structive because, instead of seeing in the termination of nouns and verbs merely arbitrary signs to distinguish the singular from the plural, or the present from the future, we can now perceive an intelligible principle in the gradual production of formal out of the material elements of language? And are our etymologies less important because, instead of being suggested by superficial similarities, they are now based on honest historical and physiological research? Lastly, has our own language ceased to hold its own peculiar place? Is our love for our own native tongue at all impaired ? Do men speak less boldly or pray less fervently in their own mother-tongue, because they know its true origin and its unadorned history; or because they have discovered that in all languages, even in the jargons of the lowest savages, there is order and wisdom; there is in them something that makes the world akin? Why, then, should we hesitate to apply the comparative method, which has produced such great results in other spheres of knowledge, to a study of religion? That it will change many of the views commonly held about the origin, the character, the growth, and decay of the religions of the world, I do not deny; but unless we hold that fearless progression in new inquiries, which is our bounden duty and our honest pride in all other branches of knowledge, is dangerous in the study of religions, unless we allow ourselves to be frightened by the once famous dictum, that whatever is new in theology is false, this ought to be the very reason why a comparative study of religions should no longer be neglected or delayed. When the students of Comparative Philology boldly adopted Goethe's paradox, "He who knows one language, knows none;" people were startled at first, but they soon began to feel the truth which was hidden beneath the paradox. Could Goethe have meant that Homer did not know Greek, or that Shakespeare did not know English, because neither of them knew more than his own mother-tongue? No! what was meant was that neither Homer nor Shakespeare knew what that language really was which he handled with so much power and cunning. Unfortunately the old verb "to can," from which "canny" and "cunning," is lost in English, otherwise we should be able in two words to express our meaning, and to keep apart the two kinds of knowledge of which we are here speaking. As we say in German können is not kennen, we might say in English to can, that is to be cunning, is not to ken, that is to know; and it would then become clear at once, that the most eloquent speaker and the most gifted poet, with all their command of words and skillful mastery of expression, would have but little to say if asked what language really is! The same applies to religion. He who knows one, knows none. There are thousands of people whose faith is such that it could move mountains, and who yet, if they were asked what religion really is, would remain silent, or would speak of outward tokens rather than of the inward nature, or of the faculty of faith. It will easily be perceived that religion means at least two very different things. When we speak of the Jewish, or the Christian, or the Hindu religion, we mean a body of doctrines handed down by tradition, or in canonical books, and containing all that constitutes the faith of Jew, Christian, or Hindu. Using religion in that sense, we may say that a man has changed his religion, that is, that he has adopted the Christian instead of the Brahmanical body of religious structive because, instead of seeing in the termination of nouns and verbs merely arbitrary signs to distinguish the singular from the plural, or the present from the future, we can now perceive an intelligible principle in the gradual production of formal out of the material elements of language? And are our etymologies less important because, instead of being suggested by superficial similarities, they are now based on honest historical and physiological research? Lastly, has our own language ceased to hold its own peculiar place? Is our love for our own native tongue at all impaired ? Do men speak less boldly or pray less fervently in their own mother-tongue, because they know its true origin and its unadorned history; or because they have discovered that in all languages, even in the jargons of the lowest savages, there is order and wisdom; there is in them something that makes the world akin? Why, then, should we hesitate to apply the comparative method, which has produced such great results in other spheres of knowledge, to a study of religion? That it will change many of the views commonly held about the origin, the character, the growth, and decay of the religions of the world, I do not deny; but unless we hold that fearless progression in new inquiries, which is our bounden duty and our honest pride in all other branches of knowledge, is dangerous in the study of religions, unless we allow ourselves to be frightened by the once famous dictum, that whatever is new in theology is false, this ought to be the very reason why a comparative study of religions should no longer be neglected or delayed. When the students of Comparative Philology boldly adopted Goethe's paradox, "He who knows one language, knows none;" people were startled at first, but they soon began to feel the truth which was hidden beneath the paradox. Could Goethe have meant that Homer did not know Greek, or that Shakespeare did not know English, because neither of them knew more than his own mother-tongue? No! what was meant was that neither Homer nor Shakespeare knew what that language really was which he handled with so much power and cunning. Unfortunately the old verb "to can," from which "canny" and "cunning," is lost in English, otherwise we should be able in two words to express our meaning, and to keep apart the two kinds of knowledge of which we are here speaking. As we say in German können is not kennen, we might say in English to can, that is to be cunning, is not to ken, that is to know; and it would then become clear at once, that the most eloquent speaker and the most gifted poet, with all their command of words and skillful mastery of expression, would have but little to say if asked what language really is! The same applies to religion. He who knows one, knows none. There are thousands of people whose faith is such that it could move mountains, and who yet, if they were asked what religion really is, would remain silent, or would speak of outward tokens rather than of the inward nature, or of the faculty of faith. It will easily be perceived that religion means at least two very different things. When we speak of the Jewish, or the Christian, or the Hindu religion, we mean a body of doctrines handed down by tradition, or in canonical books, and containing all that constitutes the faith of Jew, Christian, or Hindu. Using religion in that sense, we may say that a man has changed his religion, that is, that he has adopted the Christian instead of the Brahmanical body of religious doctrines, just as a man may learn to speak English instead of Hindustani. But religion is also used in a different sense. As there is a faculty of speech, independent of all the historical forms of language, so we may speak of a faculty of faith in man, independent of all historical religions. If we say that it is religion which distinguishes man from the animal, we do not mean the Christian or Jewish religions only; we do not mean any special religion, but we mean a mental faculty, that faculty which, independent of, nay in spite of sense and reason, enables man to apprehend the Infinite under varying disguises. Without that faculty, no religion, not even the lowest worship of idols and fetiches, would be possible; and if we will but listen attentively, we can hear in all religions a groaning of the spirit, a struggle to conceive the inconceivable, to utter the unutterable, a longing after the Infinite, a love of God. Whether the etymology which the ancients gave of the Greek word ἄνθρωπος, man, be true or not (they derived it from ó av å pŵv, he who looks upward): certain it is that what makes man to be man, is that he alone can turn his face to heaven; certain it is that he alone yearns for something that neither sense nor reason can supply. If then there is a philosophical discipline which examines into the conditions of sensuous perception, and if there is another philosophical discipline which examines into the conditions of rational conception, there is clearly a place for a third philosophical discipline that has to examine into the conditions of that third faculty of man, coördinate with sense and reason, the faculty of perceiving the Infinite, which is at the root of all religions. In German we can distinguish that third faculty by the name of Vernuft, as opposed to |