The usual transition and natural issue of popular anarchy, when it has lasted long enough to exhaust its own fearful violence, is a perpetual dictatorship or despotism in some shape or other, but devoid of a higher and diviner sanction. This form of government, or (since, strictly speaking, it is not a form) this political condition, must be carefully distinguished from a long-established, legitimate, and hereditary monarchy, with which its whole character has nothing in common. No doubt when the revolutionary evil has reached its greatest height, and when a successful and prudent usurper, like the much-lauded Augustus in ancient Rome, without being personally answerable for the overthrow of the previous constitution, appears pre-eminently in the character of mediator between parties and a general pacificator, the world is ready to accord to him its applause. Gradually his authority is more and more widely acknowledged. Although at first he is recognized conditionally only and relatively, nevertheless, if he remains faithful to his better tendencies, and continues to the last to confer important benefits on his people, he may often give a permanent and historical foundation to his dynasty. But if, on the contrary, under his usurped power, revolution, phenix-like, only renews itself out of its own ashes, and the old anarchy from below revives in another form from above, as a merely military despotism, which, in its resistless and annihilating lust of conquest, honors nothing, but throws the whole world into confusion, then is the second evil worse than the first, which it promised to remedy. By such a course it loses its only moral foundation, inasmuch as it was to the better promise it held out that it owed its temporary and conditional recognition. Such an instance has been brought closely enough before our eyes in the history of very recent times, to enable us at once intuitively to understand its whole character. More slowly, and in a more organized method, and, consequently, with more lasting and historical results, did such transitions shape themselves in the ancient world, and especially in the Roman constitution. The ancient development, therefore, of this phenomenon, and its special form, is highly instructive and pre-eminently calculated to throw a clear light on our whole theory.
Modern history at no period presents to us such a vast system of republican states as we meet with in the annals of antiquity, which exhibit this under the most various forms, as the predominant constitution of the whole civilized world, not only in its infant, but in its maturest and most flourishing development. Not only the Grecian communities, Carthage, Rome, and the Italian municipalities, but also all the independent nations of central and northern Europe, possessed a more or less perfect form of republican polity. This portion, therefore, of ancient history furnishes to political science a phenomenon which in the highest degree demands its attention. However greatly its freedom of inquiry and high intellectual culture, its splendid examples of patriotism and its noble characters and heroic deeds, may prepossess us in its favor, on the whole we are forced to confess that experience has decided against such a system. This great teacher shows it to us as utterly impracticable, and ill adapted to promote the real progress of human development, inasmuch as with whatever of brightest promise it may begin, it invariably terminates in barbarism and disorder. In all of these states we trace early enough the same evil tendency to political license and anarchy, which, developing itself with ceaseless rapidity, soon paves the way to the indeterminate condition of absolute power. Almost all the great thinkers and political writers of antiquity, without exception, set themselves to oppose the democratic element of their national constitutions, and foresaw and predicted the ruin of their country from this source, without being able in any way to prevent it. It will be enough to mention Plato in Athens, and in a different manner and degree, Cicero in Rome, who was himself drawn into the vortex of political strife. The remedy and counterpoise for the evils of this democratical spirit was sought by the political thinkers and philosophers of those times, in a doubtlessly noble but still very imperfect form of an aristocracy—a remedy which is as little consonant to our feelings as it is unlikely to satisfy our scientific convictions. A just and clear idea of an hereditary and well-regulated monarchy was at that date almost entirely unknown, since in its essential features, in its true and perfect character, it is entirely of a Christian origin. In the ancient world, at most, a few and faint outlines of it are occasionally to be discovered.
The internal and external dissensions of the republics of Greece, and the consequent loss of their independence and subjugation by the Macedonian monarchy, or the half-Asiatic half-Grecian powers which sprung out of it, affords a sufficient confirmation of the law that the republican constitution, in the times of moral degeneracy, invariably terminates in popular anarchy and ruin. The same transition in the Roman polity presents us with interesting considerations of a higher but different kind. For in this instance the change was effected with clear ideas, definite views, and well-digested principles. After a long and unparalleled succession of bloody civil wars, and an equally fearful series of foreign conquest and aggression, which were almost indispensable as an outlet for the wild and ambitions passions of men, the catastrophe which forecasting minds had long foreseen at last came about. And instead of continuing a hopeless resistance, it was now the first object of the wise and prudent to convert the new military power into an instrument of peace, and by investing the modern but absolute authority with all the old and hallowed forms of dignity, to bring it as near as possible to the character of an hereditary monarchy. It is to the tendency to improvement which forms the germ of these ideas that we must look for the apology, while in the course of history at this period there lies whatever there can be of reason and justification for such absolute despotism as prevailed at this era in the political world. In itself, however, it can not be too often repeated, it is altogether formless and full of imperfection. A true family succession and hereditary dynasty, however, was scarcely possible, so long as there existed no limit to caprice in adoption or divorce, and when all the relations of marriage and the family were undermined by the universal corruption in morals, which the better emperors sought in vain to check and restrain.
By the ascription to the imperial dignity of priestly offices and titles belonging to the popular religion, it was indeed attempted to give it a more sacred character and sanction. This, however, secured to the emperor no real accession of power. Such was the state of decay and weakness in which religion, no less than morals, was sunk. The heathenism of those days consisted in nothing but some poetical legends, external rites, and ceremonial pomp, which occasionally found a philosophical interpretation, but without a proper intrinsic substance and coherence, and an organized priesthood—all which are to be still found in the ancient religion of the Hindoos. And it was only a natural addition to the other numerous inconsistencies—it only rendered the whole drama the more revolting, if, after an inhuman reign, and after being at last put out of the way in a very human, and, at the same time, very unhuman way, the hated tyrant was in conclusion placed among the national gods. And if under Aurelius and the Antonines better days appeared, still they were but brief and transitory, since they did not, and in truth could not, possess any historical confirmation and moral basis like that of the hereditary monarchy of Christian times and states.
In jurisprudence, not only as a science, but in its practical administration, the Romans have in all ages, and even modern times, been justly famous. One reason, perhaps, of this was the fact, that all who still retained the least sense of right and justice, withdrawing from the dangers of political life and honors, retired to the still inviolate domain of law, and devoted themselves to the development of the old juristic principles. But when the whole social frame, and the very principle of civil existence has become in its inmost essence unrighteous, and based on injustice, a few just laws about property, and robbery, and fraud, and murder, and the like (offenses which, generally speaking, are, for the most part, essentially the same in all times and places), can profit little. Equally unavailing, too, are the shrewdest and most sagacious of juridical treatises on such topics. To extol the Roman Empire on this ground would be tantamount to praising one of the worst and most pernicious systems of philosophical error, or excusing it because it does not violate, or, rather, because it necessarily observes, the ordinary rules of logic, which, however, does not by any means lessen or remove the error, but, on the contrary, aggravates it; since by rendering it so much the more specious, it does but gain for it a more ready acceptance among men.
In the later epoch of the Christian renovation of the Roman Empire in the German, the better elements of the old Roman jurisprudence were rich in valuable and beneficial results. Still the Christian principle of the state accords better with the old Teutonic laws than with the civil code, inasmuch as by the old German usages a greater regard is paid, and a higher influence allowed, to the rights of equity. No doubt but the Roman jurisprudence has most acutely defined and developed this beautiful notion; but it is chiefly as an exception from strict right that it recognizes it at all. For such was the Roman law from its commencement; and it was regarded and established as the proper province of equity to moderate and to soften its original sternness and severity. But, according to Christian law, equity and strict right ought to be in every instance intimately associated and blended together, as is, indeed, implied in the very idea of Christian sentiment and feeling.
Herein lies, consequently, the great and essential distinction between Roman and Christian law. And this is the principle on which a thorough and systematic development of Christian jurisprudence must proceed, and in such a spirit alone can it be consistently carried out. A second distinctive mark of Christian law and of its very conception consists in this, that beyond all others, it is founded on historical rights. No doubt in its simple and natural character the Germanic custom invariably tends toward an historical legislation, both for the burgher and for the private individual, and is so far perfectly reconcilable with the Christian principle of right and justice. But in the full and extensive signification of the term, as it embraces the state, and all such powers of the civilized world as are brought by geographical contact into political relations with each other, it is only the Christian principle of right that can be truly said to be historical; for none but the Christian view of the world really embraces in its plans and consideration the whole of mankind.
Had man not fallen from the very first into dissension and discontent with himself and his fellows, with nature and with God, society would have stood in no need of a constraining force, or of the state to constrain it. For what else is the state but an armed neutrality for the preservation of peace—a sword of justice against wrong, whether from individuals or communities, a fortress and a bulwark against unjust attacks and the violence of war? And whence but from that only perfect system—the system of Christian truth and the first opening of revelation—can we derive the explanation of that which is but the propagation of the old evil and the primal curse? Does it not furnish, in the first wrong and the first fratricide, the historical derivation and origin of the state, accounting for it as the divinely-appointed protection against man’s inborn tendency to injustice? And if in any other history or tradition a tolerably clear and definite allusion to such ideas exist, it was, without doubt, originally derived from the same source.
It is, however, as in my last Lecture I have already endeavored to show, in the second and new divine commencement of the human race that we are to look for the true sanction and foundation of the state; for it is in this renovation of mankind that their true intrinsic and higher peace was first proclaimed and offered to him. Not, however, perfect peace, for that is to be the fruit and reward of having “fought a good fight.”[58] Still it is, in the mean time, a sure and everlasting basis of future peace, and an ever-growing germ of tranquillity even in the present. Viewed in this light, then, every human peace which is not merely specious and pretended, but honestly intended, and in so far Christian, however imperfect and partial, forms, nevertheless, a step in the great scale of progression—an approximation and a preparation to that universal and all-embracing peace of God which is higher than all reason, and all the disputes which arise out of or about it.
If injustice and wrong should ever disappear totally from the earth—if the peace of God were actually established thereon, then would the end of law be attained, and all institutions for its accomplishment would become superfluous. Law presupposes a condition of struggle, and is intended to endure as long as it lasts. It is itself nothing less than a struggle against wrong. The Christian view, accordingly, and theory of law, is far higher. In a scientific point of view, too, it alone is satisfactory on this account, that it recognizes a higher principle as the source of right, or as right itself, and that it alone contains in itself the historical key for the whole, and embraces at once the beginning and the end. But now the Christian idea of right is thus historical, not merely because it furnishes a complete explanation of the first beginning of wrong, and gives an historical derivation of the divine sanction of the state; but also in this sense, that in obedience to the principle of equity, as extended to the wider relations of political life, and to the law of toleration founded on this feeling, it respects even the imperfect and inferior degrees of right, whenever, at least, they are the unavoidable results of a previous course of things, and possess an historical foundation, and are established as less evil, and at least as comparatively good. And this explains, what is otherwise incomprehensible, how the Christian sense of right could reconcile itself to the absolute form, or, rather, formlessness of the later Roman world, and being gradually associated and fused therewith, led to its complete renovation in the exalted phenomenon of a Christian empire.
This peace-loving and tolerant recognition of imperfect political constitutions and forms of state is only applicable, however, where the absolute and the pernicious had its foundation in some historical occasion, and where, by a natural course of development, the evil has followed as the result of some previous defective condition of the political body. It has no place where the evil is radical and of spontaneous growth, as in the empire of Mohammed, and of his immediate successors; for a fanatical lust of conquest was introduced in the first germ of this dynasty, and indeed formed its foundation and its animating and vital principle. The brilliant success and personal talents of the first caliphs may indeed win our admiration and chain our imagination, but still in the very worst times of the old Roman world absolute power never presented itself in so unmitigated a form as it does in this empire of deadly fanaticism. This is the calm judgment of history. In the former case the evil sprung chiefly from the personal caprice of individual tyrants; in the latter, the pervading principle was despotism, which, on the whole, remained unchanged in the most famous and greatest characters. For such immutability is an essential principle of despotism whenever the spiritual and the temporal power are held by the same hand, and are united in one common center and sovereign.
In another point of view also, that, viz., of the moral estimate, the historical comparison between the old Roman and the Mohammedan empires turns out to the disadvantage of the latter. In the latter times of the Roman Empire, the family relations, and the sacred ties of married life, were no doubt greatly disturbed and perverted by the prevailing tone of immorality. But among the Mohammedans they were entirely overthrown by a false religion. Even in this respect, therefore, it is evident that there could be no place in the latter for that moral foundation of a long-established family unity, such as a civilized state like the Christian monarchy requires. It is nothing strange, consequently, if in the times of the Arabian dynasty, the Mohammedan state stood in more decided opposition, and proved less reconcilable to the Christian polity than ever heathenism did in the days of ancient Rome. But, notwithstanding this, we find, on the other side, the Christian principle of peace extending itself even to the historical phenomena and political relations of the Mohammedan world. For the most part (and in a greater degree with the advance of time) these events have been judged in that mild spirit of historical justice which, in its complete and comprehensive estimate, allows a due consideration to every motive and circumstance.
Moreover, a high principle of toleration has extended to them the benefit of the international laws of Christian states—a policy which only requires to be rightly understood to be pronounced in no ways deserving of blame or reprobation; for the evil can only be radically extirpated by the complete triumph of Christian truth over the false foundation and leading idea of this fanatical delusion.
But, however improbable it may seem, regarded merely in an historical light, that the Mohammedan races will ever adopt Christian sentiments, morals, and principles, still in the great course of mundane things, or, in other words, in the counsels of Providence, nothing, however it may contradict human expectations, can rightly be held to be impossible. And, indeed, recent times furnish many speaking indications of a growing tendency to such an approximation. Many signs might be pointed out, which, while they bear witness to a widening and deepening feeling of its desirableness, encourage us to entertain higher and better hopes. To promote, and indeed to co-operate in bringing about so great and divine a consummation, so long as it can be done without violating higher duties and principles, does not appear to go in any degree beyond the sphere of a truly Christian and pacific policy, or to interfere with the relations which it is right to observe in regard to non-Christian states. On the contrary, the worst violation thereof, and one that most surely menaces danger and mischief, is for a Christian state, in direct opposition to its natural principle and vocation, to be seized and actuated by a fanatical lust of conquest similar to that which animated the Saracens. Such a subversion and confusion of all moral ideas, and of political life, was publicly manifested, for the first time in the Christian world, during the French Revolution. Breaking out with furious violence, in the brief period of its duration it developed itself with fearful rapidity. How many, or, rather, how few steps it would have required, had its reign been longer, to convert it into a military despotism, thoroughly heathenish, such as the Revolution indeed was from beginning to end; into a despotism which, like that of the caliphate already mentioned, should unite in the same person all spiritual, as well as temporal authority, we need not here further investigate. The dreadful possibility of such a contingency has been brought only too closely home to our fears.
The essence of despotism, as I said before, lies in the union in one person of the civil and spiritual powers—or in a most anomalous state, which is, by a rare and faulty combination, at once spiritual and temporal. And since the distinction between the two powers is involved in the very notion of a Christian state, it is of the highest importance that the state should carefully observe and respect the boundaries between the two domains. It is extremely difficult to establish any general standard for all the cases of collision between the two that either have actually occurred or are conceivably possible. For it is evident that this contingency must be modified in an infinite number of ways, by existing treaties, the local circumstances and political constitution of the different states. The chief point is the general spirit and feeling. The question turns principally on good will and honest intentions; but pre-eminently on a right conception of both powers, as alike possessing in their respective spheres a higher sanction, a divine foundation, and a sacred character. This must be recognized in every case and time, and all circumstances belonging to either sphere must be treated accordingly.
Many and serious cases of such collision between the church and the state have occurred and are perpetually recurring. Many and grave errors have been committed on both sides. But for the most part they have been unfairly judged, or, rather, misjudged, through ignorance both of the times, and of the actual circumstances of the case. The day is not long gone by when in this respect it was the habitual rule to subject certain of the early popes especially to an unqualified vituperation and censure. And it must be told, to the praise of German impartiality, that Protestant writers were the first, by their historical researches, to do justice to and to form a fair estimate of these, in their day, truly great and eminent characters. Still we do not by any means pretend to deny that both in these and later times grave blame rests with many of the popes individually. On neither side, however, and at no time, were the limits which divide the two powers overstepped so far as they were by Henry VIII. of England, that absolute monarch in temporals, and who wished also to be equally supreme in spirituals. The most despotic sovereign that ever sat on the throne of England, by founding [the independence of] the Anglican Church,[59] became undesignedly and unconsciously the true author of that much-lauded constitution of England, which, essentially resting on this foundation, furnishes the only instance of a dynamical polity, as the only remedy of an otherwise incurable tendency to division and anarchy, attaining to a highly perfect shape and development. As for the schism in the faith, which in these latter times has in so many Christian countries made the problem of religion only the more difficult, and its relation to the state more delicate and liable to aggression, it has in England, through this royal reformer, assumed so complicated a shape that, unsolved as yet, it appears to many, judging of it in a merely human light, totally and forever incapable of solution.
We must reserve to the succeeding Lecture the enumeration of all the results which flow from these premises, and this first outline of a truly Christian justice, which as such involves the principle of equity, and is even truly historical.
WHENEVER philosophy, setting up any conceit of its own as a principle, intrudes either into the domain of religion or of politics, such an intrusion is, in every case, an aggression. And if the aggressive idea, once formed and entertained, is, nevertheless, externally and in appearance held in check and restrained—if, from ulterior considerations and for the sake of some remote object, science accommodates itself to the established system of law or religion—then is the case only so much the worse. The deep and pervading hostility of sentiment is but concealed beneath the external servility of language, and the rankling wound has but skinned over the surface. The influence of evil is far from being checked and destroyed; or, to say the least, that of good is nipped in the bud, not being allowed fully to expand itself. And at the same time the dignity of science, which can only be maintained by its independence, is fatally and irretrievably endangered.
Under this conviction, I strongly protested, at the very opening of these Lectures, against all such intermeddling of philosophy with matters foreign to it; and I trust that, for my part, I have hitherto duly observed the spirit of that protest. But now, the end which philosophy strives to attain to is a right estimate and full understanding of its own nature, and that of man, both in the internal properties of his mind and in his external existence relatively to God and nature, and also to the world and society. In pursuit of this object, having once found and acknowledged the center of the inner life, such as it is given to us, and setting out therefrom, philosophy can and may, with perfect propriety, submit to investigation the highest ideas of life, and judge them after its own method, and from its own peculiar position. But still it will do this in the hope rather of explaining what actually exists, than of establishing any self-devised ideal of its own, or of setting up impracticable laws for a merely conceivable state of things under the most arbitrary assumptions—for a wholly visionary world.
Consistently, then, with this notion of philosophy, and under this limitation, I have not, I think, deviated in the latter Lectures from the law I originally laid down. Inasmuch, however, as the exposition of a philosophy of life must necessarily be vivid, and consequently requires to be interspersed with historical views and examples, I must request you, looking principally to the ideas which form the essential foundation of these discourses, to judge the latter by the pervading tenor and connection of the thoughts rather than by the several allusions and instances which I have introduced for the mere purpose of illustration. All that is merely personal in the interpretation passed upon those events will, I trust, be looked upon as the private opinions, indeed, but still the unprejudiced conclusions, of an individual.
In the course of these Lectures I attempted, first of all, to establish a firm foundation for the human soul, considered both in its own proper nature and with regard to its most essential relations in life to nature and to God. In the next place, by investigating the order of the divine dispensations in nature, and in the realms of truth and history, it was my endeavor to obtain for it a wider and more solid basis. Lastly, I occupied myself with tracing the course which the Spirit of Eternal Truth pursues in science and in life, and the shapes which in its progress toward perfection it successively assumes. Accordingly, I have pointed out to you, first of all, how this Spirit of Eternal Truth is ever one and the same in the highest science and in divine faith; then, how victoriously it comes forth out of the conflict between faith and infidelity; and, in conclusion, I showed you that, far from being confined to the narrow region of science, it may and rightly ought to enter with an earnest influence into life itself. How the latter duty is actually fulfilled we endeavored to show, by considering the symbolical signification of life, and, as derived therefrom, its higher sanction and divine foundation, especially in public life and the state. And herein the idea of a universal Christian and truly historical justice found a closer application and wider development. And this formed the subject of our last disquisition.
I there sought to elucidate this idea solely and entirely from history. For this purpose I endeavored, by means of historical instances, to set in a clear, discriminating light the opposite and divergent notions of an absolute and of a dynamical or limited monarchy, so far at least as regards the essential features and characteristic constitution of each. As instances of the former, I pointed to the old Roman world and the empire of the caliphs, while the latter was elucidated by the English constitution, in which, as yet, it has attained to its highest and most perfect development. This is, no doubt, a master-piece of political wisdom, wherein an intractable spirit of opposition being adopted, as it were, into the very constitution, is thereby rendered legitimate and its evil tendency is held in check. Still the principle of it can not rightly be viewed in any other light than the wise procedure of the physician who, in the case of an inevitable epidemic, resolves to inoculate the disease in order to be able to control it the better, and by watching more closely its crisis, to regulate its course and issue.
In its true historical place, therefore, this constitution finds its satisfactory explanation and justification; or, rather, deserves our highest praise, the fullest acknowledgment of its merits, and even our admiration. But inasmuch as every feature of it is thoroughly historical and national, and since the slightest local diversity in the character of a people or nation might with different relations and circumstances give rise to wants and difficulties little expected or dreamed of, we must be cautious how we seek to introduce it elsewhere. In the arts it is ever a sorry business to imitate great works of original genius. By such a course little but manner is multiplied. So it is rarely a felicitous idea to suppose that a constitution, though copied from ever so lauded a model, must be suited to all nations alike, and must prove a universal and unfailing source of political felicity—a tree of liberty, which we may transplant at pleasure, or, as it were, a constitutional bill of exchange, which, once endorsed we may put in circulation.
But if the true Gordian knot in that master-piece of polity, the English constitution, remains still an unsolved problem, since that war of religious opinion, which seems at every moment to be threatening an outbreak, is as yet, with consummate skill and prudence, kept under and restrained within its recognized limits, we may see in this fact a further confirmation and justification of the encomiums we recently passed upon the religious peace which has become for us in Germany as it were a second nature, and which, in the place of such a constitution, is to us the guaranty of mental freedom and the pledge of a higher unity than one simply political. It is not a mere dead letter, but it is a living power enshrined in the minds of men. And if occasionally some rash expression in a great and influential writer, or any grievous act on the part of a powerful and leading political character, may seem to menace violence to this religious peace, the general feeling soon pronounces itself against such indiscretion, and the single note of discord is quickly brought in unison with the general harmony, or else dies away without producing any deep or widely-prejudicial consequences. Not, indeed, that the existing differences in religious opinion are a thing desirable—we mean any thing but that by our encomiums on the religious peace. What we really mean is, that in the present state of things such a peace is of the very highest value, and one whose great blessing can only be appreciated fully by those who enjoy it. And nothing but a comparison with other civilized nations in this respect can enable us to understand and to form a full estimate of its value. And if every ordinary treaty of peace between states, whenever it is settled on true and lasting foundations and sincerity of purpose, has an influence on the inward development of mind or spirit in the course of history, and affords, as it were, a calm presage of a higher and a more universal peace of God, how can we look upon this peculiar and internal peace between men’s minds in any other light than as a token of a richer and fuller future, and as a symbol of ultimate perfection and unity?
In our notice of the schism in the faith we made allusion to the possibility of a collision between the two highest and most sacred powers, the civil and the spiritual, according to the distinction involved in the very idea of the Christian life. In order, therefore, to avoid every possible misconception, it seems to be necessary, or, at least, not a superfluous task, to add one brief remark on the extreme case when, in such an unfortunate collision, right and justice are openly violated and set at defiance. If the civil power be the party attacked and unduly interfered with in its legitimate province, it has a perfect right to defend itself, as, indeed, in our days, it is quite able and knows well how to do. The only thing that apparently remains to be desired is, that in the exercise of this right it should observe, as indeed becomes the stronger side, the greatest moderation. But if, on the contrary, the aggression proceeds from this side, and the spiritual power is attacked, then it ought to bear in mind that its legitimate opposition to the civil power ought to assume a material character. Its resistance must never be public and open violence, nor, either directly or indirectly, by means of what we may call machinations, for such a proceeding would undermine the sacred foundations of public confidence, and shake the whole edifice of moral order and society. In the case of such an aggression, religion would deprive herself of her duly-acquired position in the state. But this, so long as the latter remains Christian, religion itself never can and never will do, as neither will those whose duty it is to guide and to minister it in a truly reverent and pious spirit.
The only opposition, therefore, that the spiritual power can rightly and justly make to the aggression of the state must be of a passive nature. It is not necessary to lay down any elaborate and rigorous distinctions for such an emergency; for such definitions rarely meet the complicated variety and special character of every possible or even every actual case. A few historical examples, which readily present themselves, will serve briefly and perspicuously to illustrate the view of duty which we wish to enforce. In the unfortunate case of a great and public collision between the Church and the State, the model of a just and legitimate resistance on the part of the spiritual power has been furnished by the conduct of that venerable old man,[60] whom half of Europe regarded as invested with the highest priestly and apostolical dignity. With calm fortitude, even in bonds, he refused to yield to the military despot, and won the personal esteem and admiration likewise of that other half of Europe which denied his spiritual authority. Or, to take an example from a more limited sphere, and of a more personal nature, we may appeal to the history of the patron saint of Bohemia, which, at least, can not be classed among the legends, and which, in any case, will afford a beautiful and simple example of a noble, perfectly-allowable resistance of a spiritual party against the injustice of the political head of the nation. By such passive resistance, and by such alone, did Christianity, in the earliest centuries, though so unattractive and so lowly at its first commencement, gradually attain a secure external foundation, and become the religion of the whole civilized world. A public outbreak, and even a secret feeling of discontent between the spiritual and the temporal power, between Church and State, is, at all times, and in every case, a great evil, threatening and bringing danger and ruin on both. For the state, as being ultimately founded on a religious basis, undermines its own foundation by assuming a hostile attitude toward religion. No financial difficulties, or any such partial calamities, will ever ruin a people so long as any moral energy still exists in the whole body, and it is consequently sound at the core. Political skepticism, which is the immediate and necessary consequence of infidelity in religion, is the true cause and origin of the decay of nations. These two vital principles of human society, therefore—these two powers, however essentially and necessarily distinct—must work together in perfect peace and unity. For the one can only flourish where the soil has been rendered morally fertile by the other, while the latter can not exercise its full influence except under the sanction of the political power. If religion were at unity in itself, and totally free from party and controversy, and the state, as the public life, were in perfect harmony with it, and thoroughly pervaded by its life-giving spirit, humanity would, by such a consummation, have made a great step in advance toward that divine peace for which every human pacification, however imperfect, is the expression of a profound and imperishable longing—of a pursuit which, though ever attaining, is still never wholly abandoned.
However, the alienation and separation of the civil and spiritual powers seems to belong peculiarly and essentially to, or, rather, to be a necessary law of, the present condition of humanity, still involved in struggle with evil, and not yet having attained to the end of its endeavors. It is much older than men think. It must have existed in the first ages of the world, and in the earliest stage of the Gentile religion. For among the Hindoos, who, as they are the most ancient people that we are acquainted with, are also the most authentic monument that remains of the primeval condition of the human race, we find this separation formally and definitely established. It there forms an insurmountable barrier between the regal and the sacerdotal dignity. On this point it would not be advisable to direct our attention exclusively or even principally to the condition of the priestly class among the Greeks and Romans, since, in the later epochs of these nations, Gentilism had greatly degenerated, and in the more civilized days of these people had lost all its essential forms, and its true spirit had disappeared. But, with that still more ancient people of the Hindoos, the same unchanged law still exists in these days as in the very earliest times. A Brahmin who should attempt to ascend the throne or usurp its powers, or a rajah who should wish to be as a Brahmin, or to suppress and annihilate the Brahminical caste, would be universally regarded as an abomination. The attempt, on either side, would appear an offense against human nature and divine laws. For a mixture or confusion of castes signifies to the Hindoos the very abomination of anarchy; and by this term, in one characteristic word of their language, they designate all revolutionary times, even though, we must observe, such periods among the Hindoos were never more than brief and transitory, the waves of anarchy breaking harmlessly against the everlasting rocks of this ancient and solidly-compact system.
Besides the many other traces of family affinity between the Indian and Teutonic races, another is furnished by the Germanic constitution, which forms the political basis of most European kingdoms. In India the noble class who most especially are bound to military service forms also the caste of the lords of the soil; and from their latter character they also derive their name as a class.[61] Some of the most general and most ancient features of the feudal system have likewise been discovered among them, though not, indeed, its more artificial and complicated system, to which feudalism was in later times developed among European nations. To this landed nobility belong the nabobs and even the rajahs. For it was left open to the fluctuating fortunes of different families to rise or to fall from the summit of political dignity. Between the several grades of honor accessible to a particular caste no insurmountable barrier was raised; all were open to all the members of the same rank or caste.
The democratical writers of a recent era, in obedience to a sentiment natural enough to their false system, have expressed a deep horror and strong aversion to this institution of castes among the Hindoos, stamping it on every occasion with the strongest marks of reprobation. Viewing it, however, in an historical light, I for my part am disposed to think that it is to this ancient and hereditary institution, however much of imperfection it undoubtedly involves, that this great and populous country owes that firm stability of its laws and customs, and that indestructible prosperity which the various conquests it has undergone both in ancient and modern times have been unable to shake or to undermine. No doubt the Indian gradation of ranks wants the stamp of perfection and mildness which belongs to Christian politics. And in this respect the comparison is especially instructive. It serves to draw attention to, and strongly illustrates the fact, that a Christian division of ranks is, in some points, different in its principle, and the very opposite to the correspondent state of things in the old world, as yet unrefined and purified by this divine element. For, first of all, according to the Christian idea, the spiritual class can not depend upon birth; it must possess a higher and peculiar vocation. This order, consequently, can not recruit itself merely by birth, but must derive its members from the other classes which are hereditary. But in consequence of this principle, the partition-wall, otherwise impassable and absolute, between the other ranks, which, taken on the whole, are hereditary, is so far removed, that exceptional cases occur when these barriers are opened to merit or other important considerations. It is a self-evident fact, requiring no elaborate argument for its proof, that the Christian sentiment, or, as we have here expressed it, that principle of equity so universally and essentially interwoven with the Christian idea of justice, demands that every alleviation of their toilsome and oppressive lot should be afforded to the industrious classes. To those on whom the accident of birth, as the world speaks, or, as we should prefer to say, a higher and a divine Providence, has laid all the hardships of life, it is but just that every privilege should be conceded that does not militate against the general welfare, or the private rights of individuals. And in the same spirit, every political constitution that is organically arranged and founded on a Christian, and, consequently, modified separation of ranks, will attentively observe and engraft into its old constitutional stock every new historical shoot. A great and instructive example of the kind is at hand. In the Teutonic constitutions of the middle ages, and especially in the Germanic Empire, cities and trades, which at an earlier period had formed a very immaterial and comparatively insignificant element in the whole—in short, the growing burgher classes were, at their very first appearance, understood humanly and politically—received a great organic development, and taken into a living combination with the old.
In all probability our own deeply-agitated times, which assuredly deserve not to be called unfruitful, even though, together with the good fruit, they may also produce many a false blossom, give birth to much that is new indeed, but which is, nevertheless, or at least may eventually become, historical. The phenomena of the present, therefore, demand our most careful consideration, lest any negligence in this case should inevitably involve us in disaster, and bring on us a natural historical retribution. An exclusive and narrow aristocracy, or, if we must say so, one senselessly insisting on its privileges, such as in the earlier part of the last century was probably to be met with in a few countries, is, to the true friend of the ancient order of things, the most painful phenomenon. It is its own greatest enemy—since, by an historical law of antagonism and reaction, one extreme inevitably calls forth the other sooner or later. Hereditary monarchy, as it is the oldest form of polity in history, so, if it is maintained in the mild and moderate spirit of the Christian state, is likely to survive all others, and to be the last in force among the human race; for a state which is founded and established on the Christian principle of an equitable distinction and division of ranks, must, in every calm and unprejudiced judgment, deserve the preference over the artificial constitution of a dynamical balance of powers; for the necessary equipoise is liable to be disturbed by the restless agitation to which the latter form of polity is exposed. And it is only, therefore, in comparison with an absolute despotism that the dynamical theory can appear desirable and win so many adherents, while the former, on the other hand, as the only remedy for popular anarchy, if administered with talent and energy, becomes not only tolerable, but acquires even an historical justification.
Each of these two extremes, the absolute and the dynamical, admit, however, of a wider application than merely to single states and their different forms, according to the fluctuation of the times between prosperity and adversity. For the entire system of Christian states throughout the civilized world may in their mutual relations and confederations depend principally on the absolute preponderance of some leading power which holds the others in subjection or rules them. But this is an authority which all are ready to throw off, and is never willingly acknowledged or submitted to. Or, perhaps, the whole political world may, on the dynamical theory, be based on the balance of power, each state being held in check by the rest. This was the reigning system of the eighteenth century, and at its first foundation was admired as the perfection of a wise policy. In experience, however, it has proved inadequate and practically untenable. The only case where it seems to admit of application is that of a division embracing the whole globe, but based on geographical relations; but even in such a case it could only serve to check mutual injury, and not to promote any salutary end.
In the middle ages, as soon as the German Empire, having fallen from its original purity, had become totally false to its Christian principle, it found, according to the spirit of the times, a salutary check and counterpoise in the Church. And that iron character of the Ghibellines, which was exhibited no less strikingly in individuals and morals than in politics and counsels of state, affords the best justification for this antagonism, as well as for the opposite great party of the Guelphs, with their milder bearing and sentiments.
But now that this ancient division and conflict of the spiritual and the temporal powers is in these enlightened times a bygone thing, and in the older sense is extinct forever—since it seems mankind can not do without antagonism of some kind, we have, instead of it, an elementary one between land and water. A political schism variously manifests itself between the ocean and the continent. In fact, that great Island Kingdom which traverses and rules the ocean, and by founding colonies and settlements wherever it listeth or thinketh profitable, puts forth, as it were, the feelers of universal dominion, is properly an empire of the sea. For in contradistinction from a kingdom we may call every monarchy an empire which comprises in itself several other peoples and nations of divers races and political constitutions. In such a sense we have contrasted this maritime empire with the Continent. But although experience has shown the possibility of such a division of the whole world and political alienation of the two elements of land and water throughout the globe, it has also established a conviction that though these two divisions might do incalculable injury and mischief to each other, no permanent or decided supremacy of either would follow, inasmuch as a medium for maintaining the dependence of either is wanting. And as it is only in some urgent need of the times to find some counterpoise to absolute power, or an apprehension of it, that a dynamical state or the tendency to it finds its justification, so it was only during the transient reign of a despotic lust of conquest, and as a check to it, that this maritime power could have risen so high as it has in the opinion of the Continental states.
Since then, however, the great powers of Europe have had a different interest to pursue, and their political counsels have been directed to the preservation of peace rather than to selfish aggrandizement. For they have all had to contend with a common enemy in the restless spirit of the age, which is yet very far from being conquered and subdued. If, then, an absolute preponderance of a single state is hateful to all, and a dynamical balance of power in the general state-system is either inadequate for such an end, or else does not admit of application, is it not at least conceivable that a higher principle of Christian justice might be substituted for these which are equally defective? Might not a common point of moral unity be found and established for the European states? Must this sublime idea ever be nothing more than the noble enthusiasm of a magnanimous character? And is it to be regarded as impossible merely because it is imbedded in difficulties? But is not all that is great also difficult? Still, inasmuch as this exalted political unity must have a purely spiritual basis in the sentiments of men, a precipitate or violent attempt to bring it about must inevitably miscarry. It would not only militate against, but also corrupt the original purity of the very idea. It must be universally recognized before it can, in the contest with the evil principle of the day, become a salutary power of good, or furnish for the political relations a general basis of Christian justice. The one extreme of political Europe, with its absolute polity, which moreover has fallen very low from its former preponderance, seems excluded by the very nature of things from the idea of such a unity. But if it be true that it is gradually becoming more and more European, a character in which, until very lately, it has rarely been regarded, then a modified kind of subordinate connection with such a general principle of association among European states, does not seem necessarily inadmissible or inconsistent. The other extreme of Europe, with its dynamical constitution, had, in an opposition, moderate indeed in form and conditionally, more than half renounced this idea. In the opinion, however, of many competent judges, this renunciation is much more decided, and must exercise a great and unfavorable effect on the harmony of the whole. The moral want of our age, judged by this or some similar idea, is the necessity which was so keenly felt upon its deliverance from the general yoke of a military aggression, of a moral and intrinsic regeneration of Europe. And this unity is not to be derived from and set up merely in science, but must be felt as a living energy in life itself. But how is such an inner restoration to be brought about and effected in Christian states, but by a complete renewal and invigoration of their religious foundation? And inasmuch as this want actually exists and is felt, the problem which is to supply it must be regarded as an historical one; and consequently the historical development of the times—abstracted from the accidental form of the first essays at its solution—will sooner or later carry us to all that is most essential in the idea.
Formerly, in the medieval times, the German Empire claimed to be this Christian center of unity for the states of Europe—although, in truth, it was far from embracing the whole system of European states. Latterly, in the new political theory, the mutual relation of nations has become gradually republican. And this new form has consequently been accompanied with imperfections and difficulties and almost inextricable perplexities. Is it, then, probable that in the commencing or recently-commenced era of history, a firm, compact, but vast corporation of states, founded on a principle of Christian justice, can be substituted for and gradually evolved out of the two previous ones, which are now found wholly inadequate for the ends they were designed to meet? As a mere historical probability we may well allow this idea to stand.
Totally different from those idle speculations of an endless peace, which, for the sake of mere intellectual amusement and discussion, philosophy was used to advance in the schools, is this thoroughly-practical thought of a confederation of states based on the principle of Christian justice and vitally connected with religion as the most general center of humanity. And the latter must be regarded as the essential condition of its internal consistency and permanence. At least we may safely advance the following as the result of a philosophical consideration of history. An exalted and universal religious peace of this kind, and proceeding from such a principle, in which, by a peaceful approximation, not only the two parties in the faith should be reconciled and finally united, but also the spiritual and the secular powers, the Church and the State, should be allied together in the profoundest harmony, is, properly speaking, the very thing which mankind most stands in need of. But this desirable result never can and never will be attained until all shall be united in pervading harmony with religion and with life, especially with public life or the state, so that all these three principles or fundamental elements of human existence may work together with one aim and purpose. Such a state of profound internal peace would be something more than a simple political peace, with its transient blessings. It would be a sacred peace of God and the higher spirits, or at least the precursor and the best initiation thereto. This, however, is not to be effected by diplomatic skill no more than by scientific hypotheses. It can only be brought about by the immediate operation of God, and by that divine energy which from the beginning has sustained and still sustains the system of the universe. Philosophy, accordingly, must content itself with pointing to this end and this sustaining power, and also with calling attention to all the traces historically furnished which tend in the same direction. And since the great conflict of the age draws all powers into its vortex more violently than ever, it may be allowed to be sufficient for us to have hazarded a glance toward this glorious consummation; and we now will turn our attention to the development of intellect and intellectual powers as at present involved in the as yet undecided conflict. Thus much at least must be clear, that if science, religion, and the state, and the several powers, parties, and influences belonging to each of these domains, is, as hitherto, to pursue each its own way in opposition to the rest, then will all hasten again with rapid strides into a state of chaotic confusion. It may, therefore, well be permitted us to endeavor to hold up before men, in as strong a light as possible, this better hope, and to furnish them with every possible confirmation of it both from science and history.
If our age be as yet far from healthy—if it be still in a sickly state, if the first fearful crisis has not totally expelled the diseased matter—if, on the contrary, the general European body in many of its members is still infected with the virus which has penetrated into the inmost and secret marrow of life—if the source of the malady lie in false ideas, or the total absence of right ones, or, in other words, in philosophical error, which has spread in indefinite vagueness and endless hair-splitting over the whole of public and private life, and in a skepticism no less political than religious—then, since the external refutation rarely avails any thing, our first object must be intrinsically to conquer and to banish this error by truth, and the spirit of truth in that higher science which is genuine and lawful and directs itself to divine things.
The restless anarchical spirit of the times, or the perverted absolute spirit—for they are essentially one and the same, is yet a spirit—it may be a superficial, shallow, sensual, and negative one, but still a spirit, and therefore can not be overcome by any mere negation, but on the contrary only struggles against it with renewed bitterness and consequently more vigorous resistance. As opposed to the divine spirit of truth, however, it appears an unsubstantial nullity, and soon vanishes into its own vanity.
A direct controversy with error entails one disadvantage. By such a course the latter is unduly acknowledged for a positive power of evil. But in reality it only becomes so conditionally, through the atomistic splitting and diffusion of false ideas, and by the mass of its followers, when once every thing is resolved into elementary decomposition. Moreover, one extreme of exaggeration, whenever in controversy we enter into it and get involved in it, easily introduces its opposite, which then again is on its side carried too far—or which even, though strictly and literally it be right enough, is yet asserted with too little of limitation, and applied with unsalutary rigor. It is, therefore, a lamentable mistake if men of great and deserving talents, who from a scientific point of view have devoted themselves to the great task of morally regenerating the age, have adopted a too decidedly polemical tendency. For it is partly through exclusively following such a course that their influence for good has been so narrow and limited, and has not met with a more general and more unqualified success.
If men would only, first and before all things, endeavor to set forth with all possible vividness the intrinsic unity which subsists between higher science with a divine faith, and develop it for its own sake, without passion or interest, the further results on life of applied truth would follow spontaneously. From this simple and pure source they would continue to flow in ample and widening streams over the whole domain and all its relations. God is truth, and simply on this account the spirit of truth in a good and true science must even be divine. Its proper aim is, accordingly, directed to the divine; and on this account there can not be such a thing as an indifferent science. For every science which is not directed to the divine is shallow, superficial, sensuously negative, and idly rationalizing. On this account it is false, and must consequently prove, in its external effects, nothing less than evil, injurious, and destructive.
It is in regard to all this that I have classed science, together with religion and a Christianly-regulated state, as the third power of good. Although merely intellectual [geistige,] it is of great moment in the conflict which all have to wage against the destructive principles which so fearfully menace our age. The power of science, it is true, can only produce an effect in an intellectual sphere, but this intellectual sphere is of itself of great influence on every other circle of human operation. Religion has for its immediate object the soul and its salvation, or its union with God; and this is its peculiar region; but still it comes in various ways in contact with the higher science, and penetrates deeply into actual and also into public life. But it is the state, as the organic form of the latter, by which the divine as law, and as a higher idea of justice, modified and completed with that of clemency and equity, is first introduced into reality of actual and corporeal existence, and this historical and sensible world. But the state itself has no other than a religious foundation. It is built upon religion, but also requires the support of science.
By the visible relation, and that parallel similitude which spontaneously suggests itself between these three great moral powers in public life—philosophy, religion, and government—and that original triple principle of the human consciousness, as consisting of body, soul, and spirit, as the simple but fundamental idea of Christian philosophy (however the latter may insist on this basis in confirmation of its utility in living application), we do not for one moment mean to maintain, or propose, a total separation or estrangement of these three spheres. This would be quite unnatural. For in a political, as well as in a psychological sense, these three primary principles must co-operate and be intimately blended together to produce a complete and perfect result in the sphere of any one individually.
If, as we are perfectly justified, we have been considering science, at least that which is true and divine, as a power of a higher kind, we must still remember that it is not so in the same way as religion or government. The latter rests on a divine foundation of eternal justice; and therein lies the source of its vital efficacy. Religion is the legitimate form of a living dispensation of the divine strength and grace. True science is the mind’s lofty pursuit, in a Godward direction, of perfect knowledge; and this direction forms the characteristic distinction between it and false science. In the state, in like manner, its loftiest character lies in the sacred foundation of justice. It is, therefore, a very wrongful and a most pernicious error to look for the inmost essence of the state, or the true source of political prosperity, in any external form or formula. For this external form is in many cases nothing but the shape in which the national mind displays itself—the theater which it erects for its political manifestations. But, in another point of view, also, the form of the state is subordinate to the essence and its foundation of right. In the legitimate state, an hereditary monarchy, i.e., the act of crowning, is, no doubt, a very beautiful, highly significant, and, indeed, an essential sacred right. But, with the exception of certain special cases and positive institutions in some existing constitutions, the monarch’s right is not dependent thereon, but even before the anointing he is truly and fully a sovereign. Far different is the case, however, where the political authority is only delegated and vicarious, as with an ambassador or a plenipotentiary deputed to negotiate a peace, or other treaty. For in such cases there is no authority but what is derived solely and entirely from the delegating source, and on the legal act by which the right or power was delegated. Without this, it is absolutely null and void. This remark extends to every case and every sphere of legitimate transference of a higher authority, even though the latter be of a divine origin. And it is simply on this account that in religion, as the proper sphere for the dispensing of divine strength and grace, the form is so highly important and so thoroughly essential—even as much so as the matter itself—or the imparted light of the spirit, and properly is inseparable from it.
The position of science is quite different. For this rests on what is thoroughly human and inborn in man—the passion of longing; which, however, if it be maintained in its purity and perseveringly carried out, may, without doubt, pass over into a divine pursuit. Even the form of communication in science is human throughout, since it employs language as the intellectual medium for setting forth the truth. If, then, in this higher tendency, the full center of living and divine truth be attained, according to man’s utmost powers and ability, then, even here, a higher and divine power may, undoubtedly, intervene and co-operate therewith. But still, for such a case, no strictly-defined form, or external sanction and consecration, exists, and from the very essence of the thing, it is not to be looked for. That which is divine in science must, from its nature, move freely, and be devoid of all such forms. As a higher power, it must operate immediately, and must seek to establish its own law for itself, intermediate between religion and the state, or even in each of them alike, though still in a peculiar way of its own. Wherever it is genuine and unadulterated, then it will in no case come into collision with the actual laws either of one or of the other, even because truth is one and every where the same. But if science, in its external form, and in its social and political existence, should become entirely blended with religion and the spiritual class, being confined and restricted thereto, as was the case with the institution of castes among the Hindoos, which we have already noticed, and with the Egyptian priesthood, then we must fain admit that freedom, which the scientific spirit requires for its growth and development in the sphere assigned to it, would be too closely limited and checked by narrow and partial considerations. But if, on the other hand, it be possible for a false science to arrogate that spiritual and divine right of free action, which, unquestionably, is in a certain sense the prerogative of heavenly truth in its invisible kingdom, which the latter can neither misemploy, nor ever impede in its course, then such a supposition would account for the prevalence of error. It would also, at the same time, serve to illustrate the mode by which such a prejudice as the arrogated right of an unrestricted freedom of thought, or, rather, of the free and unchecked communication thereof, could ever have struck so deep a root in the human mind. But this is a claim which we can in no way recognize, or allow, as really founded in right and justice. Since, wherever, as is the case in this sphere of purely intellectual operation, all is immediate and without a definite form of external sanction, there any thing like right must at most be indefinite and individual.
It forms, perhaps, one of the most important problems or questions of our day, whether the entire sphere of science, the whole republic of letters—not only the mere elementary instruction of the schools, but the whole domain of education in general, embracing under the latter description literature and the fine arts—might not, in obedience to the requisitions of the age, be brought into a more organized and well-regulated form. For if this were possible, it might be made to approximate more closely to the other great spheres of public life in religion and the state, and confined within its proper limits, according to some greater and more comprehensive ideas than those current among us, or than those which have come down to us from antiquity, which are either defective in themselves, or else are no longer adapted to existing circumstances. Those which the present age has advanced, are, for the most part, crude and ill-digested, and scarcely ever consistently carried out. But, after having reflected for many a long year on this question, so deeply interesting to myself, I have arrived at the conviction that, for the present at least, a radical change in this department would be premature and scarcely desirable, as promising to afford no very advantageous results. Every thing in this sphere is too isolated; whatever is good, and especially what is best, is too individual and too formless to allow of its being as yet, without great difficulty, reduced in all parts and in every point to a firm rule and definite shape. In all probability, by attempting unseasonably to introduce organic order and law, we should cramp rather than assist and develop the good. In the present chaotic state of science, it is only the vicious and profane that possesses a systematic coherence. All detrimental and dangerous, as well as futile and indifferent ideas, mixed with a few good and useful ones, are atomistically diffused and spread in every possible shape and quarter. And if against this boundless dissemination of evil thoughts—this elementary decomposition and chemical analysis of the human mind, and the whole body of human thoughts, a negative barrier be set up as a preventive measure of defense, and as a temporary substitute for a better and higher state of things, murmurs and reproaches immediately rise from all sides. But, taken on the whole, and in so far as principle is involved, these remonstrances are neither just nor well founded. For in almost every state where, owing to peculiar circumstances, such precautionary measures have not been taken, the most dangerous disorders and jarring discords have affected the whole of public life, as the inevitable consequences of its absence.
But let us turn our eyes from the insignificant controversies, with its host of ephemeral publications, the interest of which seems little likely to outlive even that of a daily journal, and let us look to the greater and more historical phenomena amid them, which, in all probability, will mark an epoch in the development of mind. From these it is distinctly apparent that science is a real and actual power. In proof of this fact, we need only appeal to the great talents and abilities which, not only in recent years, but also throughout the last century, have exercised in the domain of science what, without exaggeration, we may well term a world-embracing influence. Only we must admit that in this period they have taken more or less a destructive tendency, and one that threatened in this scientific burrowing to undermine the foundations of everlasting truth. But if we will take a still wider survey, so as to embrace all the several periods of the world’s history, and the course of the human mind therein, then, undoubtedly, we may discern the higher might of divine truth, manifesting itself as an influence for good, as a pure and genuine spiritual theocracy of science, to whose domain above all others the idea of an immediate and higher supremacy of mind and divine power is peculiarly applicable.
THE idea which the adverse party, or opposition, in the political domain, and in the scientific theory of politics, usually form of a theocracy, is for the most part incorrect. By the adverse party I mean all those who either openly assail, or privately call in question, the religious foundation, the higher sanction, and the divine authority of the state; in short, those in general who are hostile to the religious sentiment. The latter apply the idea of theocracy and employ the term to signify the rule of the spiritual power, such as the Egyptian priesthood may, perhaps, or, at least, such as they suppose them to have possessed—or a polity where the supreme temporal authority works in unison with the sacerdotal class.
And even by the defenders of the good cause—by men of higher and better principles, the idea is frequently taken in too inaccurate and indefinite, not to say incorrect, a sense. They seem to understand by it nothing more than the divine authority of the state and of the Church, and their mutual support and dependence, and their co-operation. But nothing can be more erroneous than such a notion. For the kingly dignity, no less than the priestly, as respects the divine authority, which is inherent in both, is not immediate, but vicarious and representative.
When, however, we turn to its original source—to the historical basis, i.e., to Christian revelation, and derive therefrom the true idea of a theocracy, we shall find it to be very different from the assumption which each of these parties tacitly advances as self-evident. The idea of a theocracy can only be properly determined from the instance of the Jews. The history of that nation will not only enable us fully to develop it as an actual form of polity, having an historical origin and existence, but also in the clearest and readiest way to illustrate it. Now the passage from revolution, civil war, and anarchy, to absolute despotism, in its genetic progress, can be most clearly and most profitably traced in Roman history. The true nature, moreover, of the dynamical polity can be learned from the historically originated and historically preserved exemplification of it in England, far better than from any theory, or from any scheme of a constitution propounded for the occasion of some state experiment, for all such experiments require the lasting test of a few generations, or at least of half a century before any decided opinion can be passed on their success and historical permanency. And just in the same way the peculiar character and essence of a theocracy can be deduced from no source so clearly or so fully as from the Jewish history. Or, rather, the true idea of it can be acquired from no other channel, since among this people only has a theocracy ever existed as a real form of national polity. And here it continued in force for nearly four hundred years.
However poor may be the part which the people of Israel played in the great drama of the world’s history, in comparison with that of the great conquering nations, the Persians, Greeks, and Romans, still the prophetic people (whose importance must be sought only in this designation, or, in other words, their continual relation to the future), possesses, even in their peculiar code of laws and form of government, a remarkable interest for the historian. For in the true historical estimate of things mere extent of power can not pass for the exclusive standard of greatness and importance. And this has been already the judgment of many writers of history, who, as far as regards this particular subject, and the general question of religion, must undoubtedly be pronounced free from either prepossession or prejudice. The way, too, in which this ancient people have survived the destruction of their national government, and for nearly two thousand years since have uniformly remained separate from all other nations, has been more than once confessed to be a very striking phenomenon, unparalleled in the history of the world.
Moses, from whom that theocracy first emanated, or, rather, with whom it commenced, was not himself the High Priest. His brother Aaron enjoyed that dignity. He neither wished nor had a title to hold it. He had no hereditary claim to it, neither was he elected to it by the people. And yet he stood in no man’s place, nor did he forcibly dispossess any one of his right. And so even, if for a while we dismiss the theological view entirely from our regard, and, forgetting it for a moment, judge of the matter by the strictest juristic notions, we can not call him a usurper, even in that sense of the term which comprises the demagogue’s character. At an earlier period of his life, he appeared likely to become a mere liberator in the usual sense of the word. In this character, however, he does not appear unjust, even though he allowed himself to be hurried into an act of violence against a petty tyrant among the oppressors of his countrymen. And at a later period, when he had received his call, we can not in his conduct toward the Egyptians discover any trace of injustice, even judging him by the strictest legal notions. Now, the authority which Moses exercised over his own people, while he led them through the wilderness, rested on the immediate exercise of the divine powers which were lent to him from above, and which were immediately acknowledged as such, and nowhere met with any considerable resistance. And, accordingly, properly speaking, no question was ever raised against a right which was based entirely on those imparted powers, although they were totally devoid of any formal or distinct act of legal sanction. The office he held was prophetical. But by this term I do not mean merely according to its later and more obvious meaning, the function of warning or promising, of teaching or predicting, but all this, and something more—a higher and divine power, which vividly and persuadingly displayed itself in life and deeds. Looking at it in a general light, and as applied to a case which, at least, we can think of as not impossible, of the Almighty having sent, or purposing to send, a second Moses to some other people, then the circumstance we lately mentioned, that this Moses forcibly dispossessed no one of his rights, and had made no unrighteous revolution, must be taken into consideration, even if it might not simply by itself serve as the characteristic or distinctive test of the genuineness of the vocation in question.
For a power emanating from God, and truly divine, would never violate or forcibly subvert any established right, whether essentially sacred or hallowed only by prescription. It will respect the least privilege of equals and inferiors no less than the greatest prerogative of superiors. I have introduced these remarks in order to determine more precisely the right point of view for an historical comparison of Moses with every other character that sets himself before the world in the same light, whether the parallel be made with Mohammed, or that still earlier Indian Mohammed who is usually called Buddha, although this is only an honorary epithet, and not the name of any historical person in particular. And the same standard will hold good for our judging of any other reformer of the world who makes religion the instrument of his ambition, to whatever age he may belong, or any modern Mohammed, in whatever part of the world he may arise.