness.
Hence infinite Affectations, Distractions; in every case inevitable Error.
Consider, for one example, this peculiarity of Modern Literature, the sin that
has been named View-hunting. In our elder writers, there are no paintings of
scenery for its own sake; no euphuistic gallantries with Nature, but a
constant heartlove for her, a constant dwelling in communion with her.
View-hunting, with so much else that is of kin to it, first came decisively
into action through the Sorrows of Werter; which wonderful Performance,
indeed, may in many senses be regarded as the progenitor of all that has since
become popular in Literature; whereof, in so far as concerns spirit and
tendency, it still offers the most instructive image; for nowhere, except in
its own country, above all in the mind of its illustrious Author, has it yet
fallen wholly obsolete. Scarcely ever, till that late epoch, did any
worshipper of Nature become entirely aware that he was worshipping, much to
his own credit; and think of saying to himself: Come, let us make a
description! Intolerable enough: when every puny whipster plucks out his
pencil, and insists on painting you a scene; so that the instant you discern
such a thing as `wavy outline,` `mirror of the lake,` `stern headland,` or the
like, in any Book, you tremulously hasten on; and scarcely the Author of
Waverley himself can tempt you not to skip.
Nay, is not the diseased self-conscious state of Literature disclosed in
this one fact, which lies so near us here, the prevalence of Reviewing!
Sterne`s wish for a reader `that would give-up the reins of his imagination
into his author`s hands, and be pleased he knew not why, and cared not
wherefore,` might lead him a long journey now. Indeed, for our best class of
readers, the chief pleasure, a very stinted one, is this same knowing of the
Why; which many a Kames and Bossu has been, ineffectually enough, endeavouring
to teach us: till at last these also have laid down their trade; and now your
Reviewer is a mere taster; who tastes, and says, by the evidence of such
palate, such tongue, as he has got, It is good, It is bad. Was it thus that
the French carried out certain inferior creatures on their Algerine
Expedition, to taste the wells for them, and try whether they were poisoned?
Far be it from us to disparage our own craft, whereby we have our living! Only
we must note these things: that Reviewing spreads with strange vigour; that
such a man as Byron reckons the Reviewer and the Poet equal; that at the last
Leipzig Fair, there was advertised a Review of Reviews. By and by it will be
found that all Literature has become one boundless self-devouring Review; and,
as in London routs, we have to do nothing, but only to see others do nothing.
- Thus does Literature also, like a sick thing, superabundantly `listen to
itself.`
No less is this unhealthy symptom manifest, if we cast a glance on our
Philosophy, on the character of our speculative Thinking. Nay, already, as
above hinted, the mere existence and necessity of a Philosophy is an evil. Man
is sent hither not to question, but to work: `the end of man,` it was long ago
written, `is an Action, not a Thought.` In the perfect state, all Thought were
but the picture and inspiring symbol of Action; Philosophy, except as Poetry
and Religion, would have no being. And yet how, in this imperfect state, can
it be avoided, can it be dispensed with? Man stands as in the centre of
Nature; his fraction of Time encircled by Eternity, his handbreadth of Space
encircled by Infinitude: how shall he forbear asking himself, What am I; and
Whence; and Whither? How too, except in slight partial hints, in kind
asseverations and assurances, such as a mother quiets her fretfully
inquisitive child with, shall he get answer to such inquiries?
The disease of Metaphysics, accordingly, is a perennial one. In all ages,
those questions of Death and Immortality, Origin of Evil, Freedom and
Necessity, must, under new forms, anew make their appearance; ever, from time
to time, must the attempt to shape for ourselves some Theorem of the Universe
be repeated. And ever unsuccessfully: for what Theorem of the Infinite can the
Finite render complete? We, the whole species of Mankind, and our whole
existence and history, are but a floating speck in the illimitable ocean of
the All; yet in that ocean; indissoluble portion thereof; partaking of its
infinite tendencies: borne this way and that by its deep-swelling tides, and
grand ocean currents; - of which what faintest chance is there that we should
ever exhaust the significance, ascertain the goings and comings? A region of
Doubt, therefore, hovers forever in the background; in Action alone can we
have certainty. Nay, properly Doubt is the indispensable, inexhaustible
material whereon Action works, which Action has to fashion into Certainty and
Reality; only on a canvas of Darkness, such is man`s way of being, could the
many-coloured picture of our Life paint itself and shine.
Thus if our eldest system of Metaphysics is as old as the Book of
Genesis, our latest is that of Mr. Thomas Hope, published only within the
current year. It is a chronic malady that of Metaphysics, as we said, and
perpetually recurs on us. At the utmost, there is a better and a worse in it;
a stage of convalescence, and a stage of relapse with new sickness: these
forever succeed each other, as is the nature of all Life-movement here below.
The first, or convalescent stage, we might also name that of Dogmatical or
Constructive Metaphysics; when the mind constructively endeavours to scheme
out and assert for itself an actual Theorem of the Universe, and therewith for
a time rests satisfied. The second or sick stage might be called that of
Sceptical or Inquisitory Metaphysics; when the mind having widened its sphere
of vision, the existing Theorem of the Universe no longer answers the
phenomena, no longer yields contentment; but must be torn in pieces, and
certainty anew sought for in the endless realms of denial. All Theologies and
sacred Cosmogonies belong, in some measure, to the first class; in all
Pyrrhonism, from Pyrrho down to Hume and the innumerable disciples of Hume, we
have instances enough of the second. In the former, so far as it affords
satisfaction, a temporary anodyne to doubt, an arena for wholesome action,
there may be much good; indeed in this case, it holds rather of Poetry than of
Metaphysics, might be called Inspiration rather than Speculation. The latter
is Metaphysics proper; a pure, unmixed, though from time to time a necessary
evil.
For truly, if we look into it, there is no more fruitless endeavour than
this same, which the Metaphysician proper toils in: to educe Conviction out of
Negation. How, by merely testing and rejecting what is not, shall we ever
attain knowledge of what is? Metaphysical Speculation, as it begins in No or
Nothingness, so it must needs end in Nothingness; circulates and must
circulate in endless vortices; creating, swallowing - itself. Our being is
made up of Light and Darkness, the Light resting on the Darkness, and
balancing it; everywhere there is Dualism, Equipoise; a perpetual
Contradiction dwells in us: `where shall I place myself to escape from my own
shadow?` Consider it well, Metaphysics is the attempt of the mind to rise
above the mind; to environ and shut in, or as we say, comprehend the mind.
Hopeless struggle, for the wisest, as for the foolishest! What strength of
sinew, or athletic skill, will enable the stoutest athlete to fold his own
body in his arms, and, by lifting, lift up himself? The Irish Saint swam the
Channel, `carrying his head in his teeth`; but the feat has never been
imitated.
That this is the age of Metaphysics, in the proper, or sceptical
Inquisitory sense; that there was a necessity for its being such an age, we
regard as our indubitable misfortune. From many causes, the arena of free
Activity has long been narrowing, that of sceptical Inquiry becoming more and
more universal, more and more perplexing. The Thought conducts not to the
Deed; but in boundless chaos, self-devouring, engenders monstrosities,
phantasms, fire-breathing chimeras. Profitable Speculation were this: What is
to be done; and How is it to be done? But with us not so much as the What can
be got sight of. For some generations, all Philosophy has been a painful,
captious, hostile question towards everything in the Heaven above, and in the
Earth beneath: Why art thou there? Till at length it has come to pass that the
worth and authenticity of all things seem dubitable or deniable: our best
effort must be unproductively spent not in working, but in ascertaining our
mere Whereabout, and so much as whether we are to work at all. Doubt, which,
as was said, ever hangs in the background of our world, has now become our
middleground and foreground; whereon, for the time, no fair Life-picture can
be painted, but only the dark air-canvas itself flow round us, bewildering and
benighting.
Nevertheless, doubt as we will, man is actually Here; not to ask
questions, but to do work: in this time, as in all times, it must be the
heaviest evil for him, if his faculty of Action lie dormant, and only that of
sceptical Inquiry exert itself. Accordingly whoever looks abroad upon the
world, comparing the Past with the Present, may find that the practical
condition of man in these days is one of the saddest; burdened with miseries
which are in a considerable degree peculiar. In no time was man`s life what he
calls a happy one; in no time can it be so. A perpetual dream there has been
of Paradises, and some luxurious Lubberland, where the brooks should run wine,
and the trees bend with ready-baked viands; but it was a dream merely; an
impossible dream. Suffering, contradiction, error, have their quite perennial,
and even indispensable abode in this Earth. Is not labour the inheritance of
man? And what labour for the present is joyous, and not grievous? Labour,
effort, is the very interruption of that ease, which man foolishly enough
fancies to be his happiness; and yet without labour there were no ease, no
rest, so much as conceivable. Thus Evil, what we call Evil, must ever exist
while man exists: Evil, in the widest sense we can give it, is precisely the
dark, disordered material out of which man`s Freewill has to create an edifice
of order and Good. Ever must Pain urge us to Labour; and only in free Effort
can any blessedness be imagined for us.
But if man has, in all ages, had enough to encounter, there has, in most
civilised ages, been an inward force vouchsafed him, whereby the pressure of
things outward might be withstood. Obstruction abounded; but Faith also was
not wanting. It is by Faith that man removes mountains: while he had Faith,
his limbs might be wearied with toiling, his back galled with bearing; but the
heart within him was peaceable and resolved. In the thickest gloom there burnt
a lamp to guide him. If he struggled and suffered, he felt that it even should
be so; knew for what he was suffering and struggling. Faith gave him an inward
Willingness; a world of Strength wherewith to front a world of Difficulty. The
true wretchedness lies here: that the Difficulty remain and the Strength be
lost; that Pain cannot relieve itself in free Effort; that we have the Labour,
and want the Willingness. Faith strengthens us, enlightens us, for all
endeavours and endurances; with Faith we can do all, and dare all, and life
itself has a thousand times been joyfully given away. But the sum of man`s
misery is even this, that he feel himself crushed under the Juggernaut wheels,
and know that Juggernaut is no divinity, but a dead mechanical idol.
Now this is specially the misery which has fallen on man in our Era.
Belief, Faith has well-nigh vanished from the world. The youth on awakening in
this wondrous Universe no longer finds a competent theory of its wonders. Time
was, when if he asked himself, What is man, What are the duties of man? the
answer stood ready written for him. But now the ancient `ground-plan of the
All` belies itself when brought into contact with reality; Mother Church has,
to the most, become a superannuated Step-mother, whose lessons go disregarded;
or are spurned at, and scornfully gainsaid. For young Valour and thirst of
Action no ideal Chivalry invites to heroism, prescribes what is heroic: the
old ideal of Manhood has grown obsolete, and the new is still invisible to us,
and we grope after it in darkness, one clutching this phantom, another that;
Werterism, Byronism, even Brummelism, each has its day. For Contemplation and
love of Wisdom, no Cloister now opens its religious shades; the Thinker must,
in all senses, wander homeless, too often aimless, looking up to a Heaven
which is dead for him, round to an Earth which is deaf. Action, in those old
days, was easy, was voluntary, for the divine worth of human things lay
acknowledged; Speculation was wholesome, for it ranged itself as the handmaid
of Action; what could not so range itself died out by its natural death, by
neglect. Loyalty still hallowed obedience, and made rule noble; there was
still something to be loyal to: the Godlike stood embodied under many a symbol
in men`s interests and business; the Finite shadowed forth the Infinite;
Eternity looked through Time. The Life of man was encompassed and overcanopied
by a glory of Heaven, even as his dwelling-place by the azure vault.
How changed in these new days! Truly may it be said, the Divinity has
withdrawn from the Earth; or veils himself in that wide-wasting Whirlwind of a
departing Era, wherein the fewest can discern his goings. Not Godhead, but an
iron, ignoble circle of Necessity embraces all things; binds the youth of
these times into a sluggish thrall, or else exasperates him into a rebel.
Heroic Action is paralysed; for what worth now remains unquestionable with
him? Aye the fervid period when his whole nature cries aloud for Action, there
is nothing sacred under whose banner he can act; the course and kind and
conditions of free Action are all but undiscoverable. Doubt storms-in on him
through every avenue; inquiries of the deepest, painfulest sort must be
engaged with; and the invincible energy of young years waste itself in
sceptical, suicidal cavillings; in passionate `questionings of Destiny,`
whereto no answer will be returned.
For men, in whom the old perennial principle of Hunger (be it Hunger of
the poor Day-drudge who stills it with eighteenpence a-day, or of the
ambitious Placehunter who can nowise still it with so little) suffices to
fill-up existence, the case is bad; but not the worst. These men have an aim,
such as it is; and can steer towards it, with chagrin enough truly; yet, as
their hands are kept full, without desperation. Unhappier are they to whom a
higher instinct has been given; who struggle to be persons, not machines; to
whom the Universe is not a warehouse, or at best a fancy-bazaar, but a mystic
temple and hall of doom. For such men there lie properly two courses open. The
lower, yet still an estimable class, take up with worn-out Symbols of the
Godlike; keep trimming and trucking between these and Hypocrisy, purblindly
enough, miserably enough. A numerous intermediate class end in Denial; and
form a theory that there is no theory; that nothing is certain in the world,
except this fact of Pleasure being pleasant; so they try to realise what
trifling modicum of Pleasure they can come at, and to live contented
therewith, winking hard. Of those we speak not here; but only of the second
nobler class, who also have dared to say No, and cannot yet say Yea; but feel
that in the No they dwell as in a Golgotha, where life enters not, where peace
is not appointed them.
Hard, for most part, is the fate of such men; the harder the nobler they
are. In dim forecastings, wrestles within them the `Divine Idea of the World,`
yet will nowhere visibly reveal itself. They have to realise a Worship for
themselves, or live unworshipping. The God-like has vanished from the world;
and they, by the strong cry of their soul`s agony, like true wonder-workers,
must again evoke its presence. This miracle is their appointed task; which
they must accomplish, or die wretchedly: this miracle has been accomplished by
such; but not in our land; our land yet knows not of it. Behold a Byron, in
melodious tones, `cursing his day`: he mistakes earthborn passionate desire
for heaven-inspired Freewill; without heavenly loadstar, rushes madly into the
dance of meteoric lights that hover on the mad Mahlstrom; and goes down among
its eddies. Hear a Shelley filling the earth with inarticulate wail; like the
infinite, inarticulate grief and weeping of forsaken infants. A noble
Friedrich Schlegel, stupefied in that fearful loneliness, as of a silenced
battlefield, flies back to Catholicism; as a child might to its slain mother`s
bosom, and cling there. In lower regions, how many a poor Hazlitt must wander
on God`s verdant earth, like the Unblest on burning deserts; passionately dig
wells, and draw up only the dry quicksand; believe that he is seeking Truth,
yet only wrestle among endless Sophisms, doing desperate battle as with
spectre-hosts; and die and make no sign!
To the better order of such minds any mad joy of Denial has long since
ceased: the problem is not now to deny, but to ascertain and perform. Once in
destroying the False, there was a certain inspiration; but now the genius of
Destruction has done its work, there is now nothing more to destroy. The doom
of the Old has long been pronounced, and irrevocable; the Old has passed away:
but, alas, the New appears not in its stead; the Time is still in pangs of
travail with the New. Man has walked by the light of conflagrations, and amid
the sound of falling cities; and now there is darkness, and long watching till
it be morning. The voice even of the faithful can but exclaim: `As yet
struggles the twelfth hour of the Night: birds of darkness are on the wing,
spectres uproar, the dead walk, the living dream. - Thou, Eternal Providence,
wilt cause the day to dawn!`
Such being the condition, temporal and spiritual, of the world at our
Epoch, can we wonder that the world `listens to itself,` and struggles and
writhes, everywhere externally and internally, like a thing in pain? Nay, is
not even this unhealthy action of the world`s Organisation, if the symptom of
universal disease, yet also the symptom and sole means of restoration and
cure? The effort of Nature, exerting her medicative force to cast-out foreign
impediments, and once more become One, become whole? In Practice, still more
in Opinion, which is the precursor and prototype of Practice, there must needs
be collision, convulsion; much has to be ground away. Thought must needs be
Doubt and Inquiry, before it can again be Affirmation and Sacred Precept.
Innumerable `Philosophies of Man,` contending in boundless hubbub, must
annihilate each other, before an inspired Poesy and Faith for Man can fashion
itself together.
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