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ART. II.-The Typology of Scripture; or the Doctrine of Types investigated in its principles, and applied to the Explanation of the earlier Revelations of God, considered as preparatory exhibitions of the leading Truths of the Gospel. With an Appendix on the Restoration of the Jews. By the Rev. PATRICK FAIRBAIRN, Salton. Edinburgh: Thomas Clark. 1845.

THERE are strange parallelisms in the different kinds of truth, which, the more they are searched into, surprise us the more, alike by their beauty and their exactness. Each separate order of truth seems to have its separate orbit, yet all have but one centre. One mind, one purpose, one law, one principle may be traced throughout them all. The different orders of truth displayed in the inanimate, the animate, the sentient, the intelligent creation, are instances of what we mean. They are very widely different from each other, yet they present innumerable points of curious coincidence, connection, and likeness. They form so many separate strata, superimposed upon each other, most diverse in structure and formation, yet full of resemblances and indentations the one into the other.

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Man's course is between two of these parallel strata. He walks upon the uppermost of the material, but under the lowest of the immaterial. All the former are under his feet,-all the latter are above or within him. All that is beneath him,-the visible, the tangible, the sensible, he can grasp, he can name, he can point to, he can discourse of, easily and directly. intricate process needs to be resorted to; no complex sign requires to be invented. There is nothing required but an equation of the simplest kind. At the most, it is but the adding or subtracting of similar or kindred facts. The earth, the sea, the hills, the woods, the rivers, these are some of the objects of the material strata, which can be easily grasped, and named, and spoken of, by simple signs. The addition or subtraction of certain facts observed in each, enables us to speak of them in whole or in part according as we desire. If I speak of the sea, I use a word expressive of certain visible or tangible properties observable in the object. If I speak of the Atlantic Sea, I use a word which expresses the subtraction of certain parts from the former object. If I speak of a wave, I use a word which is founded upon the observation of a still greater subtraction from the parts or properties of the original object.

All this is so far simple. It is merely the understanding finding or inventing a sign for what the senses have observed, and that sign not an arbitrary one, but naturally suggested by the

objects themselves. The contact of our senses with these objects has set us a-thinking about them; and our desire to remember, register, and communicate these thoughts, has led us to devise these primary and simple signs, expressive of the material objects around us.

But all this merely refers to what we have called the lower and material strata of things, on the surface of which man is walking. He has, however, something more to arrest his eye, and occupy his thoughts, and exercise his invention. There is a vast, an infinite world above and within him, and this world is all immaterial and impalpable. It is altogether different from the former. It is not less real or true, but then it cannot be grasped or observed by any of his senses. It is far more mysterious and incomprehensible, approaching very near, nay, surrounding him at every point, yet stretching up and away into infinite heights, unsearchable recesses, and unfathomable depths. In thinking and speaking of this inner and upper world, he is at an entire stand. It is so vast, so glorious, so real, yet so inaccessible and so impalpable! In the former case, that of the world beneath his feet, he was like one grasping some sand upon the sea-shore,—a thing easily and simply done. In this, however, he is like one attempting to grasp the mighty rock, whose broad base that sand is circling; or rather, we might say, like one seeking to lay hold of the thin mist or thinner air.

What is he to do? How is he to fasten his thoughts upon these immaterial objects, so as to lay hold of them, understand them, speak of them, record them and his own thoughts regarding them? Direct signs are impossible, for these objects are silent and intangible. They and the senses do not come into direct contact, and hold no immediate communication together.

An interpreter is needed. He must have some instrument by which he can fix his thoughts upon this solid rock,-some wedge which he can force into its crevices to detach fragments for his use, something to enable him to understand, to grasp, and speak of this immaterial world with which he is compassed about.

As he passes along between the two parallel strata of truth,the one beneath his feet, and quite intelligible,-the other above his head, and altogether mysterious and incomprehensible,-he perceives that at certain points these two separate strata touch each other, and are in a considerable degree assimilated to each other. He observes some things common between them,―common facts, common features, common principles, common laws, indications of oneness in certain things, and up to a certain extent. These resemblances he at once seizes on, as means for grasping the rest. By means of these, he gets an insight into

the infinite world, which, stretching out in its invisible and impalpable vastness on every side, seemed to mock every effort at comprehension. By means of that part of truth which he does comprehend, he learns to lay hold of that which hitherto had been nothing but an undefined region of mysterious majesty.

An idea of a spiritual or immaterial object is not a thing to be learned at once or grasped in a moment. It must enter the mind in parts and pieces; and these parts or pieces make good their passage into the mind, under cover of some material fact, or what we call emblem. This fact is a thing already understood; we keep it constantly before us; we fix specially upon its prominent and characteristic points; we revolve these day by day; in them there seems to be wrapt up a principle, an idea different from them, yet connected with them, and with which, by reason of this connection, we have become familiar. As we contemplate this idea, it seems to disengage itself from its material inclosure, and rise upwards; and we find that in reality it forms part of a higher circle of truths, and belongs to that very region which we had deemed so entirely inaccessible. While we knew it only in connection with the lower order of material facts, we had learned to think of it, and speak of it, by some particular name or sign. That name or sign we still retain, now that we have discovered that it belongs to a higher and immaterial order of truths.

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This formation of ideas-this extraction of the spiritual from the material, is a process continually going on. It is the natural process in the mind of a being composed of soul and body, and surrounded on every side by the material and the immaterial world. The former is the hand by which he grasps the latterthe ladder by which he ascends from one region of truth to another. Long familiar with certain palpable facts or objects, he begins to perceive or infer certain ideas or principles as suggested by them; these at length, the more they are contemplated, assume more of an immaterial character; and as they do so, to come out from the materialism which suggested them, till, rising upwards by their own buoyancy, they connect themselves with the superior and spiritual order of truth, and carry up with them the soul, which otherwise had remained linked with the materialism of earth. Though thus transferred to the higher strata, they still retain old material names and associations, and are still spoken of and thought of through their old material signs. This process of disengaging the spiritual from the material element; the inaccessible from the accessible; the incomprehensi ble from the comprehensible, is nothing else than the way in which the mind advances in its onward progress from infancy. This is

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the way in which we learn, and know, and expand in mind and soul. The spiritual is at first unintelligible to us. We learn it by our observations upon the material. The points where they meet and come into contact with each other, the common principles-the common laws,--these, carefully pondered, gradually remove the indefiniteness of the spiritual-give them shape, distinctness-till, by degrees, they become equally intelligible with their cognates, while, at the same time, nothing of their spirituality has been parted with. It is not that we have found a material element in the spiritual, but we have found a spiritual element in the material.

It has been remarked that "the use of natural history is to give us aid in supernatural history. The use of the outer creation is to give us language for the beings and changes of the inward creation. Every word which is used to express a moral or intellectual fact, if traced to its root, is found to be borrowed from some material appearance: right originally means straight; wrong means twisted; spirit primarily means wind; transgression the crossing of a line. . . But it is not words only that are emblematic; it is things which are emblematic. Every natural fact is a symbol of some spiritual fact; every appearance in nature corresponds to some state of the mind, and that state of the mind can only be described by presenting that natural appearance as its picture. A cunning man is a fox; a firm man is a rock; a learned man is a torch; light and darkness are our familiar expressions for knowledge and ignorance; visible distance behind and before us is respectively our image of memory and hope. . There is nothing capricious in these analogies, but they are constant, and pervade nature. They are not the dreams of a few poets here and there; but man is an analogist, and studies relations in all objects. He is placed in the centre of beings, and a ray of relation passes from every other being to him. . . Because of this radical correspondence between visible things and human thoughts, savages, who have only what is necessary, converse in figures. As we go back in history, language becomes more picturesque, until its infancy, when it is all poetry, or all spiritual facts are represented by natural symbols. The same symbols are found to make the original elements of all languages."

This immaterial element, thus disengaging itself out of material facts, not only furnishes us with a key for unlocking whole ranges of kindred truth,—not only expands the soul and fits it for comprehending what is spiritual, but unconsciously operates upon the whole man, moulding his character, habits, and feelings. We not merely extract a positive amount of abstract truth from visible objects, we are not merely put in possession of a clue

which will lead us far into the recesses of many a spiritual labyrinth; but we are brought under an influence which is not the less effective because it is unfelt. Thus we find that races inhabiting mountainous regions are peculiar in mind, imbibing a solemnity, a majesty, a tenacity of character belonging to no other race. In like manner, the inhabitants of plains, or of the wilderness, or of the sea-coast, or of rich, flowery expanses, have each their own characteristic, with which they have unconsciously been impregnated from the scenes around them. Their country has spoken to them, and they have listened and obeyed; their mountains have spoken, and they have given reverent heed; their plains have spoken, and they have heard; their flowery meads have spoken, and they have heard; their seas have spoken, and their soul hath echoed the voice. Each object has a voice which the soul hears and unconsciously obeys. As has been well and eloquently said, ' every natural process is but the version of a mo ral sentence. The moral law lies at the centre of nature, and radiates to the circumference. It is the pith and marrow of every substance, every relation, and every process. All things with which we deal preach to us. What is a farm but a mute gospel! The chaff and the wheat, weeds and plants, blight, rain, insects, sun! It is a sacred emblem, from the first furrow of spring to the last stack which the snow of winter overtakes in the fields. Nor can it be doubted that this moral sentiment which thus scents the air, and grows in the grain, and impregnates the waters of the world, is sought by man, and sinks into his soul. The moral influence of nature upon every individual is that amount of truth which it illustrates to him. Who can estimate this? Who can guess how much firmness the sea-beaten rock has taught the fisherman? How much tranquillity has been reflected to man from the azure sky, over whose unspotted deeps the winds for evermore drive flocks of stormy clouds, and leave no wrinkle or stain?

In farther illustration of the ways in which natural phenomena became materials of thought, suggesters of thought and signs for expressing thought, let us observe the curious way in which words belonging to one of the senses are interchanged with those belonging to another. What apparent connection has the sense of taste with that of hearing, yet we hear of words sweeter than honey, μελιτος γλυκιων ρεεν άνδη ? What connection has the human voice with metals; yet we read of voices that are 'silver-sweet,' and Schiller speaks of music silver clear.' Shakspeare speaks of 'velvet friends,' 'vinegar aspect,' 'golden sleep.' Milton speaks of 'liquid notes,' 'melodious tears,' 'golden days and golden deeds. Goëthe calls architecture frozen music." 6 A Gothic church,' says Coleridge, 'is a petrified religion.' In these, and numerous

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