In subjects of general interest, the task of defining terms should consist in choosing amongst the various interpretations which have gradually become attached to certain words, not always that one which is most intimately or etymologically connected with the primary root, but that which would indicate an important practical difference. Yet by an unforeseen misfortune, the daily necessity comes before us of using words whose meaning has never been clearly defined, so that at no time has one meaning prevailed more than another; this is especially the case with words connected with religion, faith, and objects of belief, which each one understands after his own manner.
In our days the possibility of an agreement between religion and science is often debated; how can we enter on the discussion without being quite clear as to what religion is? According to some it is simply the feeling of love for God; according to others it is the expression of our faith under the form of acts of worship, acts of charity, or perhaps the holding of certain dogmas.
The same holds good with that which we call faith, and which is often a feeling of confidence—not always the result of thought—in the faith of those surrounding us. Some give the name of faith to that enthusiasm which has sufficed to cause men joyfully to meet martyrdom; others apply it to the confidence with which the wise men followed the guiding of the star, when it indicated the road they should follow. Faith is only worthy of the name when it can be said to be a reasonable faith, and thus accounting for its existence. If we are not amongst the number of those who can give a reason for the faith that is in them, we must take care that credulity does not glide in before we are aware of its approach; it arises from a weakness of the mind and is compatible with a tranquillity that differs very widely from peace; and when once mistress of the situation, it increases, and occupies it. A wise Arab well said, “He who builds his house on human credulity builds on a rock.”
“Abstract,” this word which we can trace back to Aristotle, has an interesting history. Aristotle used it at first to characterise the creation of a work of art; the sculptor carves out of a block of marble the statue of a man or of a woman, rejecting the chips and dust which serve no purpose. Afterwards Aristotle applied this same word to an idea which an accurate thinker forms, giving it a suitable shape, and separating it from all accidental thoughts that may have surrounded it; that done, what remains is an abstract idea. Aristotle has so well explained the meaning of abstract, that if our logicians had simply spoken of concrete as that which is non-abstract, all the world would more readily have understood the meaning of the word—concrete.
We possess and employ a vast number of words, and we apparently increase them by endowing the same word—from a want of clearness in our perceptions—with various meanings. The ancient Hindoos must have felt that an over-abundance of words is pernicious, and for this reason, no doubt, the Brahmans at a certain period of their literature, imposed on themselves the rule of expressing their thoughts in the fewest words possible. They succeeded in presenting each point of doctrine denuded of all but the barest outline of words; they are the authors of the aphorism, “A writer of the Sutras is happier in having economised a portion of a diphthong than from the birth of a son.” The full force of this sentence becomes apparent when it is remembered that the Brahman who has no son to perform his funeral rites cannot hope to enter heaven. It would be difficult to express more forcibly a respect for words, and the great necessity there is for cultivating clearness of thought.
What I am about to say concerns a word to which I owe the direction of my views of life, and my resolution to undertake the study of the subjects forming my present work; this word is the name of a man.
When I was young I made the acquaintance of a very learned Jesuit Father who employed his time in researches on the ecclesiastical antiquities of the East. We once found ourselves in the company of certain persons who were surveying the most remarkable of all the scientific and philosophical works published in our day; Darwin, Pasteur, Helmholtz and Max Müller were named. When the reverend Father heard this last name, he exclaimed, with his accustomed impetuosity, “Oh! Max Müller, his works are absolutely magnificent.”
Twenty years later the announcement of a new work of Max Müller reminded me of the Jesuit Father’s exclamation; hitherto I had read nothing of this author’s; I procured the book which had appeared recently; afterwards I read those that had preceded it. At the end of some years I wrote to the reverend Father; the state of his health had obliged him to settle in a town in the south, and I had not seen him for some time. I thanked him for having drawn my attention to Max Müller’s name. I received an immediate reply, the first lines of which I will quote. “Your thanks are unexpected. Max Müller seems to me an incomparable philosopher, but my admiration does not surpass his merit.” A few weeks later the worthy Father died of consumption.