Mathematics, an abstract
science, breaks down just because it is abstract and in no way personal:
because though it may calculate and time and even weigh parts of the
greater Universe, it cannot, by defect of its nature, bring its
discoveries back to bear on the other harmony of Man. It is impersonal
and therefore nescient of his need. Though by such a science he gain the
whole world, it shall not profit a man who misses from it his own soul.
Philosophy, too, fails us over this same crux of "personality"; not by
ignoring it, but by clinging with obstinacy to the wrong end of the
stick. The quarrel between Philosophy and Poetry is notorious and
inveterate: and at ninety-nine points in the hundred Philosophy has the
better of the dispute; as the Fox in the fable had ninety-nine ways of
evading the hounds, against the Cat's solitary one. But the Cat could
climb a tree.
So Philosophy has almost all the say in this matter, until Poetry
interjects the fatal question, "I beg your pardon, Madam, but do you
happen to be the Almighty, or are you playing Egeria to his Numa? You
are constructing admirably comprehensive schemes and systems for _His_
guidance, if your hints will but be taken.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25