Now, how is the poet to
convince like nature, and not like books? Is there no actual
piece of nature that he can show the man to his face, as he
might show him a tree if they were walking together? Yes,
there is one: the man's own thoughts. In fact, if the poet
is to speak efficaciously, he must say what is already in his
hearer's mind. That, alone, the hearer will believe; that,
alone, he will be able to apply intelligently to the facts of
life. Any conviction, even if it be a whole system or a
whole religion, must pass into the condition of commonplace,
or postulate, before it becomes fully operative. Strange
excursions and high-flying theories may interest, but they
cannot rule behaviour. Our faith is not the highest truth
that we perceive, but the highest that we have been able to
assimilate into the very texture and method of our thinking.
It is not, therefore, by flashing before a man's eyes the
weapons of dialectic; it is not by induction, deduction, or
construction; it is not by forcing him on from one stage of
reasoning to another, that the man will be effectually
renewed. He cannot be made to believe anything; but he can
be made to see that he has always believed it. And this is
the practical canon. It is when the reader cries, "Oh, I
know!" and is, perhaps, half irritated to see how nearly the
author has forestalled his own thoughts, that he is on the
way to what is called in theology a Saving Faith.
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