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sense in which the God of pantheism never can be; Jesus is not only the second Adam, revealing that Divine image in the human form which was presented by Adam before his fall, but also a Mediator between God and man. Through the Divine Man the Christian can hold converse with the Spirit of the universe.

And this brings us directly to the solution offered by Christianity of that problem of the individual life of which we have spoken, and which is expressly treated both by Fichte and Carlyle.

Both these writers recognize it as seemly and right, if not in all cases necessary, that, at a certain stage of the personal history, the mind awaken and bestir itself, and struggle as in throes of birth or tumult of departure; that for a time it wrestle with doubt, or cower trembling under the wings of mystery, searching earth and heaven for answers to its questions, and satisfaction for its wants; that there be a turning, in baffled and indignant loathing, from the pleasures of sense, as all inadequate either to still or satisfy new and irrepressible longings after the good, the true, the beautiful, after God, freedom, immortality. We suppose it is an assertion which will not be counted rash or daring, that our language contains no example of the delineation of mental confusion and dismay, to be compared with Mr. Carlyle's description of such a period in Sartor Resartus. In this time of distraction and unrest, calm thought and manly action are alike suspended; the quiet of the soul is broken; around it seem to hang curtains of thick cloud, streaked with fire, shutting it, in gloomy solitude, from heaven's light above, and the voices of human sympathy around. Fichte and Carlyle profess to tell us how the soul may emerge from this confusion and distress to noble and perfect manhood; how it may once more feel around it the fresh

breath of the open sky, and over it the clear smile of heaven; how the streams of thought may again Aow on in melodious harmony, and the wheels of action obey their impulse; how perfect content is to be regained with one's position in the system of things; how all fear and torment are to give place to blessedness; how love is again to suffuse the world, and over every cloud of mystery to be cast a bow of peace.

Such a period Christianity likewise recognizes—the period preceding conversion. It is indeed by no means necessary that in every case there occur this tumultuous crisis of internal life; one of the above writers declares that the ultimate lesson of manhood may be taught by the mild ministries of domestic wisdom and love, even better than “in collision with the sharp adamant of Fate," and so the change which is wrought in the soul by vital Christianity may be silent and gradual as a cloudless dawn, unobserved by any human eye until the new light wraps the whole character, touching all its natural gifts with immortal beauty, and turning the cold dews of night into liquid radiance. Yet, in order to define clearly and discriminate boldly the stages in the change, we shall contemplate it in such a case as these authors suppose.

We shall conceive one, who has hitherto been a Christian but in name, suddenly pausing and beginning to give earnest heed to the spiritual concerns which he has deemed of trivial importance. We shall suppose him to be affected in a twofold manner : by a sense of personal uneasiness, of what Fichte names “torment,” of present self-accusation and prospective alarm; and by doubt and dismay in consideration of the sad uncertainty of human sorrow, and the mysterious and appalling destiny which, as he learns from Christianity, awaits a portion of the human race. The first of these may be indicated by the general name, fear: the second is an inability to


assent to the fact of divine justice, an inability of which we fully recognize the possible honesty. The first will agitate most strongly minds not of a noble natural temper; the ond, we are well assured, is often found to rack with keenest agony men of generous and benignant dispositions. The second may even be absent altogether; but we are disposed to think that the final attainment and rest in this case will be less lofty, and pure, and beautiful, than in the other. Let it be supposed, however, that the mind is in extreme tumult and anguish; we proceed to show how it is that Christianity professes to restore tranquil happiness, and recall healthful activity.

Perhaps in no case do the tremulous delicacy and subtle pride of the day come out more strongly than in our modes of regarding all that relates to fear in religious matters; and perhaps in no other case does the power of Christianity to lay its hand on the heart of the race, and its way of coming in contact with life and reality, contrast so boldly with the fine-spun, flattering, but evanescent theories of a haughty philosophy. The history of the world abundantly testifies that a religion alto gether dissociated from fear is emasculated and unavailing; the state of Greece in its decline, of Rome under the Cæsars, of the Italian republics of the fifteenth century, shows what is that guardianship exercised over the national virtues, by a religion which has become a sentiment or a debate, which has laid aside its terrors, and passed into the school of the philosopher or the studio of the artist. We at once concede, that in the teaching of Christianity there is, and has always been, an element, and a prevailing element, of fear. It is a fact which admits of no disguise, and we must endeavor to account for it.

The phenomenon we consider under the name of fear, as

characteristic of that state of the individual mind we at present contemplate, has escaped the observation of neither of the authors of whom we have spoken. Fichte does not indeed, so far as we recollect, expressly mention fear; he uses the general term, torment, and regards this as nature's monition to leave seif and sensuality, and turn to the divine. Torment, with him, is the stirring of the divine principle within, and the ex pression of its unrest and embarrassment in the bonds of sense; but whence it has arisen that this discipline is necessary for the human soul, why the throes of divine birth must agonize us, why the beginning is anguish, when joy, which is the companion of perfection, the guerdon of genius, is the progress and the end, we learn not from his philosophy. Fichte, when his terms are rightly interpreted, defines, with a certain correctness, the office of fear; of its origin, save perhaps some assertion of necessity, he offers, to our knowledge, no theory. The way in which Mr. Carlyle, in the ultimate attainment of rest by his wanderer, disposes of fear, is to us one of the most sadly interesting portions of his writings. Drawn by the force of intense human sympathy and fiery insight into a more intimate knowledge of the actual feelings of the soul than the lofty philosophic enthusiasm of Fichte's speculation enabled him to attain, he seems to indicate the element of a regard to futurity as entering into the anguish which oppresses the awakening and aspiring soul. The wanderer attains true manhood by finally triumphing over fear; not only fear of any thing on earth, but fear " of Tophet too;" by casting a defiant glance around this universe, and daring any existent power to make him afraid. We are aware of no voice reaching him from Heaven to whisper of pardon and invite to peace; we see no hand stretched out to remove sin or impart purity; by one tremendous effort of will he rids himself of terror, and declares that if hell must be dared, it must. Some time after this achievement, he discovers that nature is God, that he himself is part of the Divinity ; we might say that, having shown himself brave, he had vindicated his right to his natural birthright, and might boldly lay claim to his inherent divinity. Now, we shall distinctly admit that there is sublimity in this spectacle of a finite being defying the terrors of Tophet; we attempt not to deny that there is a grandeur in the aspect of him, who, a few short years ago a weeping infant in his cradle, and in a few more fleeting years to be so still under his green hillock, thus, in the brief path between, hurls indignant scorn at the terrors of infinitude. But was it not such a sublimity which rested on the brow of Moloch, in the glare of hell's battlements ? Such a sublimity, methinks, was in the eyes of Eblis, where pride waged eternal conflict with despair, as he sat on his globe of fire. “ Let the world insult our feebleness; there is no cowardice in capitulating with God.” We do not affirm that Mr. Carlyle intends to put into the mouth of his hero a deliberate defiance of God; but we have perfect confidence in alleging, that he represents the soul in the great crisis of individual life, as trusting solely to its own energies for deliverance, the terrors which encompass it as drawing off at the determined hest of human will, not by Divine permission or commandment, the saviour of man, as himself. For the ultimate origin of the discipline of sorrow, we look likewise in vain in the works of Mr. Carlyle.

When we turn to Christianity, it seems impossible to fail to note an access of clearness, and what we might style an agreement with the general symmetry of nature. We do not now consider the kindred subject of the office assigned to hope in the Christian scheme; we speak now of fear. But it is im portant that the precise place of each be fixed. If not directly

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