A chattering nurse betrays his danger to a sick man.  The sick man takes fright and dies.  Was the discovery of the truth of his danger very glorious for the patient? or was its publication very sacred in the nurse?  Clearly the truths that it is sacred to find out and to publish are not all truths, but truths of a certain kind only.  They are not particular truths like these, but the universal and eternal truths that underlie them.  They are in fact what we call the truths of Nature, and the apprehension of them, or truth as attained by us, means the putting ourselves en rapport with the life of that infinite existence which surrounds and sustains all of us.  Now since it is this kind of truth only that is supposed to be so sacred, it is clear that its sacredness does not depend on itself, but on its object.  Truth is sacred because Nature is sacred; Nature is not sacred because truth is; and our supreme duty to truth means neither more nor less than a supreme faith in Nature.  It means that there is a something in the Infinite outside ourselves that corresponds to a certain something within ourselves; that this latter something is the strongest and the highest part of us, and that it can find no rest but in communion with its larger counterpart.  Truth sought for in this way is evidently a distinct thing from the truth of utilitarianism.  It is no false reflection of human happiness in the clouds.  For it is to be sought for none the less, as our positivists decidedly tell us, even though all other happiness should be ruined by it.  Now what on positive principles is the groundwork of this teaching?  All ethical epithets such as sacred, heroic, and so forth—­all the words, in fact, that are by implication applied to Nature—­have absolutely no meaning save as applied to conscious beings; and as a subject for positive observation, there exists no consciousness in the universe outside this earth.  By what conceivable means, then, can the positivists transfer to Nature in general qualities which, so far as they know, are peculiar to human nature only?  They can only do this in one of two ways—­both of which they would equally repudiate—­either by an act of fancy, or by an act of faith.  Tested rigidly by their own fundamental common principles, it is as unmeaning to call the universe sacred as to say that the moon talks French.

Let us however pass this by; let us refuse to subject their teaching to the extreme rigour of even their own law; and let us grant that by some mixed use of fancy or of mysticism, they can turn to Nature as to some vast moral hieroglyph.  What sort of morality do they find in it?  Nature, as positive observation reveals her to us, is a thing that can have no claim either on our reverence or our approbation.  Once apply any moral test to her conduct, and as J.S.  Mill has so forcibly pointed out, she becomes a monster.  There is no crime that men abhor or perpetrate that Nature does not commit daily on an exaggerated scale.  She knows no sense either of justice or mercy.  Continually indeed she seems to be tender, and loving, and bountiful; but all that, at such times, those that know her can exclaim to her, is