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 the emphasis upon the object of knowledge, “ I know this,” we have the other sense of absoluteness of knowledge: it is an assertion that the knower knows the “ this,” whatever it may be, in its essence or as it truly is in itself. The phrase “ relativity of knowledge ” has therefore two meanings: (a) that no portion of knowledge is absolute, but is always affected by its relations to other portions of knowledge; (b) that what we know are not absolute things in themselves, but things conditioned in their quality by our channels of knowledge. Each of these two propositions must command assent as soon as uncritical ignorance gives place to philosophic reflection; but each may be exaggerated, indeed has currently been exaggerated, into falsity. The simplest experience—a single note struck upon the piano—would not be what it is to us but for its relation by contrast or comparison with other experiences. This is true; but we may easily exaggerate it into a falsehood by saying that a piece of experience is entirely constituted by its relation to other experiences. Such an extreme relativity, as advocated by T. H. Green in the first chapter of his Prolegomena to Ethics, involves the absurdity that our whole experience is a tissue of relations with no points of attachment on which the relations depend. The only motive for advocating it is the prejudice of absolute idealism which would deny that sensation has any part whatever in the constitution of experience. As soon as we recognize the part of sensation, we have no reason to deny the common-sense position that each piece of experience has its own quality, which is modified indefinitely by the relations in which it stands.

The second sense of relativity, that which asserts the impossibility of knowing things except as conditioned by our perceptive faculties, is more important philosophically and has had a more interesting history. To apprehend it is really the first great step in philosophical education. The unphilosophical person assumes that a tree as he sees it is identical with the tree as it is in itself and as it is for other percipient minds. Reflection shows that our apprehension of the tree is conditioned by the sense-organs with which we have been endowed, and that the apprehension of a blind man, and still more the apprehension of a dog or horse, is quite different from ours. What the tree is in itself—that is, for a perfect intelligence—we cannot know, any more than a dog or horse can know what the tree is for a human intelligence. So far the relativist is on sure ground; but from this truth is developed the paradox that the tree has no objective existence at all and consists entirely of the conscious states of the perceiver. Observe the parallelism of the two paradoxical forms of relativity: one says that things are relations with nothing that is related; the other says that things are perceptive conditions with nothing objective to which the conditions apply. Both make the given nothing and the work of the mind everything.

To see the absurdity of the second paradox of relativity is easier than to refute it. If nothing exists but the conscious states of the perceiver, how does he come to think that there is an objective tree at all? Why does he regard his conscious states as produced by an object? And how does he come to imagine that there are other minds than his own? In short, this kind of relativity leads straight to what is generally known as " the abyss of solipsism." But, like all the great paradoxes of philosophy, it has its value in directing our attention to a vital, yet much neglected, element of experience. We cannot avoid (q.v.) so long as we neglect the element of force or power. If, as Hegel asserted, our experience is all knowledge, and if knowledge is indefinitely transformed by the conditions of knowing, then we are tempted to regard the object as superfluous, and to treat our innate conviction that knowledge has reference to objects as a delusion which philosophical reflection is destined to dispel. The remedy for the paradox is to recognize that the foundation for our belief in the existence of objects is the force which they exercise upon us and the resistance which they offer to our will. What the tree is in regard to its specific qualities depends on what faculties we have for perceiving it. But, whatever specific qualities it may have, it will still exist as an object, so long as it comes into dynamic relations with our minds.

 RELEASE (O.Fr. reles, variant of relais, from relaisser, to release, let go, Lat. relaxare), freedom or deliverance from trouble, pain or sorrow, the freeing or discharge from some obligation or debt, the action of letting go or releasing something fixed or set in position. In law, the term is applied to the discharge of some obligation, by which it is extinguished (see ), and to the conveyance of an estate or interest in real or personal property to one who has already some estate or interest therein. For the special form of conveyancing known as “lease and release,” see.

 RELICS (Lat. reliquiae, the equivalent of the English “remains” in the sense of a dead body), the name given in the Catholic Church to, (1) the bodies of the saints, or portions of them, (2) such objects as the saints made use of during their lives, or as were used at their martyrdom. These objects are held by the Church in religious veneration, and by their means it hopes to obtain divine grace and miraculous benefits (Conc. Trid. sess. 24).

These ideas had taken shape, in all essentials, during the early days of the Church, underwent further development in the middle ages, and were maintained by the Catholic Church in the face of the opposition of the Reformers, while all the Protestant Churches rejected them.

The origins of the veneration of relics lie in the anxiety for the preservation of the bodies of the martyrs. Nothing is more natural than that the pious solicitude felt by all men for the bodies of their loved ones should in the primitive Christian Churches have been turned most strongly towards the bodies of those who had met with death in confessing their faith. The account given by the church at Smyrna of the death of their bishop Polycarp (155) gives us an insight into these feelings. The church collected and buried the remains of the martyr, who had been burnt, in order duly to celebrate the anniversary of the martyrdom at the place of burial. The possession of the relics seemed to assure the continuation of the common life of the church with their bishop, of the living with the dead (Mart. Polyc. c. 17).

The custom of which we have here for the first time an account had become universal by the 3rd century. In all parts the Christians assembled on the anniversary of the martyrs' death at their graves, to celebrate the Agape and the Eucharist at this spot. It was a favourite custom to bury the dead near the graves of the martyrs; and it was the highest wish of many to “rest with the saints.” It was the body lying in the tomb which was venerated (see Euseb. Hist. eccl. vii. n, 24; viii. 6, 7).

But these customs soon underwent a further development. About the end of the 3rd and the beginning of the 4th century