The Fair Haven

During the dark and unhappy time when he had, as it seems to me, bullied himself, or been bullied into infidelity, he had been utterly unable to realise the importance even of such a self-evident fact as that our Lord addressing an Eastern people would speak in such a way as Eastern people would best understand; it took him years to appreciate this.  He could not see that modes of thought are as much part of a language as the grammar and words which compose it, and that before a passage can be said to be translated from one language into another it is often not the words only which must be rendered, but the thought itself which must be transformed; to a people habituated to exaggeration a saying which was not exaggerated would have been pointless—­so weak as to arrest the attention of no one; in order to translate it into such words as should carry precisely the same meaning to colder and more temperate minds, the words would often have to be left out of sight altogether, and a new sentence or perhaps even simile or metaphor substituted; this is plainly out of the question, and therefore the best course is that which has been taken, i.e., to render the words as accurately as possible, and leave the reader to modify the meaning.  But it was years before my brother could be got to feel this, nor did he ever do so fully, simple and obvious though it must appear to most people, until he had learned to recognise the value of a certain amount of inaccuracy and inconsistency in everything which is not comprehended in mechanics or the exact sciences.  “It is this,” he used to say, “which gives artistic or spiritual value as contrasted with mechanical precision.”

In inaccuracy and inconsistency, therefore (within certain limits), my brother saw the means whereby our minds are kept from regarding things as rigidly and immutably fixed which are not yet fully understood, and perhaps may never be so while we are in our present state of probation.  Life is not one of the exact sciences, living is essentially an art and not a science.  Every thing addressed to human minds at all must be more or less of a compromise; thus, to take a very old illustration, even the definitions of a point and a line—­ the fundamental things in the most exact of the sciences—­are mere compromises.  A point is supposed to have neither length, breadth, nor thickness—­this in theory, but in practice unless a point have a little of all these things there is nothing there.  So with a line; a line is supposed to have length, but no breadth, yet in practice we never saw a line which had not breadth.  What inconsistency is there here, in requiring us to conceive something which we cannot conceive, and which can have no existence, before we go on to the investigation of the laws whereby the earth can alone be measured and the orbits of the planets determined.  I do not think that this illustration was presented to my brother’s mind while he was young, but I am sure that if it had been it would have made him miserable.  He would have had no confidence in mathematics, and would very likely have made a furious attack upon Newton and Galileo, and been firmly convinced that he was discomfiting them.  Indeed I cannot forget a certain look of bewilderment which came over his face when the idea was put before him, I imagine, for the first time.  Fortunately he had so grown that the right inference was now in no danger of being missed.  He did not conclude that because the evidences for mathematics were founded upon compromises and definitions which are inaccurate—­therefore that mathematics were false, or that there were no mathematics, but he learnt to feel that there might be other things which were no less indisputable than mathematics, and which might also be founded on facts for which the evidences were not wholly free from inconsistencies and inaccuracies.

To some he might appear to be approaching too nearly to the “Sed tu vera puta” argument of Juvenal.  I greatly fear that an attempt may be made to misrepresent him as taking this line; that is to say, as accepting Christianity on the ground of the excellence of its moral teaching, and looking upon it as, indeed, a superstition, but salutary for women and young people.  Hardly anything would have shocked him more profoundly.  This doctrine with its plausible show of morality appeared to him to be, perhaps, the most gross of all immoralities, inasmuch as it cuts the ground from under the feet of truth, luring the world farther and farther from the only true salvation—­the careful study of facts and of the safest inferences that may be drawn from them.  Every fact was to him a part of nature, a thing sacred, pregnant with Divine teaching of some sort, as being the expression of Divine will.  It was through facts that he saw God; to tamper with facts was, in his view, to deface the countenance of the Almighty.  To say that such and such was so and so, when the speaker did not believe it, was to lead people to worship a false God instead of a true one; an e?d????; setting them, to quote the words of the Psalmist, “a-whoring after their own imaginations.”  He saw the Divine presence in everything—­the evil as well as the good; the evil being the expression of the Divine will that such and such courses should not go unpunished, but bring pain and misery which should deter others from following them, and the good being his sign of approbation.  There was nothing good for man to know which could not be deduced from facts.  This was the only sound basis of knowledge, and to found things upon fiction which could be made to stand upon facts was to try and build upon a quicksand.

He, therefore, loathed the reasoning of Juvenal with all the intensity of his nature.  It was because he believed that the Resurrection and Ascension of our Lord were just as much matters of actual history as the assassination of Julius Caesar, and that they happened precisely in the same way as every daily event happens at present—­that he accepted the Christian scheme in its essentials.  Then came the details.  Were these also objectively true?  He answered, “Certainly not in every case.”  He would not for the world have had any one believe that he so considered them; but having made it perfectly clear that he was not going to deceive himself, he set himself to derive whatever spiritual comfort he could from them, just as he would from any noble fiction or work of art, which, while not professing to be historical, was instinct with the soul of genius.  That there were unhistorical passages in the New Testament was to him a fact; therefore it was to be studied as an expression of the Divine will.  What could be the meaning of it?  That we should consider them as true?  Assuredly not this.  Then what else?  This—­that we should accept as subjectively true whatever we found spiritually precious, and be at liberty to leave all the rest alone—­the unhistoric element having been introduced purposely for the sake of giving greater scope and latitude to the value of the ideal.

Of course one who was so firmly persuaded of the objective truth of the Resurrection and Ascension could be in no sort of danger of relapsing into infidelity as long as his reason remained.  During the years of his illness his mind was clearly impaired, and no longer under his own control; but while his senses were his own it was absolutely impossible that he could be shaken by discrepancies and inconsistencies in the gospels.  What small and trifling things are such discrepancies by the side of the great central miracle of the Resurrection!  Nevertheless their existence was indisputable, and was no less indisputably a cause of stumbling to many, as it had been to himself.  His experience of his own sufferings as an unbeliever gave him a keener sympathy with those who were in that distressing condition than could be felt by any one who had not so suffered, and fitted him, perhaps, more than any one who has yet lived to be the interpreter of Christianity to the Rationalist, and of Rationalism to the Christian.  This, accordingly, was the task to which he set himself, having been singularly adapted for it by Nature, and as singularly disciplined by events.

It seemed to him that the first thing was to make the two parties understand one another—­a thing which had never yet been done, but which was not at all impossible.  For Protestantism is raised essentially upon a Rationalistic base.  When we come to a definition of Rationalism nothing can be plainer than that it demands no scepticism from any one which an English Protestant would not approve of.  It is another matter with the Church of Rome.  That Church openly declares it as an axiom that religion and reason have nothing to do with one another, and that religion, though in flat contradiction to reason, should yet be accepted from the hands of a certain order as an act of unquestioning faith.  The line of separation therefore between the Romanist and the Rationalist is clear, and definitely bars any possibility of arrangement between the two.  Not so with the Protestant, who as heartily as the Rationalist admits that nothing is required to be believed by man except such things as can be reasonably proved—­i.e., proved to the satisfaction of the reason.  No Protestant would say that the Christian scheme ought to be accepted in spite of its being contrary to reason; we say that Christianity is to be believed because it can be shewn to follow as the necessary consequence of using our reason rightly.  We should be shocked at being supposed to maintain otherwise.  Yet this is pure Rationalism.  The Rationalist would require nothing more; he demurs to Christianity because he maintains that if we bring our reason to bear upon the evidences which are brought forward in support of it, we are compelled to reject it; but he would accept it without hesitation if he believed that it could be sustained by arguments which ought to carry conviction to the reason.  Thus both are agreed in principle that if the evidences of Christianity satisfy human reason, then Christianity should be received, but that on any other supposition it should be rejected.

Here then, he said, we have a common starting-point and the main principle of Rationalism turns out to be nothing but what we all readily admit, and with which we and our fathers have been as familiar for centuries as with the air we breathe.  Every Protestant is a Rationalist, or else he ought to be ashamed of himself.  Does he want to be called an “Irrationalist”?  Hardly—­yet if he is not a Rationalist what else can he be?  No:  the difference between us is one of detail, not of principle.  This is a great step gained.

The next thing therefore was to make each party understand the view which the other took concerning the position which they had agreed to hold in common.  There was no work, so far as he knew, which would be accepted both by Christians and unbelievers as containing a fair statement of the arguments of the two contending parties:  every book which he had yet seen upon either side seemed written with the view of maintaining that its own side could hold no wrong, and the other no right:  neither party seemed to think that they had anything to learn from the other, and neither that any considerable addition to their knowledge of the truth was either possible or desirable.  Each was in possession of truth already, and all who did not see and feel this must be either wilfully blinded, or intensely stupid, or hypocrites.

So long as people carried on a discussion thus, what agreement was possible between them?  Yet where, upon the Christian side, was the attempt to grapple with the real difficulties now felt by unbelievers?  Simply nowhere.  All that had been done hitherto was antiquated.  Modern Christianity seemed to shrink from grappling with modern Rationalism, and displayed a timidity which could not be accounted for except by the supposition of secret misgiving that certain things were being defended which could not be defended fairly.  This was quite intolerable; a misgiving was a warning voice from God, which should be attended to as a man valued his soul.  On the other hand, the conviction reasonably entertained by unbelievers that they were right on many not inconsiderable details of the dispute, and that so-called orthodox Christians in their hearts knew it but would not own it—­or that if they did not know it, they were only in ignorance because it suited their purpose to be so—­this conviction gave an overweening self-confidence to infidels, as though they must be right in the whole because they were so in part; they therefore blinded themselves to all the more fundamental arguments in support of Christianity, because certain shallow ones had been put forward in the front rank, and been far too obstinately defended.  They thus regarded the question too superficially, and had erred even more through pride of intellect and conceit than their opponents through timidity.

What then was to be done?  Surely this; to explain the two contending parties to one another; to show to Rationalists that Christians are right upon Rationalistic principles in all the more important of their allegations; that is to say, to establish the Resurrection and Ascension of the Redeemer upon a basis which should satisfy the most imperious demands of modern criticism.  This would form the first and most important part of the task.  Then should follow a no less convincing proof that Rationalists are right in demurring to the historical accuracy of much which has been too obstinately defended by so-called orthodox writers.  This would be the second part.  Was there not reason to hope that when this was done the two parties might understand one another, and meet in a common Christianity?  He believed that there was, and that the ground had been already cleared for such mutual compromise as might be accepted by both sides, not from policy but conviction.  Therefore he began writing the book which it has devolved upon myself to edit, and which must now speak for itself.  For him it was to suffer and to labour; almost on the very instant of his having done enough to express his meaning he was removed from all further power of usefulness.

The happy change from unbelief to faith had already taken place some three or four years before my return from America.  With it had also come that sudden development of intellectual and spiritual power which so greatly astonished even those who had known him best.  The whole man seemed changed—­to have become possessed of an unusually capacious mind, instead of one which was acute, but acute only.  On looking over the earlier letters which I received from him when I was in America, I can hardly believe that they should have been written by the same person as the one to whom, in spite of not a few great mental defects, I afterwards owed more spiritual enrichment than I have owed to any other person.  Yet so it was.  It came upon me imperceptibly that I had been very stupid in not discovering that my brother was a genius; but hardly had I made the discovery, and hardly had the fragment which follows this memoir received its present shape, when his overworked brain gave way and he fell into a state little better than idiocy.  His originally cheerful spirits left him, and were succeeded by a religious melancholy which nothing could disturb.  He became incapable either of mental or physical exertion, and was pronounced by the best physicians to be suffering from some obscure disease of the brain brought on by excitement and undue mental tension:  in this state he continued for about four years, and died peacefully, but still as one in the profoundest melancholy, on the 15th of March, 1872, aged 40.

Always hopeful that his health would one day be restored, I never ventured to propose that I should edit his book during his own life-time.  On his death I found his papers in the most deplorable confusion.  The following chapters had alone received anything like a presentable shape—­and these providentially are the most essential.

A dream is a dream only, yet sometimes there follows a fulfilment which bears a strange resemblance to the thing dreamt of.  No one now believes that the Book of Revelation is to be taken as foretelling events which will happen in the same way as the massacre, for instance, of St. Bartholomew, indeed it is doubtful how far the whole is not to be interpreted as an allegory, descriptive of spiritual revolutions; yet surely my mother’s dream as to the future of one, at least, of her sons has been strangely verified, and it is believed that the reader when he lays down this volume will feel that there have been few more potent witnesses to the truth of Christ than John Pickard Owen.