| | <1847> | | | We read in Milton's sonnet, that, while | | But there are few, in this our practical and busy age, who seem to | find their vocation in this latter office. Our popular writers, | whether in prose or verse, have acquired their popularity by the | treatment of some topic of the day, or the supply of some peculiar | want of the times. The questions which agitate or interest the | general mind, in theology, philosophy, art, or history, secure an | audience by their announcement; and those who handle them with | any ability are pretty sure of the double testimony of warm | admirers and indignant enemies. But the author, whose books we | have placed at the head of this article is most successful when he is | furthest removed from this busy scene. Tranquil and meditative, he | seems to live apart, and in some other age. His works belong no | more to this, than to any other period. No particular school can | claim them as its offspring. They dwell in the generalities of man, | and hence possess the sinjular advantage of affording almost | equal pleasure to minds swayed by a very different bias. This at | least is true of the two volumes of Proverbial Philosophy; for to | these his other productions are very far inferior. Indeed, the title | pages of 'Geraldine' and the 'Pyramid' present a considerable | chronological difficulty; for it almost passes belief, that their | author could have written them after the first series of 'Proverbial | Philosophy.' | | 'Geraldine' is pure doggrel; and the

'other poems'

are only | rescued from being absolutely commonplace, by an occasional | glimpse, though but a rare one, of truer poetry. The 'Modern | Pyramid' is better, and displays in somewhat uncouth nakedness a | quantity of rich material, which the author has elsewhere worked | up into more delicate texture. We must not omit to add that it | betrays too a symptom of irreverent feeling, which we are | occasionally pained to see still clinging about him, though in a | more subdued and hesitating form. But we shall probably consult | Mr. Tupper's wishes, as well as our own and the reader's pleasure, | by allowing these two volumes to repose in their native obscurity, | and passing on to the work on which the author's reputation will | ultimately rest, and which we really believe to be a permanent | addition to English Classics. | The 'Proverbial Philosophy' is a collection of thoughts on | moral and religious topics, clothed in careful language, and strung | together without much regard to connexion or arrangement. It is an | unusual attempt, and one to which our western character does not | easily respond. We are more accustomed to regard thought as the | rough material for system or argument, than as the direct object of | reflection. The single blocks scarcely arrest our attention; we wait | to see them fitted and piled up into the uniform and stately edifice. | Thought after thought pass through the mind in rapid succession, | but we seldom care to detain them, or fix their shadowy forms in | distinct outline, unless they serve a present purpose. But the author | of this volume delights in them for their own sake; he loves them | with an unselfish affection. No idea passes from him unmarked; he | catches it as it floats along, draws it with a careful hand, | touches, retouches, brings it out in its just proportion of light and | shade, foreground and distance, and finally hangs it up in his | picture gallery and retires a few paces, to admire it. His book is | like a collection of miniature paintings on ivory, small, beautiful, | highly-finished, and heterogeneous. It is, we believe, the result of | an honest observance of his own rules, thus laid down in a piece | 'On Writing: ~~ | | The style is, as the reader will have observed, a something | | between prose and verse; not so rigid as to flatter the thought; | nor so free as to necessitate absolute distinctness, or to exclude | the turn and phrase of poetry. Sometimes the accent, sometimes | the meaning | determines the line; but there is almost always just enough of | restraint to please either the ear or the mind with the notion of | regularity and order. There is much of poetic beauty in the | frequent metaphor and elaborate image; but in all the same habit of | isolation is apparent. We are never borne along upon the full tide | of thought, careless of the vehicle or the passage: we dwell upon | each particular expression, and seem quietly and tranquilly to | stick out its sweetness, and then pass on composedly to the next. | We subjoin a string of pretty and happily-expressed fancies, which | well illustrate this observation. They are from, 'The Words of | Wisdom.' | | | There is a richness and variety in this string of images which | may justify the length of the extract. We subjoin one | of a somewhat different character, from the, poem 'on Prayer.' | | To many of our readers this book is probably already too familiar | for them to require more extracts; to others we | trust that what they have now seen may prove a sufficient | inducement to seek a further acquaintance with it. We | pass on to a work of more recent date, though of less pretensions: | ~~ 'Probabilities; an Aid to Faith.' | This is a singular, a fanciful, nay, even a whimsical book; | yet it is one which will well repay the exertion of a careful | perusal. If the thoughts are not unfrequently abstruse, | the style is almost always attractive; the matter derives no | additional repulsiveness from the form. And if we rarely meet | with a compact and finished picture, we have a | compensation in the multitude of sketches which melt into one | another with the rapid haziness of dissolving views. | It is eminently a suggestive book. An endless vista of thought | is opened up, and the mind is launched along into the | shadowy distance; but almost before its flight is well begun, | it is twitched back. again, to be sent | | once more flyin g as rapidly, and for as brief a course, in a new | direction. No subject is left untried: nothing can be hid by its | profundity, or protected by its sanctity, from the application of | the new canon. Long-settled truths, mysteries in which reason | has despairingly acquiesced, are dragged from the deep | foundations of the mind, and once more laid bare in their vast | proportions before the unusual light of day. The purpose and | the destiny of man, the creation of the worlds. the origin of evil, | nay, even the mystery of the Holy Trinity, are thus brought as it | were under the lens of probability. | But we should wrong our author, if we allowed him to rest | under the charge of irreverence, which the bare mention of | such awful topics naturally implies. There can be no doubt | that his is a religious and reverential mind, deeply impressed | with the truth and sanctity of the solemn themes, on which he | feels he has a word to utter. If he speaks with his tongue, we | do not doubt that it is because, after silence and musing, the | fire is kindled within him. His preface to the chapter on 'The | Trinity,' may stand not unfitly in the front of our notice of the | book, as a word of warning to writer and reader. | | While, however, we give the writer full credit for reverence of | intention, and are willing to allow him the praise of | considerable skill in ihe execution of a conception, | the very nature of which carries him over | ground where a false step is ever probable, and may issue in | unknown evils; we may be allowed to doubt of the wisdom of | approaching these mysteries at all with the dim and flickering | torch of reason. He has treated of them reverently, if it be | allowable so to treat of them at all. | But to this question we may perhaps recur again. It is now time | to lay before the reader the general object of the work. If the | title should have led him to suppose that he is about to | encounter fresh argument against the infidel, another

'evidence | of Christianity,'

we are happy in the ability to relieve his | fears. He will not here at least have to work on that treadmill which | grinds the air, to toil through that weary and unprofitable labour | of proving step by step, by slow and irrefragle argumentation, a | conclusion which he already holds far more | | firmly and more intimately than the premises by which be | proves it. Mr. Tupper undertakes to prove nothing; no, not so | much as Bishop Butler's unanswerable proposition, that | Revealed Religion may by possibility be true. This is a most | important point to be observed; the very hinge, indeed, as it | seems to us, upon which the whole merit of the book depends | and turns. For proof, probability is most dangerous and | untrustworthy; for illustration and confirmation, it is invaluable. | Probabilities and analogies, fascinating as they are, and to a | certain extent even satisfying are yet liable to indefinite abuse. | They are keen tools which can hew error, as well as truth, into | a shapely form; they are subtle instruments, which the skilful | artist can turn with formidable effect upon almost any oject. | But we will let Mr. Tupper speak for himself, and show that he | has not misconceived the range of his speculations. | | | The thoughts in this passage are,so true, and the imagery in | general so just and beautiful, that we should be unwilling to | draw attention to the somewhat unexpected metaphor of the | goodly ship, launched amidst gravel-stones and grease down its |

'lubricate and easy'

slides, if it did | not seem to indicate a defect | of mind at once natural and dangerous to a writer on Probabilities. | It betrays an insensibility to the ridiculous, which | every now and then peeps out throughout the volume. No sense | of harshness, no violence of transition appears to deter him | from the pursuit of a favourite analogy. Adolphus and Stebbing | occur in close juxtaposition to Joshua and Hezekiah; and | between the stages of an historical review of Christianity we | suddenly alight upon the Grand Stand among the gentlemen

'on | the turf.'

It is true Mr. Tupper, on one occasion, | deliberately justifies this usage; but we cannot think, | successfully. After a really eloquent description of the | imaginary throne of the Most High, he breaks in with these words: | ~~ | We do not wish to deprecate honesty; but she need not dress | herself like Columbine. A grave and matronly garb would be a | more seemly habit, and yet no false disguise. A few fit words of | explanation, or even a passing allusion, would have served the | purpose of this obnoxious newspaper paragraph; or, if it must | needs come in, it might have modestly retired into a foot-note | or an appendix. | Our author is not ignorant of the powers of ridicule: he at once | deprecates and defies it. | It is true. Ridicule is no weapon against reason; but it is a fair | and a fit weapon against much that shelters itself beneath that | august name. A perception of the absurd is a natural faculty, | which few men wholly lack; and those who have the | misfortune to be without it, themselves commonly afford a most | unwilling testimony to the fact of its general existence. It is a | concise method of detecting fallacies; an instinct, by which we | are saved the trouble of unravelling thread by thread a skein of | laboriously tangled sophistries. Of course, like all other natural | faculties, it is capable of being perverted to abuse; but it does | not, therefore, follow that it has no legitimate use. Who has not | often heard the grave remark the solemn | | argument, to which a laugh or a jest formed the obvious and | natural reply? Nor let this be thought merely the triumph of the | successful disputant; we do not simply exult over a silenced | adversary; the satisfaction lies deeper. The sense of justice, | the yearning after adequate compensation is gratified; there is a | fitness and mutual adaptation between the ridicule and the | ridiculous, which creates a sense of incompleteness while the | latter stands alone,~~ of satisfaction when it meets and closes | with its natural foe and complement. The unfit, the absurd, the | inappropriate, the manifestly inconsequential, are the proper | prey of ridicule. Its magic wand lays bare at a stroke the | manifold enfoldings of pretended reason, and curbs within due | limits the else-unchecked vagaries of imagination. And it is for | this reason that we could wish a due respect were paid to it in a | work such as that which we are now examining. Probabilities | are everywhere; analogies are infinite; and the hand of strict | reason is not able, because it does not profess, to rule them. | There is no event, past, present, or to come, for which a | probability might not be made out.

'The crime was likely,'

| is the philosopher's argument in the mouth of the rhetorician, |

'and therefore it was committed:'

or,

'it was | unlikely, and therefore still it was committed; for so | the criminal might hope to escape detection.'

| There is no fancy so wild, for which | an ingenious mind cannot frame an analogy; no two things so | dissimilar, as to refuse to yield one point of likeness to the | determined theorizer. The author of the 'Proverbial Philosophy' | is not ignorant of the intricate comminglings of Truth and | Error. As he writes, ~~ | These indistinct and shadowy realms, the border-lands and | marches of the kingdom of Reason, form the great theatre in | which the Comic loves to expatiate. Indeed the topics that here | flit to and fro in the twilight, scarcely acknowledge any other | bounds than the barriers of the absurd. Within these they know | they must not enter; but let them beware of these landmarks, | and the world may listen and applaud. | We have digressed a little from our intended course; but not | without good reason. By his real or assumed contempt for | ridicule, Mr. Tupper does great injustice both to himself and to | his readers. He is delivering earnest thoughts on solemn topics | in a peculiar cast of reflection, which of itself is not unlikely to | provoke the flippant jest and the shallow laugh. Surely, he is | even therefore more bound than others to keep clear of real | absurdities, to give no occasion for the deserved | | sarcasm. In the midst of much sober meditation, he occasionally | diverges into an unhappy illustration; and we fear the natural | result may be, that the ridicule which fairly belongs only to | a small porton, will be profusely poured over the whole. | But we return once more to the book itself. It is but fair to state | the general drift of it in the author's own words, though we | think he has not done himself the justice of exhibiting it in | its most favourable light. | We think that a fear of legitimate ridicule might very fairly | have deterred a writer from such an announcement as this; but, | as we hinted before, it probably conveys a very incorrect | impression of the real merits of his treatise. Mr. Tupper is no | prophet he has no thoughts of reviving the study of judicial | astrology; he cherishes no project for diverting the popular | breeze from Partridge, or Moore, or Murphy. He is content to | busy himself with the past, nor, we are happy to say, does he | often stray beyond the empire of the known. The reasonableness, | so to speak, of things as they are ~~ how moral and metaphysical | physical mysteries, and the unsearchable dealings of Providence | have their probable as well as their improbable | phase; how, all-inscrutable as they are, they may yet be placed | in such a light as to give evidence of symmetrical form and | regular construction, if we could but reach its law ~~ this is the | real and valuable object of the 'Aids.' Inevitably mixed up as | we are in the consequences of past causes, and the inextricable | convolutions of present action, we can scarcely take a | dispassionate view of the universe, or reflect with impartiality | on our own place and destiny in it. Our author, a moral | Archimedes, seeks an external station, from which he may observe | the mighty picture in the proper light, and at the required | distance. He takes his stand at the origin of all things, and | strives to contemplate as a spectator the gradual work Of | Creating Wisdom. | | To produce a consistent whole; he begins perhaps, somewhat | over-boldly, with 'A God, and His Attributes,' 'The Trinity,' | and 'The Godhead Visible;' chapters from which, for obvious, | reasons, we shall not make any extract; and then passes on to | 'The Origin of Evil.' The a priori probability of evil is, he feels, | a bold assertion: but he does not shrink from meeting it. The | Uncreated is alone perfect; the idea of a creature implies that of | imperfection: What is imperfection but a degree of evil? for | evil is no positive idea, but a mere negation; a declination from | the perfect good. Hence, wherever there is creation, there, too, | must be a degree of evil in His sight, before whom the heavens | are not pure,who chargeth His angels with folly. | But this is evidently widely different from that fearful | exhibition of sin and pain which now defiles the world; and he | accordingly proceeds to unfold his idea at greater length: ~~ | | We fear that in this last sentence the author has only saved | himself from the inevitable consequence of his premises, by the | simple expedient of contradicting it; but in such misearellable | depths we are not disposed to quarrel with a mistiness of | thought, which is mainly caused by an anxiety to eschew | heresy. A clear and logical view on all subjects is by no means | the unmixed good which many would represent it; for it is often | merely the index of a shallow mind. A fixed resolution to look | only on one side, will reduce the most complex object to a | manageable simplicity. But to proceed: ~~ | | | From the origin of evil, we pass by an easy transition to the | 'cosmogony;' and the opening sentences are worth transcribing | as well for their intrinsic qualities, as for the connexion of | the argument: ~~ | | From these data are deduced the probability, not only of the | existing moral nature of man, but even of the actual physical | condition of the world. The Fall, the Flood, and Babel, are | adduced in order, as the natural and anticipated sequences of an | a priori scheme. The Incarnation follows; and the a priori | probabilities of Mahometanism and Romanism are next discussed | and settled. Two more chapters are allotted to the Bible, | and Heaven and Hell. It would be tedious to produce further | specimens of the general reasoning; the reader has | enough before him whereon to found a fair judgment; and the | argument rather loses than gains in the transition from the | realms of pure thought to the more varied and more stubborn | contingencies of actual history: for | But it is difficult to convey by extracts the charm which is | diffused over the whole. There is, in the infinite variety of | subject, a continuous line of thought, which fixes the attention | to its progress, and leaves the mind amused at least, if not much | edified, with the perusal. Yet there is, after all, a certain utility | in these speculations: they may quiet some minds, they may | rouse others. To the many, who follow the recital of high | mystery, or solemn narrative, with a dull, uninquiring mind, | assenting because it is less troublesome than doubting, and | mistaking the absence of all thought and interest for belief; it | may be even useful to throw out an occasional impediment, by | way of stimulus to exertion, and to remind them that the paths | they tread so carelessly are the ways of real, consistent truth. | | And again, though we hardly think such loose suggestions as | are here put out can be of much service against real, home-felt | difficulties, which have fixed themselves unrelentingly on the | struggling mind, yet they will go some way towards filling up a | vacancy, of which many must be conscious. They will scarcely | avail against a solid temptation to misbelief; but they may | certainly contribute to produce a fuller harmony in the soul of | the believer. It is a pleasing satisfaction, though not a necessary | task, to arrange the fragments of the mirror of Truth, which | lie dull and scattered in our minds, so as to reflect each their | portion of the everlasting and perfect Word without us. And to | this end, as many may contribute, so are the services of none to | be despised. The casual hint, the elaborate thought, the | accidental allusion, all conduce to the ultimate and | harmonious whole; and Mr. Tupper has furnished no | inconsiderable amount of this material. | There are, however, peculiar dangers incidental to the peculiar | method he has chosen. One we have already noticed, against | which the author has himself taken the precaution of protesting; | the danger, namely, of treating probability as proof, and | mistaking illustration for argument. Another rock, which he | has not avoided altogether so successfully, is the temptation to | adopt Horace's maxim, | in a sense not uncommon in philosophy, and to make facts bend | to theory, rather than theory to fact. It is sometimes easier to | suppose that what is probable must have happened, than to | show that what did happen was probable. The book of Job | presents him with a difficulty of this kind. When the patriarch, | at the close of his trial, is restored to a double portion of his | worldly goods, we read that he had also ten children, seven | sons and three daughters, as before. Now the loss of children, it | is argued, can never be compensated by the birth of | others; they may, indeed, be fresh blessings, but they cannot | throw the previous work of death into oblivion. The sheep and | the camels, which the patriarch lost, might be abundantly | replaced by the gift of other and larger herds; the death of his | children was an irreparable misfortune. To meet this difficulty | we have the singular theory that he really lost nothing. | | | | Without discussing the merits of this particular view, we object | in limine to this apparently (for we trust it is not really) careless | fashion of throwing out by the way a totally new interpretation | of a Scriptural passage. It is not the form in which such a thing | should make its first appearance. A conjectural interpretation, if | right, should be supported with the grave and formal apparatus | of criticism and discussion, so that the question may be set at | rest for ever; if wrong, it only adds another stone to the already | too cumbrous heap of difficulties. It is not an indifferent | suggestion, which may be useful if right, and is at any rate | harmless, if it should prove wrong. Thrown out as a hint, or a | probability, it actually lumbers the way; it is one more obstacle | to be removed. To us too, it seems to savour of an irreverent | approach to the Holy Word, though we do not care to insist on | this, as we are sure Mr. Tupper would earnestly repudiate any | such intention. But yet a similar objection appears to he against | another passage, which we subjoin, only premising that the | general drift of the chapter from which it is taken, is true and | valuable. He is speaking of the miracle of Joshua. | | The first part of this extract suggests a very valuable thought; | but is there not more of fancy than of reason in the latter part? | Even if the rocks were allowed to be raised naturally into the air | by the sudden cessation of the earth's rotation, there would be | still need of a special miracle to avert them in their fall from | the Israelites, and hurl them solely on the heads of the flying | Canaanites. | He can scarcely mistake fancy for thought, who has so well | distinguished them in the 'Proverbial Philosophy,' | | | What in the world may be the meaning of this last sentence we | leave to the Astronomical Society to explain: at least, we can | suggest no other clue to our readers; for the bold confidence of | the assertion quite excludes any hypothetical solution of the | difficulty. It must evidently be the interpretation of some | acknowledged fact, not a mere personal and peculiar deduction | of the author's own; for it.is stated absolutely and simply, as if it | were a circumstance as well ascertained as the Moon's distance | from the Earth, or the general conditions of its orbit. But we are | quite at a loss for an explanation. Perhaps Mr. Tupper will | furnish us with it in a second edition: for the present, we must | be content to take our leave of him in obscurity.