religion.

Besides that education of the young to which our attention has just been directed, there is another important means for exercising an influence on the morals and character of a nation, through which the State endeavours to educate, as it were, the full-grown man, accompanies him throughout the whole course and conduct of his life—his ways of thinking and acting,—and aims at imparting to them some definite and preconceived direction, or forestalling probable deviations from the path it prescribes;—this is Religion.

History shows us that all States have thought fit to avail themselves of this source of influence, but with very different designs, and in very different degrees. In the ancient nations it was perfectly interwoven with the political constitution,—it was, in fact, a grand guiding principle and essential pillar of the State organism; and hence all that I have observed of similar ancient institutions, applies no less aptly to religion. When the Christian religion, instead of the earlier local deities of nations, taught men to believe in a universal God of humanity, thereby throwing down one of the most dangerous barriers which sundered the different tribes of the great human family from each other;—and when it thus succeeded in laying the foundation for all true human virtue, human development, and human union, without which, enlightenment and even science and learning would have long, and perhaps always, remained the rare property of a few;—it also directly operated to loosen the strong bond of connection that of old existed between religion and the political constitution. But when, afterwards, the incursion of the barbarian tribes had scared enlightenment away;—when a misconception of that very religion inspired a blind and intolerant rage for proselytism; and when, at the same time, the political form of States underwent such changes, that citizens were transformed into subjects, and these not so much the subjects of the State as of the person in whom the government was vested;—the solicitude for religion, its preservation and extension, was left to the conscientiousness of princes, who believed it confided to their hands by God himself. In our times this prejudice has, comparatively, ceased to prevail; but the promotion of religion by laws and State institutions has been no less urgently recommended by considerations of internal security, and of morality, its strongest bulwark. These, then, I regard as the principal distinctive epochs in the history of religion as a political element, although I am not prepared to deny that all these reasons, characteristic of each, and especially the last-mentioned, have been co-operating throughout, while at each period, doubtless, one of them prevailed.

In the endeavour to act upon morality through the medium of religious ideas, it is especially necessary to distinguish between the propagation of a certain form of religion, and the diffusion of a spirit of religiousness in general. The former is undoubtedly more oppressive in its character, and more hurtful in its consequences; but, without it, the latter is hardly possible. For when once the State believes morality and religiousness to be inseparably associated, and considers that it can and may avail itself of this method of influence, it is scarcely possible, so long as there are various forms of religious opinion,—corresponding differently with morality, whether true, or constructed according to accepted notions,—that it should not extend its protection to one of these forms of religion in preference to the others. Even where it aims at wholly avoiding this preference, and assumes the position of protector or defender of all religious parties, it can only judge of what it defends from external actions, and must therefore indirectly countenance the opinions of those parties who actually come under its cognizance, to the suppression of other possible but unmanifested varieties of belief; and in any case, it evinces its concern for one opinion at least, in that it strives to render the real, living belief in a God the one generally predominant. It will be evident, moreover, on a moment’s reflection,—and the consideration is especially important in regard to what we would maintain,—that, owing to the vagueness and ambiguity of all expressions, which enable them to convey so many different ideas by the same general word, the State itself would be obliged to supply some definite interpretation of the term Religiousness, before it could apply it in any way as a clear rule of conduct. So that I would absolutely deny the possibility of any State interference in religious affairs which should not be more or less chargeable with encouraging certain distinct opinions, and did not therefore admit the application of principles and arguments, derivable from the supposition of such a partial tendency. Neither, with any more reason, can I grant the possibility of any such interference, without the implication of some guiding and controlling influence—some drag and hindrance, as it were, upon the liberty of the individual. For, however widely certain kinds of influence may naturally differ from coercion,—as exhortation, or the mere procuring of facilities for the acceptance of ideas,—there still exists, even in the last of these (as we have already tried to demonstrate more fully in the case of several similar institutions), a certain preponderance of the State’s views, which is calculated to repress and diminish freedom.

I have thought it necessary to make these preliminary observations, in order to anticipate an objection that might, perhaps, be advanced as I proceed, viz. that in the views I entertain of the consequences of a solicitude for religion, my attention was confined to the encouragement of certain particular forms, to the exclusion of the possibility of a care for religion in general; and I hoped moreover thus to avoid needlessly embarrassing and dismembering my inquiry, by a too minute review of the single possible cases.

All religion,—viewing it in its relation to morality and happiness, and as it has therefore become a matter of feeling,—rests upon a want or necessity of the soul. It is obvious that in thus restricting my view, I am not considering religion in so far as reason perceives, or fancies it perceives, any religious truth; for the perception of truth is independent of all influence from the will or desire;—nor in so far as revelation tends to strengthen any particular belief; since even historical belief should be exempt from all such influences derived from our sensitive nature. We hope, we dread, because we desire. Wherever there is no vestige of spiritual culture, this want or necessity is purely sensuous in its character. Fear and hope with regard to the phenomena of external nature, which are transformed by fancy into spiritual existences, constitute the whole sum of religion. But when culture dawns on the spirit, this is no longer sufficient and satisfying. The soul then yearns towards an intuition of perfection, of which a scintillation faintly glimmers in itself, but whose clear, complete effulgence, a deep presentiment assures it, is without. This first intuition gradually merges into admiration; and conceiving of himself as in some relation to this higher existence, man’s wonder ripens into love, from which there springs a longing to assimilate himself to this outward manifestation of perfection,—a desire for union. This development of the religious idea is even true of nations in the lowest grade of civilization; for it is from this very process of conception that, even among the rudest tribes, the chiefs of the people are brought to believe themselves lineally descended from the gods, and destined, after death, to return to them. It is only to be observed that the actual conception of the Divine Nature varies according to the different ideas of perfection which prevail in particular ages and nations. The gods of the remoter ages of Greece and Rome, and those worshiped by our own earliest forefathers, were simply ideals of bodily strength and prowess. When to this view of perfection the idea of sensuous beauty succeeded and gradually became refined, the sensuous personification of beauty was exalted to the throne of Deity; and hence arose what we would designate as the Religion of Art. Further, when men ascended from the sensuous to the purely spiritual—from the beautiful to the good and true, the sum of all moral and intellectual perfection became the high object of their adoration, and religion the property of philosophy. It might perhaps be possible to estimate the comparative worth of the different forms of religion that have prevailed according to this ascending scale, if it were true that religion varied according to nations and sects, and not according to the nature of single individuals. But, as it is, religion is wholly subjective, and depends solely on the manner of individual conception.

When the idea formed of Divinity is the fruit of true spiritual culture, its intimate re-action on the inner perfection is at once beneficial and beautiful. All things assume a new form and meaning in our eyes when regarded as the creatures of forecasting design, and not the capricious handiwork of unreasoning chance. The ideas of wisdom order, and adaptative forethought,—ideas so necessary to the conduct of our own actions, and even to the culture of the intellect,—strike deeper root into our susceptible nature, when we discover them everywhere around us. The finite becomes, as it were, infinite; the perishable, enduring; the fleeting, stable; the complex, simple,—when we contemplate one great regulating Cause on the summit of things, and regard what is spiritual as endlessly enduring. Our search after truth, our striving after perfection, gain greater certainty and consistency when we can believe in the existence of a Being who is at once the source of all truth, and the sum of all perfection. The soul becomes less painfully sensible of the chances and changes of fortune, when it learns how to connect hope and confidence with such calamities. The feeling of receiving everything we possess from the hand of love, tends no less to exalt our moral excellence and enhance our happiness. Through a constant sense of gratitude for enjoyment—through clinging with fond trustfulness to the object towards which it yearns, the soul is drawn out of itself, nor always broods in jealous isolation over its own sensations, its own plans, hopes, and fears. Should it lose the exalting feeling of owing everything to itself, it still enjoys the rapture of living in the love of another,—a feeling in which its own perfection is united with the perfection of that other being. It becomes disposed to be to others what others are to it; it would not that they too should receive nothing but from themselves, in the same way that it receives nothing from others. I have ventured to touch, in these remarks, on the subject of the co-operation of religion with morality; to enter into it more fully, after the masterly exposition of Garve,1 would be at once useless and presuming.

But although the influence of religious ideas unmistakably harmonizes and co-operates with the process of moral perfection, it is no less certain that such ideas are in no way inseparably associated with that process. The simple idea of moral perfection is great, and inspiring, and exalted enough to require no other veil or form; and every religion is based on personification to a greater or less degree,—represents itself in some shape of appeal to the senses,—some or other modification of anthropomorphism. The idea of perfection will still hover before him who has not been wont to comprise the sum of all moral excellence in one absolute Ideal, and to conceive of himself as in a relation with that being: it will be to him at once the grand incentive to all activity, and the element of all his happiness. Firmly assured by experience of the possibility of raising his soul to a higher degree of moral perfection, he will strive with earnest and unwearying efforts to reach the goal he has set before him. The thought of the possible annihilation of his being will cease to alarm, when his illusive imagination is no longer painfully alive to the sense of nothingness in the non-existence of death. His unalterable dependency on the capricious mutations of fortune no more daunts and dismays him: comparatively indifferent to external joys and privations, he regards only what is purely moral and intellectual; and no mere freak of changeful destiny has power to disturb the calm, inner life of his soul. His spirit is exalted to a proud height of independence through its perfect sense of self-sufficingness—its lofty superiority to external vicissitude—the rich and overflowing fulness of its own ideas—the profound consciousness of its internal, deep-seated strength. And then when he looks back to his eventful journey in the past, and retraces its onward progress, step by step, through doubt and difficulty; when he sees with what varied means and happy appliances every separate circumstance was made so happily focal to the whole, and with what a regular series of gradations he arrived at that which he now is; when he learns to perceive in himself the complete union of cause and effect, of end and means, and, full of the noblest pride of which finite beings are capable, exclaims,

“Hast not thyself accomplished all,

Thou heart with holy ardour glowing?”2

how will dark and despairing thoughts—the thoughts of his lonely and unsolaced life—of helplessness, of failing support and consolation, vanish from before him,—thoughts which we are wont to believe mostly to beset those in whose minds the idea of a personal, superintending, rational cause of the chain of finite being is wanting! This constant, ruling self-consciousness, moreover, this living solely in and through himself, need not render the moral man callous and insensible to the lot and happiness of others, or shut out from his heart every loving sympathy and benevolent impulse. This very idea of perfection, towards which all his activity converges as to a grand, sufficient centre, so far from being a mere cold abstraction of the reason, may prove a warm and genial feeling of the heart, and thus transport his existence into the existence of others. For in them too there exists a like capacity for greater perfection, and this latent fitness it may be in his power to elicit and improve. He is not yet penetrated with the loftiest idea of all morality, so long as he can be content to regard himself or others as distinct and isolated—so long as all spiritual existences seem not to him merged and united in the sum of perfection which lies diffused around him. Nay, his union with other beings of kindred nature with himself is perhaps only the more intimate, and his sympathy in their fates and fortunes only the more keen and constant, in proportion as their destiny and his own seem to him to be entirely dependent on him and them.

If it is objected to this picture (and it is an objection which might fairly be urged) that to realize it in actual life would be a task far beyond the common range of human energy and capability, I would reply that such a condition is no less essential in order that religious feelings become the groundwork, in a man’s character, of a truly beautiful life, equally removed from coldness on the one hand and enthusiasm on the other. The force of this objection could only be admitted, moreover, if I had peculiarly recommended the cultivation of that harmony of being which I have just endeavoured to portray. But, as it is, my only object was to show that human morality, even the highest and most consistent, is not at all dependent on religion, or in general necessarily connected with it, and haply to contribute a few collateral reasons for removing the faintest shadow of spiritual intolerance, and for cherishing that profound respect which we should ever entertain for the individual thoughts and feelings of our fellow-men. If it were necessary still further to justify the view thus taken of morality, it were easy to delineate a contrasting picture of the pernicious influences of which an exclusive religious disposition, as well as its opposite, are capable. But it is painful to dwell on such ungrateful themes, and history only supplies us too abundantly with convincing illustrations. It may be more conducive to our present design, and furnish us a greater weight of evidence in favour of the principles we advocate, to cast a hasty glance at the nature of morality itself, and at the close relation of religious systems, as well as of religiousness, to the system of human sensation.

Now, neither that which morality prescribes as a duty, nor that which gives sanction to its dictates and recommends them to the will, is dependent on religious ideas. I will not dwell on the consideration that such a dependency would even impair the purity of the moral will. In reasoning derived from experience, and to be similarly referred to it, this position might not be thought sufficiently valid. But the qualities of an action which constitute it a duty, arise partly from the very nature of the human soul, and partly from the stricter reference to men’s mutual relations; and, although it is certain that these qualities are especially recommended and enhanced by a feeling of religion, this is neither the sole medium of impressing them on the heart, nor by any means one which admits of application to every variety of character. On the contrary, religion depends wholly for its efficiency on the individual nature, and is, in the strictest acceptation, subjective. The man whose character is cold and essentially reflective—whose conception never passes into sensation—with whom it is enough to see clearly the natural tendency of things to shape his resolution accordingly, needs no religious motive to induce him to adopt a course of virtuous action, and, as far as is consistent with such a form of character, to be virtuous. But it is wholly otherwise in the opposite case, where the capacity of sensation is peculiarly strong, and every thought rapidly merges in feeling. And yet even here the shades and modifications of character are infinitely various. For example, wherever the soul feels a strong and resistless impulse to pass out from itself, and establish a union with others, religious ideas will prove genuine and efficient motives. But, on the other hand, there are varieties of character in which so intimate a sequence prevails between all feeling and ideas—which share such a profundity of conception and sensation, that they acquire a measure of strength and self-reliance which neither needs nor allows the surrender of the whole nature to another being, and cannot entertain that confidence in foreign strength in which religion especially manifests itself. The very circumstances, even, which dispose the soul to revert to ideas of religion, assume a different significance from this same diversity of character. With one, every powerful emotion, every impulse to joy or sorrow, suffices; with another, the simple and spontaneous outflow of gratitude for enjoyment. Perhaps such a disposition as this to which we have last referred, is far from being the least estimable. While those whom it characterizes have a confident strength of their own, which does not urge them to look for external help in trial and misfortune, they have, on the other hand, too keen a sense of the feeling of being loved, not to associate with the idea of enjoyment the endearing image of a loving benefactor. The longing for religious ideas, moreover, has often a still nobler, purer, and, so to speak, a still more intellectual source. Whatever man beholds in the world around him, he perceives only through the medium of the senses; the pure essence is nowhere immediately revealed to his gaze; even that which inspires him with the most ardent love and enthusiasm, and takes the strongest hold on his whole nature, is mysteriously shrouded in the densest veil. There are some minds to which this sentiment is most constantly and vividly present; the engrossing object of their lifelong activity is a striving to penetrate this mysterious vesture,—their whole pleasure, a presentiment of truth in the enigma which is enwrapped in the symbol—a hope of uninterruptedly contemplating it in other periods of existence. Now it is when, in wonderful and beautiful harmony, the spirit is thus restlessly searching, and the heart fondly yearning, for this immediate contemplation of the actual existence—when the scantiness of conception does not suffice to the deep force of thought, nor the shadowy image of fancy and the senses, to the living warmth of feeling,—it is then that belief uninterruptedly follows the peculiar bent of reason to enlarge every conception beyond all barriers between itself and the ideal, and that it clings closely to the idea of a Being which comprehends all other beings, and, purely and without medium, exists, contemplates, and creates. But, on the other hand, in some minds a prudent diffidence serves to confine belief within the domain of experience: often, it is true, the feeling willingly delights in the contemplation of the ideal so peculiar to reason, but finds a more pleasurable fascination in the endeavour to interweave the sensuous and spiritual natures in a closer union—to lend a richer significance to the symbol, and render it a more intelligible and suggestive embodiment of the truth; and thus man is often compensated for the loss of that enthusiasm of hopeful longing, by that ever-attendant consciousness of the success of his endeavours which strictly forbids his gaze to wander lost in endless distances. Though less bold, his course is more certain; the conception of reason to which he closely clings is still clearer; the sensuous intuition, although a less faithful reflex of the truth, is more readily adapted to experience, and therefore more fully answers his requirements. On the whole, there is nothing which the mind so willingly admires, and is inclined to with such perfect unison of feeling, as the recognition of orderful omniscience presiding in a countless number of various and even antagonistic individuals. Yet this admiration is far more characteristic of some minds than others; and there are some who more readily embrace a belief according to which one Being created and regulated the universe, and ever preserves it with the solicitude of far-seeing wisdom. In the conception of others, the individual seems more sacred; they are more peculiarly attracted by this idea than by the universality of adaptative order; and to such minds an opposite system is usually suggested, that, namely, in which the individual essence, developing itself in itself, and subject to the modification of reciprocal influences, becomes attuned to that perfect harmony of being in which alone the human heart and mind can find repose. I am far from supposing that I have exhausted in these insufficient sketches a subject which is so copious as to defy all methodical investigation. My only object has been to show, by a few illustrative examples, that not only all true religiousness, but every true system of religion, proceeds, in the highest sense, from the innermost harmony and correlation of man’s processes of sensation.

Now, it is doubtless true, that the conceptions of design, order, correspondency, and perfection, or all that is purely intellectual in religious ideas, is wholly independent of peculiar methods of sensation or the necessary differences of character. But while we allow this, it becomes us to add that we are not now regarding these ideas in the abstract, but rather in their influence on men, who do not preserve that independency in the same degree; and to observe further, that such ideas are not by any ............