The course of spiritual advance is traced with difficulty and hesitation. It is the most obscure phase of the general problem of progress, which is almost insoluble. There are so many currents and counter-currents; so many tributaries; so many swift torrents and still bays; so many times the stream seems moving in the opposite direction—it is not surprising if some have concluded that there was no progress at all, that we only moved in a circle, went over the same ground again and again, and even marched backwards; what some counted gain others counted loss. A keen examination suggests that on the whole advance has been made, allowance being conceded for many a turn and variation.

The law of evolution may be considered established, but the method of evolution is hidden. The law of hereditary descent may be admitted, and yet the lines of hereditary descent are by no means obvious. Tendencies may even run in parallel lines, may aid each other, may confuse each other, may neutralize each other, may go very far or lie close at hand, and in any individual instance it is almost impossible to find how they work.

In my own case the inferences of temperament followed each other. During the first fifty years of my life I was mainly under the influence of my father's temperament. I sang, wrote hymns and poems, sent pieces to the papers, was sanguine, inclined to take a happy view of all experiences; but at the same time I was conscious of another train of thought which struggled fitfully with the first, acquiring more and more power until at last it gained the ascendency, and I found myself more inclined to conservatism, as it is called, to a grave, sober, serious regard for existing institutions and modes of opinion. It is said that this might have been the effect of years, inasmuch as after middle life one is very apt to experience a change of sentiment. But in my own case time will hardly explain the phenomenon, for long before I came to middle age I was aware of this less hopeful tendency in my constitution. It was my mother's influence succeeding my father's. And though it never entirely prevailed, I can see how it may have shadowed my visions of the future. And it makes me somewhat distrustful of the entire sanity of my criticism. I am afraid of not being hopeful enough.

I have sometimes suspected myself of a too critical disposition, a propensity to discover defects in men and opinion, to look at the dark side of systems that were repudiated; and in the effort to correct the aberrations of a literal estimate I may have gone too far in the opposite direction, rendering more than justice to antagonistic doctrines. But this, if it was an error, was certainly not an error to be ashamed of. For say what we will, the partial man is not the whole man, nor is cold perception true perception. There must be sympathy in every act of judgment, as Dr. Diman wisely wrote ("The Theistic Argument," p. 32): "In the pursuit of the highest truth not one faculty but all faculties need to be enlisted." Every system, however formal or dogmatical it may have become, had in the beginning its spiritual aspect; it was piously, if not humanely, meant; and in order to be rightly comprehended, should be surveyed from the inside. The most repulsive doctrine has something to urge in its favor, and it is the duty of the true rationalist to find out what it may be.

If the inclination to take a common-sense view of opinions was derived from my mother's side, a strong democratic bent was primarily due to her. My grandfather was a poor boy who earned his fortune by the simple qualities of industry, integrity, perseverance, independence, faithfulness, honesty,—virtues which he bequeathed to his children. These inherited dispositions were encouraged by the social influences of the public school, which, in spite of its laborious method of imparting a knowledge of Latin and Greek, threw the lads together, thus breaking down artificial distinctions; and also by my experience at Harvard College, where scholarship was associated with mere manhood, and was cultivated by youth of all conditions. The anti-slavery agitation was a practical instructor in humanity, indicating as it did the widest sympathy of race. An assumption of the essential identity of all sorts of mind was a cardinal principle of transcendentalism, while my later experiences confirmed these early tendencies. My societies in Jersey City and New York were popular in their composition. The "Free Religious Association" was based on universal sentiments. The clerical profession was, in my day, broadly human, so that aristocratic proclivities had small hope of prevailing. In fact, the lessons which I learned from R. W. Emerson and Wendell Phillips sank deeply in, and became clearer as years went on.

One can hardly say that learning is retrogressive when one thinks of Dr. DÖllinger, of Germany; Ernest Renan, of France; Benjamin Jowett, Arthur P. Stanley, James Martineau, of England; but erudition must, as a rule, be conservative; for it associates the mind directly with the past, binds one down to facts of history, and lays great stress on the testimony of evidence. It still is true that abundance of luggage is a sign that one is far from home. And they who can move quickly with all this weight upon them must have extraordinary genius.

An indifference to dogma is also characteristic of a speculative reformer; and I cannot recollect the time when I cared much for doctrinal differences. All questions were to me open questions. I had doubts about everything, and never suffered acute pain from such doubts. The influence of Jesus, the immortality of the soul, the existence of God, were always exposed to misgivings. Everything active was interesting to me, whether it looked toward "radicalism" or not. This was an advantage, not merely because it saved me from suffering, but because it enabled me to face all emergencies.

But some one will say: Does not the love of truth count for anything? Yes, undoubtedly it does. But lovers of truth do not by any means belong to the same school, or look for light from the same quarter; some are Romanists, some Protestants; some have no religion at all. Lovers of truth are found in all denominations, from Calvinist to Unitarian, from Christian to Buddhist. Truth exists for us in layers. There are truths of the letter and truths of the spirit; there is truth to fact, and truth to fancy; there is truth to the individual soul, and truth to the public conscience; there is truth to the heart, to the moral sense, to the spiritual intuition: but it will not do to charge lack of truthfulness upon anybody simply because he does not hold the same opinion with ourselves. M. Renan somewhere says that in order to judge a system one must have been in it as a disciple, and outside of it as a critic. But then only a very extraordinary person can do this. As a disciple he must be earnest, intelligent, devoted; as a critic he must be without prejudice, without animosity, and without guile. Thus the point of view must of necessity be individual. There can be no general or absolute standard of judgment. One thing only is certain: the fact of spiritual progress; but what constitutes this progress nobody can tell. Since 1822 till now the change in Unitarianism has been immense, and it has consisted in the gradual supremacy of reason over tradition, but it has been almost too sudden and too swift. Progress had better be slow, in order that it may be sure. One step at a time, for the reason that only one step at a time can be taken safely. We must not jump at conclusions. There must be unbounded catholicity of thought, but it must not be made up of indifference, concession, and idle compliance.

Experience has taught me many things—this among others, that there is no final criterion of truth, not criticism, or "science," or philosophy, or liberty. There is no question any more of "destructive" and "constructive." The Supreme Power is always constructive, and the Supreme Power is sure at last to prevail. There is an old Greek fable, that Apollo once challenged Jupiter to shoot. The sun-god shot an arrow to the very confines of the earth; then Jupiter, at one stride, reached the limits of creation, and said, "Where shall I shoot?" We are not Jupiters; we are not Apollos; but we can take our stand and shoot our arrows a little way into the dark. The utmost we can do is to be steadfast in our own places; be faithful to our own calling; draw our own shaft to the head. Father Hecker said a brave thing to me when, on declining my request that he would speak before the Free Religious Association, he took the ground that in a few weeks Catholicism would enter Boston in triumph. I honored the Broad Churchman, who said to me once that he always preached Christ as an historical person, and wished he had a church big enough to hold all humanity; and I admired the Presbyterian clergyman who commended the sincerity of Dr. Briggs, whom some regarded as a heretic. Fidelity to one's own word and gift is the one thing needful here.

Whether it be the tendency of modern thought, or whether it be not, to abandon the Christian religion and cast discredit on every kind of faith held by the churches and professors throughout the world, cannot, in this generation, be decided. In any event, we shall not be left desolate. For nature will remain, with its unfathomable resources of use and beauty. The mind will remain, with its infinite faculties of reason and imagination. The heart will remain, with its insatiable affections and desires. Conscience will remain, with its sense of duty. The sentiments of awe, wonder, admiration, worship, will not expire. The reconstructive powers will still be active, and every creative quality will continue in full operation. Knowledge, literature, art, will live and flourish in new manifestations; and no original capacity will lie unemployed.

We should have learned by this time that nothing dies before its hour has come; that processes of recuperation keep even pace with processes of decay; that forms alone perish while principles endure; that living things become more mighty and glorious as they throw off encumbrances; that strength always in the end accompanies simplicity.

The idea of God has passed through several phases, and each new phase has been a gain. The deity who was an individual has become a person; the attributes of personality, as commonly understood, have disappeared, so that pantheism has succeeded to a mechanical theism; God has become a name for our most exalted feelings, so that instead of saying "God is Spirit," some read "Spirit is God"; yet the ancient reverence more than persists, is on the increase. And if the course of disintegration of the old clumsy conception should go on, there need be no apprehension that loving veneration will decline.

The future life is no longer associated with retribution, and immortality means opportunity instead of doom. Should the doctrine of moral influence follow upon the doctrine of spiritual progression, the essential significance of the tenet would be preserved, for that is ethical not individual.

Prayer, too, is no more a begging for favors, or an act of intercession. Supplication for outward benefits has given place to petition for spiritual gifts, and this to pure aspiration, the desire for excellence; still the soul's passion is as deep as ever, perhaps deeper.

If Mr. Tyndall's prophecy should be fulfilled, and we should come to "discover in that matter which we, in our ignorance, and notwithstanding our professed reverence for its Creator, have hitherto covered with opprobrium, the promise and potency of every form and quality of life," then what we call matter would simply assume new properties commensurate with novel tasks. The properties themselves will remain as they were, and will in nowise change their peculiarity. The ancient attributes of mind will persist, whatever theory of their origin be adopted. The old sanctities will endure, and the burden of responsibility will fall upon another pair of shoulders.

Thus every virtue will be maintained in complete vigor,—reverence, aspiration, trust, submission, confidence, serenity, patience, fortitude,—and nothing will be lost.

Then there is the social world, in which we "live and move and have our being." This "encompasses us behind and before, and lays its hand upon us." There is not an hour in the day, hardly a moment of the hour, when the call of duty is not made upon us. None but the rarest spirits discharge the claims of mercy and brotherhood; people generally do not know what they are; repudiate them when presented. The preachers have more than they can do to induce practice of even the commonest virtues of good will. Humanity, in its grand aspects, is left to the writers of Utopias. Not a day passes that conscience is not over-worked, even when it is not perplexed by misgivings in regard to the amount or the kind of service it ought to render. Some have sought an escape in the immortal life from the demands of this; and some have denied the doctrine of another world because it drew attention away from this, and made the ills of the present seem light in view of some coming beatitude. In truth, the friends of that great hope will do well to remember that it is identical with moral attainment; that it is for great souls; that

It is, to say the least, doubtful whether any future life can do more than ripen seeds that are sowed here, or whether spiritual perfection will owe anything essential to other events of time, while it is certain that nothing is sure to abide but what is born of love.

Unless the doctrine of a future life can be used to reinforce the doctrine of moral attainment in the present state of existence, its power must depart. The cords of personal affection are not strong enough to hold the belief. The true inference from disbelief is not expressed in the words, "Let us eat and drink for tomorrow we die"; but in these, "I must work while it is day." This idea is a very old one. The air was full of it when I was a youth. It was the soul of all liberal faith. The Westminster Review, which was in full force in my early manhood, having begun in 1824, two years after my birth, was animated by it. The Prospective Review, the organ of the spiritual Unitarians, and edited by such men as James Martineau, John James Taylor, John Hamilton Thom, and Charles Wicksteed, a magazine aiming to "interpret and represent Spiritual Christianity in its character of the Universal Religion," was started about 1845. In its pages "spirituality" was intimately associated with "humanity." The books of F. W. Newman, "The Soul" (1849); "Phases of Faith" (1850); "Catholic Union" (1854), teemed with this conception. The charming verses of William Blake, published in his "Songs of Innocence," had somehow came to my knowledge.

In this country the same idea prevailed in the early period of transcendentalism, and gradually worked its way into the common heart. Channing lent it an impulse. His brilliant nephew, William Henry Channing, exemplified it. The transcendental preachers all insisted on it. The "Dial" was charged with it. The most kindling literature of my growing days drew inspiration from it. Brook Farm, Fruitlands, and every other attempt at association was built upon it. Modern socialism owes to it the fascination it has for the heart; and we cannot listen to a sermon now that does not throb with the emotion it excites.

For myself I must confess that I have no interest in another life, save as it encourages the endeavor after this human excellence. My mental constitution makes me insensible to sentimental considerations, to arguments addressed to private affections. As my first sermon was about the brotherhood of man, so my present hope is that love may increase, and that the reign of theology may be succeeded by that of charity.

This was the dream of Abbot Joachim, in the twelfth century, the Cistercian monk, founder of the monastery of Floris, author of "The Everlasting Gospel." It was his notion that the existing era of Christianity was passing away. According to him, there were three dispensations, corresponding to the three persons in the Trinity—that of the Father, that of the Son, that of the Spirit,—the dispensation of Awe, the dispensation of Wisdom, and the dispensation of Love. The first was represented by Peter, the organizer, the patron saint of Romanism; the second, by Paul, the preacher of the Word, the bulwark of Protestantism; the third by John, the seer, the beloved disciple, the apostle of love. How much the pious man meant by this we cannot tell. His own contemporaries were divided in opinion; but a pretty fair commentary is furnished, in the fact that his writing was condemned by two Councils—that of the Lateran in 1215, and of Arles in 1260,—and that he has ever since been classed among the mystics—that is, the unintelligible and the unbalanced in mind.

True the prophecy has not been literally fulfilled, inasmuch as the first two dispositions are still in force, and are likely to be for many a day, but the essence of it has come to pass. Romanism has been deprived of its temporal authority, and is reduced to a picturesque form of faith; its disciples easily throw off its bondage, while its new professors never put it on. Protestantism is decomposing under the influence of doubt and criticism. The thought of brotherhood is extending. I have small faith that the time will ever come when all people will worship under one form, or will accept the same mode of believing. I cannot think that at the name of Jesus every knee will bow, or that every tongue will make confession of his Lordship; but I do believe that the reign of justice and good-will shall be established. It is a great deal to hope for a time when the many will submit to the law of reason, becoming strong enough to withstand the force of authority in church or creed, and content with charity.

We have gained much since Joachim's day. We have acquired knowledge, industry, civilization, freedom, enterprise, intelligence, the sense of mutual dependence. The bars of prejudice are being taken down. Class distinctions are being abolished. Newly discovered arts are bringing men nearer together, and weaving the ties of fraternity. All this is opportunity—opportunity that immediately precedes performance. When we see the road prepared for the Spirit, we may be sure that the Spirit itself is not far off.