atural and the spiritual are, somehow or other, to
be reconciled; the external world is no longer regarded as a place of
exile from God, or as a delusive appearance; it is the living vesture
of the Deity; and its "discordant harmony,[364]" though "for the many
it needs interpreters,[365]" yet "has a voice for the wise" which
speaks of things behind the veil. The glory of God is no longer
figured as a blinding white light in which all colours are combined
and lost; but is seen as a "many-coloured wisdom[366]" which shines
everywhere, its varied hues appearing not only in the sanctuary of the
lonely soul, but in all the wonders that science can discover, and all
the beauties that art can interpret. Dualism, with the harsh
asceticism which belongs to it, has given way to a brighter and more
hopeful philosophy; men's outlook upon the world is more intelligent,
more trustful, and more genial; only for those who perversely seek to
impose the ethics of selfish individualism upon a world which obeys no
such law, science has in reserve a blacker pessimism than ever brooded
over the ascetic of the cloister.

We shall not meet, in this chapter, any finer examples of the
Christian mystic than John Smith and William Law. But these men, and
their intellectual kinsmen, were far from exhausting the treasure of
Nature-Mysticism. The Cambridge Platonists, indeed, somewhat
undervalued the religious lessons of Nature. They were scholars and
divines, and what lay nearest their heart was the consecration of the
reason--that is, of the whole personality under the guidance of its
highest faculty--to the service of truth and goodness. And Law, in his
later years, was too much under the influence of Boehme's fantastic
theosophy to bring to Nature that childlike spirit which can best
learn her lessons.

The Divine in Nature has hitherto been discerned more fully by the
poet than by the theologian or the naturalist; and in this concluding
Lecture I must deal chiefly with Christian poetry. The attitude
towards Nature which we have now to consider is more contemplative
than practical; it studies analogies in order to _know_ the unseen
powers which surround us, and has no desire to bend them or make them
its instruments.

Our Lord's precept, "Consider the lilies," sanctions this religious
use of Nature; and many of His parables, such as that of the Sower,
show us how much we may learn from such analogies. And be it observed
that it is the normal