pose as heroes by so doing. Semmler even goes so far as to say, “Not every one must be of our religion.”
In general men find it more difficult to believe in miracles than in traditions of miracles; and many a Jew or Turk who is now ready to be shot down for the sake of his traditions would have remained perfectly indifferent to the actual miracle itself. For, at the time of its happening, there is nothing beyond the plain event to lend a marvel additional colour. To give a physical explanation of facts is no more free-thought than to count them deception is blasphemy. In general, to deny a fact is in itself an innocent thing; but in the world it may be dangerous in so far as it leads us to contradict others who have taken its truth under their protection. Many a matter, itself of no importance, is given importance by the fact of its being accepted by people of reputation—by people whom, without actually knowing why, we consider to be of some consequence. Miracles must be seen from a distance to be believed in, just as clouds must, to be taken for solid bodies.
Nothing gives me more pleasure, when my sympathies or antipathies outrun my reason, than to ferret out in what way they may be connected with that faculty—or in other words, to become conscious that in the world I am, or why I am, what I am. Indeed it seems to me that our entire philosophy consists in this—I mean in our becoming definitely conscious of what we already mechanically are. It
