P H I L O S O P H Y O F L A N G U A G E. (continued 4)

And as little, or rather still less, would it be just to deny to the age all love—if, at least, an enthusiasm which readily and cheerfully makes the greatest sacrifices be a part of love. Consequently, I can not concur with the opinion which will not concede to the age in which we live the least spark of hope. Even though many of its expectations—as being at least precipitate or wholly immaterial—as being founded, in short, on naught—have terminated in naught, and even in their desired fulfillment, must have ended in a nullity—still we dare not, therefore, throw aside all higher, holier, and diviner hope. For in this we feel every earthly expectation, so far as it is real and well-grounded, will receive its final accomplishment, being realized to a degree surpassing all that we had ever ventured to look for. And even if dark clouds are again gathering on the horizon, and if to many an observer, whose position in the political world affords him a wide and distant prospect of society, the dangers menacing our own generation seem still more fearful and terrible even than those which have but scarcely passed away; still there is no need of despair. Rather, taught by past experience in like fearful circumstances, and recognizing in this lesson of experience a teaching higher than man’s, we will, even though our fears be fulfilled in the worst and most awful form, regard it all as probably forming, if not a necessary, yet certainly a most salutary crisis of transition to a higher state of divine hope. To this divine hope it is sufficient for me thus briefly to have alluded. For whatever I have at any time in my past life attempted—it may be feebly and inadequately—to give expression to, and all that it is my object to convey to my present respected auditory, and all that hereafter I shall have to say in this world, has had and will have no other end or object than to point to and to preach this sacred and eternal hope of a true, not merely earthly, but profoundly new era, and of a spiritual life advancing in it toward the perfection of majesty and glory. To gain a full assurance for such a hope, and to establish it to the best of my power firmly and immovably among the actuating motives of life, has ever been and will always be my first and dearest wish.

But still, though the poet’s distich, in its immediate reference to our own days, requires to be greatly qualified, I would, nevertheless, venture to apply it to art. At least, it admits of such an application; though in this case likewise it must undergo some restriction and limitation. As passed even on the present condition of art, the sentence is harsh, if not unjust. If, however, there ever was or should be a time of which, if not strictly and absolutely, yet generally and on the whole, it could with truth be asserted, that the existing condition of art “had neither faith nor love,” then might we go on confidently to add the inference, “How then should hope remain for it?”

I must once again repeat it: such a sentence, if applied to German art in our own days, would be both harsh and unmerited. If, however, art—which itself is nothing but the significant hieroglyphics, the deeply-moving and elevating song of eternal hope—should have for its basis, instead of a true and unwavering faith, one merely artificial and self-imposed, or at best, the unreal faith of feeling, fugitive and transitory, and unable to stand the fiery trial—if, too, love, instead of being deep-felt and profound, be but the cuckoo-note of a fashionable admiration, unthinkingly caught up and repeated without nature; then the harsh sentence we have just quoted, together with its sad inference, finds a due application. At least, it is so far applicable as it is true that in this sad deficiency of living faith and earnest love, we can alone discover an explanation of what otherwise seems so strange in the history of art within the recent century. If, after many a truly noble beginning, the further development and result corresponded but little and most imperfectly with the expectations that had at first been excited—if, with truly great talents and rare endowments of genius, so much has fallen to the ground, like imperfect blossoms, without maturing any useful and lasting intellectual fruits—it was simply because art was deficient in this its firmest basis. And partly it was, also, because she mistook and was unable to take her proper position in the times, or even if she did understand, was too weak to retain it by an abiding feeling of love. For the true position of art must not be misunderstood, nor the natural order of things reversed, if it is truly to flourish, and the age itself is not to be deprived of, or checked and disturbed in, its true enjoyment of it. True art and poetry are the beautiful crown, the promising blossoms, yea, the very flowers of hope, on the nobly-grown tree of humanity, as it widely expands itself in rich and marvelous intellectual development. But it can not also be its root; and if any where it pretends or desires to be such, there assuredly some strange perversion must exist, or some profound and essential defect must have led to so singular a pretension.

We hear, no doubt, in horticulture, of inverted trees, whose heads being placed in the ground, strike root and grow, while the natural root freely develops itself into branches and leaves. The experiment so successful with plants can not be imitated in mental matters without fearful peril. Here the blossoming crown, if reversed, will not take root, and never bear real and genuine fruit. No! an absolutely æsthetic foundation is insufficient even for this life, and much more so, then, for the next. Of the origin of life and the world, a mere poetical view of things can give but a specious and cleverly-evasive account; but as good as none of that of hope, of which, in such a case, it must wholly have lost the clew. If, then, that which is at most but the bright morning tint of hope should seek to keep back the sun, or would set itself up for the true luminary, then—supposing it for a moment to be possible—it would itself soon lower into dark clouds, and instead of the longed-for splendor of the full and glorious daylight, a dull, gray sky would cover the whole earth. This intrinsic weakness often betrays itself in poetry (and frequently, also, in other spheres of human invention), by what at any rate appears to be an inflated display, which, instead of concealing, does but create a suspicion of a deep internal hollowness. What I allude to may take two forms. Sometimes it manifests itself in an excessive luxuriousness—often we might call it a very deluge—of the most unintelligible exaggerations of sacred feelings, such as I regret occasionally to observe in our modern school of poetry. At other times it comes forward in an equally lavish and boundless prodigality of wit and raillery; sometimes, too, a serious humor lurks in the wit, while a mocking parody makes sport with the very humor, or a still loftier tone of irony, from its height of spiritual exaltation, soars above both wit and humor, and the whole work itself—nay, above all besides, and even the very universe. It is in this one-sided preponderance, and in the absoluteness with which reason or fancy is allowed to take a decided but exclusive direction, that the first cause lies of that alienation already mentioned as subsisting between men of a purely æsthetical temperament and poetical nature, who on the one side judge of every thing by the rules of taste, and the men of practical reason on the other, whose only standard is utility. This estrangement is only too apparent in real and actual life, where in the degree which we have supposed, and by the methods ordinarily pursued, it is utterly irreconcilable. They stand, indeed, as fully estranged from each other, and as hostile, as two wholly different races. And in this light a well-known savant, at the close of the last century, seems really to have regarded them, since, on the whole face of the earth, he saw only two races—noble-minded, elegant, and tasteful Celts, and dull, ordinary, and stupid Mongols. Here, however, I must repeat my previous remark, that, in these days at least, by far the greater danger is to be apprehended from an absolute ascendency of reason. For the rationalizing system of thought which results from such one-sidedness, is not confined merely to the schools and their scientific theories, but it too often extends its pernicious consequences, and its fatal and debasing influence, over the whole range of public and social life. On the other hand, the slight aberrations of taste, or (if they most be accounted such) the little extravagances of genius, may always be easily and promptly reduced within due limits, especially in an age like our own, so thoroughly pervaded with a correct feeling of art.

To give a solid basis to the whole of life, a firm internal conviction is necessary. It must be a deeper feeling than any that a mere aspiration, however beautiful, or any poetical visions of enthusiastic hope, or even that irony which exalts itself above both, can ever give. Now, for the attainment of this inward certainty and irrefragable science of life and truth, pure thought, though it does not form the only road, is, nevertheless, in every case a necessary agent, whose co-operation is indispensable. In the further prosecution, therefore, of our pursuit of the science of life, as deducible from the very notion of the consciousness, according to that theory of it which we have been developing, thought, in and by itself, must now, as we hinted in our first sketch, form the subject of a special inquiry. But here the principal thing to be guarded against is, the delusion that philosophy must aim at the rigor of mathematical certainty, and a mode of proof derived, on such an hypothesis, from that science, by a servile copying of its method; for, often as this has been attempted, it has never as yet led to a felicitous result. This misconception in the domain of science is something like to what it would be if in poetry, from an undue consideration of music, the mere play of tones—the rhyme and rhythm—which do indeed contribute to the ornateness of its figurative investiture, should be held to be the very essence of the art. Or, to take another illustration, it is much the same as if, with some of the more recent English poets, we should wish to make picturesquely descriptive poetry to be a peculiar species; whereas in truth it forms, or has a tendency to degenerate into, a mere faulty mannerism.

You will remember that I explained a notion to be a conception completely determined, both inwardly and outwardly (i.e., in extent and comprehension), according to the mathematical dimensions of number, measure, and weight. But this, perhaps, is the only mathematical formula that in the domain of philosophy is universally applicable. And even as such it only applies to the notion as a standard and fundamental idea by which we may judge of the correctness of its formation, and the completeness of its division into its several organic parts, or lower genera and species. It is no use further for the combination of the several notions into entire scientific periods and conclusions; for we may regard every complete system of science and speculative thought as some such perfect period and syllogism. But with regard to the notion and its object, it is unquestionably of the highest importance to determine whether it be absolutely simple or compound. If the latter, it may suggest many questions. If double, it may fall into an intrinsic contrariety, or be involved in a twofold want of harmony. If it numbers three constituents, we may have to inquire whether in its triple energy it enjoys a living unity of operation; or if possessed of four opposite directions, it may be involved in binary contrarieties and double discord; or, again, we might have to inquire whether the essential accession of some fifth element forms the living center to hold together and reunite the four which otherwise are divergent and apart; or whether the whole in triple couplets, or a double trine, forms a six; or whether seven arise from the union of a trine and quartain, either in the world of thought, or the realities of life and outward experience; and again, eight may be a double square in the one or the other relation; or yet once more, we may have to inquire whether in the still advancing inward reckoning and development of life, nine arise from a thrice repeated triple energy. And lastly, whether all these first elementary numbers are in various ways perfected and combined together in the decade.

Rightly understood, the Pythagorean theory of numbers—however unintelligible its single statements may appear, when detached from the general context—is perhaps as little devoid of foundation as the Platonic doctrine of anamnesis. The latter I have endeavored to justify, by explaining it in a better sense than it is ordinarily taken; the former, however, from a deficiency of original and genuine historical authorities, it is far more difficult to judge of correctly and impartially. In the first place, the Pythagoreans as a body stand very far indeed above the ordinary standard of the Grecian intellect and enlightenment; for Plato was but a single great mind, and stood almost alone even in the Socratic school.

The degradation of the female sex, though founded on the habits as well as political institutions of the rest of Greece, was decried by these earnest and deep-thinking men, who, in their reform, adopted quite an opposite sentiment. And if in their measures for its removal something seems still to be desiderated, and even something to be blamed, both defects arise chiefly from their having fallen into the other extreme of error, by proposing to give to woman a culture too decidedly masculine, and seeking to establish it as the rule of their new society. Women were concurrent and co-ordinate members of the governing body of the Pythagorean league, and an essential element of the splendid aristocracy of merit in this new model of life and society; which, however, as clashing too directly with the inveterate habits of their countrymen, soon provoked a revolution, and was entirely overthrown. It was, however, from this source that Plato, and also Socrates, chiefly derived their respect for highly-gifted women and their general view of the female sex; which in a degree, though very imperfectly, anticipated the purer Christian notion both of it and human nature, possessing on the whole a right but vague notion of the true dignity of both.

With respect to the theory of numbers in this ancient philosophy, and its true and simple sense, we have the following remarks to make. There is, we know, a certain chronological feeling by means of which the skillful physician strives, with acute and often happy conjecture, to determine the impending crisis of disease and its probable termination. There is also a similar tact which enables the experienced politician to measure the under-current of the rapid flow of mundane events—to feel the pulse of life as it beats in its thronging and quickly-passing incidents. In both cases, however, we feel that it is no infallibly certain and perfectly omniscient oracle—for none such is to be found in the whole range of the human mind. Neither is it any prophetical forecasting—not to speak of any pre-destined necessity. It must be regarded as a delicate and sensitive tact, which may deceive, but whose perceptions subsequent results most frequently prove to be correct. Now, of somewhat similar nature to this, there is a kind of immediate, searching, arithmetical glance into the internal and essential numerical relations of things in general, and also of all the objects of nature and phenomena of life, which does unquestionably form an essential element in every innate talent for scientific thinking. In some such simple sense as this we may understand the Pythagorean doctrine of intrinsic life-numbers in things and their manifold relations. Under such limitations we may adopt it, or at least allow its validity. And at any rate we must admit that it was an advance (or at least the first step thereto) in scientific thought, to be able, by this way of regarding things, to count, in the analysis of them or their notions, up to ten, or even to fifteen or more.

Thus, then, as regards the general notions (but only in regard to these), the mathematical view and method may be profitably applied to philosophy. In any case it is highly important, and indeed essential, for the correct formation of notions (and also for the complete division of them into their organic members, whatever may be the sphere to which they belong), that we should be able to determine the true inner number, both of them and their objects, since on this number the right quantity and weight of any one notion relatively to others, whether kindred or distinct, and especially to the whole, most intimately depends.

The combination, however, of single notions into propositions, or complete systems of science, can not, in philosophy at least, follow a mathematical or any similar principle. For philosophy, we have seen, is a science of a higher life, derived from an internal experience. It rests, therefore, on the triple basis, inasmuch as the latter is given from within, from above, and from without. Consequently, the great object here is, naturally, not, as it is in mathematical science, to link together, in apparently rigorous connection, the several phenomena of these higher data, or (if, as some will have it, there be only one) its single momenta, and manifoldly to concatenate them as so many pure schemes and formulæ. The essential point is rather to gain a pure apprehension of the imparted data of this higher life; and rightly understanding them, to clothe them correctly in words, and by giving these again in correct grammatical coherence, to express them clearly and forcibly. But this would imply that the method of thought in this self-cognition of life, thus expressed in words, is of a thoroughly grammatical nature; and then the higher logic—if we must so speak, and isolate and detach the latter, as an elementary science, from its connection with the living whole—the higher logic would consist simply of the rules for this inner language, and be nothing but a correct grammar of living thought. And, in truth, I for my part do believe that it ought so to be treated. And it is from this point of view, and according to the idea thus advanced of such a higher grammatical correctness of thinking, that I shall proceed, whenever any point connected with the form of thought and the right method of science comes into question, or requires to be noticed in passing. An instance will place clearly before our mind the different points of view taken by these two modes of judging and doctrinal methods. In compliance with a similitude which accurately enough corresponds to the truth, let us consider a system of philosophy as a whole period of higher thought, or as a perfect proposition of science. Now, in that estimate of a period of this kind which observes the usual requisitions of mathematical certainty and mode of thinking, it would be said: “This system is wonderful, and quite perfect, for all its positions are rigidly demonstrated.” But even supposing the system were thus rigorously demonstrative in all its parts, still the whole system might be radically false; for it might originally have started from an erroneous principle, or, being devoid of any truly real and abiding subject-matter, be based on some empty phantom of scientific imagination, or the unsubstantial absolute of the reason. But the same system or period of thought being judged from the opposite position of what I have called a higher grammatical method, will be thus spoken of: “It is all empty words, without worth or substance, for nothing in it is taken from actual life, and nothing of the kind has ever been felt in man’s experience.” When, however, the subject-matter is real, and furnished by the realities of the inner life, there, in the special details, much may be wanting, here and there a word may be missing, the structure of the periods of the whole system may not be perfectly distinct, and the general arrangement not sufficiently lucid: occasionally also a faulty and inadequate expression may be met with, and yet the whole work may, nevertheless, constitute a great advance on the road to higher knowledge, and furnish a valuable contribution to truth. With the exception of the case of the total inanity and perversity of view, our judgment must never be indiscriminate or rigorous. Scientific thought in general, and especially in philosophy, consists of notions, intuitions, and judgments, if only the latter term be taken, in its usual logical sense, to signify the combining together notions or intuitions. Now, of the true mathematical mode of proceeding with notions according to the pure and simple acceptation of the Pythagorean mystery of numbers, and, secondly, of what in its inmost essence is a grammatical method—their combination in methodical thought—we have already spoken. As to the inward intuitions that we enjoy of that higher something which is in three ways imparted to us, the mathematical mode of procedure is plainly inapplicable to them. Even the grammatical one ceases to be fruitful here; at least it is unsatisfactory. Natural science, which is itself pre-eminently based on intuition, will perhaps most readily furnish a comparative illustration, calculated to throw light on and explain that perception of a higher something from which philosophy sets out. And this illustration will be best borrowed from those experiences in natural philosophy which appear to seize the fundamental phenomena of nature and her inmost life; even though the experiment itself set before our eyes these wonderful phenomena, and the secrets which are brought to light therein, in the greatly-diminished proportions of scientific abbreviation. Extremely trifling as the imitation of lightning by our electrical apparatus may appear, still that little spark has kindled a great and universal light in the domain of physical science. The magnetic needle, which at first sight was looked upon as an insignificant marvel of nature, taught man first of all to fix his position on this earth and to find it again after quitting it—and so, by leading him on to the discovery of the New World, founded thereby a great epoch in the history of the human mind. Not merely does it point to the terrestrial north-pole, but it also guides the thoughtful observer to the inmost center of nature, where, in this mystery of living attraction, the universal key of interpretation seems to lie hidden. And who would mock or despise the thoughtful naturalist who delights, by the prismatic analysis or division of the elementary colors of light, to produce or copy in miniature the rainbow which spans the heavens?

Now, in these first simple and elementary phenomena, external nature, as it were, spontaneously presents to us beautiful emblems for still higher phenomena belonging to another and internal region. They enable us metaphorically to express the divine phenomenon of truth, and its vivid apprehension and intrinsic adoption, till it becomes a fixed and imperishable knowledge, and to narrate intelligibly the intrinsic genesis of truth and true knowledge. For the following is, if we may so speak, the history of the growth of living science in the human mind, whenever the latter is capable of it, and is raised or raises itself to the height thereof.

The beginning is made by the first kindling spark of truth, which works like the electric shock—by the first ray of knowledge, which afterward gradually expands into the nourishing flame of love.

The second step of further progress is formed by the magnetic attraction of the soul, which from the first contact to the ultimate union, strives still to penetrate more profoundly, and more accurately to investigate the object of its love. In this remark, I proceed on the hypothesis (which hereafter will still oftener be spoken of) that no living cognition is possible or actual without a previous vital contact and union between the knowing and the known.

When, lastly, the moment of completion arrives, then the close of this pursuit of a highest knowledge will be made by that full expansion of divine light which often, like a heavenly token of peace and reconciliation, shines forth in the very midst of the clouds of discontent, and dissolves all doubts before it. But now philosophy, according to the original sense of the beautiful Greek word, does not by any means signify the highest wisdom, the everlasting truth itself, or the perfect science. It denotes rather the pure longing, the love of a genuine knowledge of divine truth, which spiritually conquers and triumphs over every difficulty in the way of its attainment This, then, implies that this science does and must set out from love as its basis. For the indication of this foundation of true knowledge, in its characteristic features at least, natural science has furnished us with the adequate symbols.

LECTURE VII.

“FEELING is every thing,” I would again repeat; in words only does there lie a possibility of misconception. When philosophy sets out from the false semblance of necessary thought, it must always have a similar result. It can not extricate itself from its own subtile web of scientific delusion. Abstract phrases, i.e., words deprived of their living significance (if ever they possessed any) and reduced to empty, lifeless formulæ, are easily found, or, rather, have long since been found, for this seeming knowledge, which as such does, in truth, remain ever identical with itself.[73] And if, from time to time, it changes its expressions and assumes quite a different terminology, this is only done for the sake of appearing new, whereas fundamentally it is still the old error which continues to be propagated in a changed form and dress. Sometimes, no doubt, it is done with an honest intention, under the persuasion that truth and science will, perhaps, in the new magical form be more easily seized and comprehended than was possible in the old one, whose unintelligible obscurity and intricacies were deeply felt, and which it is hoped are avoided in the somewhat altered arrangement of the ideas. But the unintelligible obscurity lies, not in the words and phrases or the terminology, however strange and barbarous the latter may sound. It arises entirely from a defective point of view, and the perversion of thought involved in the very theory of identity; and no phraseology or skill of composition, however unparalleled, will ever be able totally to remove it. Quite otherwise is it when philosophy sets out from the feeling of that which it desires, and which from the very first it has propounded and sought as its proper object. In this case the difficulty does not lie in the thing itself, or in the view on which it is based. For the latter, inasmuch as it results from life itself, and man’s inmost feelings and experiences, is as obvious and intelligible as the visible shape and phenomenon and as the pure consciousness of life itself. At least it is sufficiently clear for all the purposes of life, and sufficiently intelligible for the kindred feelings on which it rests. But in this, as in every other case of profound internal emotion, it is extremely difficult to find the very right word for it, the exact appropriate term which happily seizes and vividly expresses its essential character. Accordingly, in philosophy—so long, at least, as it proceeds from this fundamental principle of life and a living feeling—I think it best not to shackle our thoughts and notions by the fetters of a rigidly-fixed and unchangeable terminology. For such sciences as are distinctly limited to a particular sphere, this method may be profitable and salutary. Indeed, it may not only appear but actually be indispensable. But in the present case it would be inappropriate. We must seek, on the contrary, the greatest possible variety of expression, availing ourselves of all the riches of language in the copious diversity of scientific, and even of poetical and figurative diction, and not refusing to borrow the terms of society or any sphere of life. For our first endeavor must be to keep our exposition vivid throughout. Continually advancing with a living movement, we ought to avoid, above all things, that propensity to using stiff and dead formularies, which almost seems to be inborn and hereditary in rational science. For as the living philosophy is a higher and clearer consciousness, or self-conscious knowledge—a sort of second consciousness within the ordinary one—it requires for its indication and exposition, as it were, a language within language; only the latter can never be a system of lifeless formulæ, but must even be in the highest degree vivid and flexible. The philosophy of life may, in short, borrow its terms from every sphere, but principally from life itself; and even, the fugitive terms and evanescent forms of conversational language will often supply it with the happiest and most pertinent modes of expression. Such, too, it may occasionally borrow from all the subordinate sciences. Even the obsolete and cumbrous terminology—the barbarous school phrases of a recent German philosophy—might furnish many a valuable contribution to that rich copiousness of expression which is indispensable to the philosophy of life. An occasional phrase or term borrowed from this source, but differently applied, or employed in quite a new sense—and thereby for the time rendered intelligible, may often serve to express most happily and most pertinently what before seemed to be almost inexpressible and to elude all the powers of language.

But, above all things, we must remember that its exposition must not be a mere dead framework of fixed terms—a system of empty formularies. This is a point which appears to me to be most intimately connected and mixed up with the very essence and spirit of scientific truth. On this point my feelings are so strong, that if, in that attempt which for some years I have been making to give a new development of philosophy, I could consider it allowable to adopt the course which has so often been followed in German literature and its several school-systems, of detaching some single notion from its general connection, in order more rapidly to gain for it, like small coin, a wider circulation, even though by so doing its peculiar stamp of intrinsic truth is quickly abraded and lost—if, I say, I could bring myself to adopt such a course, I should confine myself to opposing, and using every means to counteract, this killing of the spirit by words which in and by themselves have no signification. If it were possible, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see all the old and customary terms rejected and dropped, and new and different ones found for the same theme.

The philosophy of life—one, i.e., which sets out in its speculations from life itself and the living consciousness—neither can nor desires to be all-comprehensive; not at least in the same sense that that philosophy does which proceeds from the assumption of a necessary connection of thought. It does not presumptuously suppose that it possesses the power of measuring the whole sum of all that is conceivable or possible, and of setting it down as an unalterable result forever. It does not arrogate to itself such omniscience. But in one sense the philosophy of life may justly be called an all-comprehensive science; and that is in so far as, keeping in contact with the center of life, and, consequently, of thought also, and of knowledge, it attempts to seize and rightly to apprehend them. And so long as it does not lose sight of this center, but is constantly returning to it, it may be allowed many liberties. Around this center it may revolve in circles, now narrower now wider, with the view of contemplating it more advantageously, so long as it does not rest too soon in any definite focus of thought. While it refuses to confine itself to any fixed form of language, it may, with unshackled choice, select from the whole range of life and thought whatever expressions appear the most significant and happiest for indicating that fullness of feeling which is so difficult to give words to, and which indeed can never be adequately comprised in language. Nor in such a case will it ever be made an objection if, in the succession of its ideas and its manifoldly varied turnings, it avails itself of the same liberty, frequently coming back to the same starting-point, though always presenting it in some new light and relation. The test of the scientific correctness of a true method of thought, which must ever be living and vivid, is an internal one. It is independent of all such little and external matters, and it can even exist unimpaired alongside of many apparent irregularities. Here the case is nearly the same as with actual conversation. In both alike, when we would express ourselves on any grave point of feeling, and clothe it in such language as is likely to gain the concurrence of others, or, by making it clear, to enforce it upon the general conviction, we feel it perfectly allowable to follow whatever course may seem most convenient. At one time we preliminarily advance some question more or less remotely bearing upon it, or we take up a narrative or simile which will serve to introduce it. Or, it may be, by explanation we try to clear away some possible misconception, or, perhaps, to limit and determine some preconceived opinion on the matter, in the hope of removing or solving some apparent or troublesome difficulty. Some or all of these means we freely make use of in order that the desired result of our discourse may finally stand out clear and distinct before the mental eye of our auditors. I shall, therefore, I think, be justified if I follow the same course in these Lectures which it is my wish should leave on your minds the impression of an internal dialogue. In the seemingly rhapsodical flow of its thought I shall assume the same liberty. Far from abstaining from episodical matters, when they suggest themselves, I even think it essential often to introduce them; and by frequently recurring, under many a variation of expression, to the same leading idea, it will be my endeavor to place it in a still clearer light. By this course, in spite of its seeming tediousness, I shall be able ultimately, in a few simple ideas, to set the whole matter more distinctly and intelligibly before you. And, at the same time, I trust that the rules of internal language for the correct composition of the whole, the right arrangement of the words (if I may so call it), that internal grammatical order of living thought, of which I previously spoke, will be found to be duly observed, even though in the details many a term may appear imperfect and inadequate, and many a happier expression might have been found. The most vivid diction, even the best and most felicitous, falls always far short of feeling. “Feeling is every thing”—the full center of the inner life, the point from which philosophy sets out, and to which it invariably returns. We might call it, if such an every-day expression would not sound and strike us as strange, the quintessence of the consciousness. However, in its original sense (which, in truth, arose out of a very superficial and meager view of ancient philosophy), as used to denote the essential fifth over and above the four opposite poles of inward existence, or the four divergent directions of reality, which, like the mind, is also divided into quadruple dissension, the term quintessence is not inappropriate for this center of the consciousness. For feeling is, unquestionably, such a fifth, both in relation to the four great fundamental energies of the inner man, as the latter are manifested to us by experience, and also to the four faculties of the second order, which are composed of or derived from the former. But it is not only difficult to find an adequate expression for the full central feelings of the inner life, but especially to indicate accurately in words all the more delicate perceptions, with their shades of difference and distinction, which spring from it, and rigorously to keep them as distinct in the expression as they were in the actual emotion. Clearly, too, and accurately as the inner sense may distinguish between a genuine and a spurious manifestation of the higher feelings, it is not so very easy in language to keep them separate, or so precisely to characterize them as to exclude every false accompaniment, and to prevent the possibility of confounding the spurious and the genuine. How great, for instance, is the difference between the two kinds of irony which we meet with in the philosophical dialogue, either as introduced by the Socratic school, or as similarly employed in modern dialectic. The one kind, overflowing with skeptical shrewdness, makes illimitable doubt the end of its dialogical expositions, and is that acrid and biting irony which is based on universal negation. The other species, more amiable and benevolent, is intimately allied to a lofty enthusiasm for the divine and the true, being almost one with, or, at least, inseparable from it, since it arises from a sense of its own incapacity to comprise in any form of words the plenitude of divinity, as the spirit discerns it in truth. And yet, notwithstanding such differences in the expressions and turns of the dialogue, they often border close upon and nearly resemble one another; whereas the inner purpose, the spirit, the design of the line of thought, is often thoroughly distinct in the two cases, and almost directly opposed. In the same way, true artistic genius and its mere imitation are even in their external manner and productions easily detected by the feeling. And yet we often find words fail us when we attempt characteristically to indicate their differences, and to pass a discriminating judgment upon them. So, too—to illustrate this topic by the instance of wit—a forced humor, with its wearying repetitions and mannerism, or the ceaseless straining and empty play of an artificial wit, is very different from the overflowing fullness of genuine poetical wit, in which the lively genius of a sportive fancy is every where welling forth, and a profound poetical enthusiasm shines through the coat of ever-shifting hues which its motley humor puts on. But still, even here it is extremely difficult to explain one’s self, and to distinguish the different impressions they make. Accordingly, in a general judgment upon them, many mistakes and misconceptions are both possible, and are frequently made.

Now, in the sphere of feeling, the mere counterfeit, in particular cases at least, is frequently in its language so deceptively similar to the true and genuine, that at last the judgment can find no other words suitable to itself than the simple ones, “I feel it to be true and profound,” or “I feel it to be spurious, intrinsically vain, a mere counterfeit, and a cheat.” Again: faith, hope, and love or charity—(those three states of the soul-springs of life—those inward organs of the moral sense—those decisive acts and diversified forms of manifestation of one common sentiment, directed to the good and the divine—or by what other terms they may be expressed)—this sisterhood of spiritual qualities often mentioned together, and, in fact, closely allied and united, are presented to us as forming a complete scheme and all-embracing and significant symbol of a higher life. When they are felt and regarded in this light, they do, indeed, become such for all higher thought and science, in so far as the latter ought to be living and to have their foundation in life. Too frequently, however, and that not merely in the poems of an æsthetical piety, but also in many a dull work of edification, we see this triple symbol of a higher life degraded into the commonplace of a morbid fancy, which, in the gratification of an idle vanity, trifles with the best and holiest feelings of our nature. Even here, therefore, as elsewhere, a strict separation between the genuine and the spurious is very necessary, calling for and claiming all our watchfulness. But the counterfeiture lies not in the tone of solemn earnestness and depth of pathos with which men broach these subjects, or generally touch upon them; on the contrary, the affectation mostly announces itself in a certain external pomp of word and phrase. But now, if this symbol of an internal religious triplet contains at the same time (so to speak) the fundamental harmony of that higher life which is devoted to the good and directed to the divine, then must this apply not only to the inner but also to the outer life. In short, this scheme of the fundamental moral ideas must be again met with in the ordinary relations of actual life. In such a case it is clearly most agreeable to truth to speak of this internal and better life simply and unpretendingly in a perfectly natural manner, while a holy reverence for what is most exalted in humanity is best testified by an intrinsic delicacy in the mode of treating it, by the absence of all pedantry of sublimity, or affectation of a sentimental formality.

With an especial reference to the end of science, I have, in the case of these three elements of higher consciousness, attempted to distinguish, strictly and precisely, the true and genuine from the spurious, which often runs parallel to it, and the well-founded from that which rests on no right basis of reality. In the case of faith, we drew a distinction between that intrinsic living faith which is based on the feelings of personal experience and love, and that counterfeited imitation of it which is only externally assumed. In the case of hope, too, it has been my endeavor to show that, besides a narrow-minded, egoistic, and passionate and partisan hope, whose anticipations are seldom realized, but if so, only to their own punishment and disgrace, there is also a higher hope, which is both Godlike and divine. To this hope it is that art and poetry owe the magical charm by which they win upon us. But in actual life also it is the stay to which we must resolutely cling. For even though she be rightly named eternal, yet at certain particular moments and appointed historical epochs, after being long looked for in vain, she often appears in a far different shape from that which expectation had lent to her, and to our surprise stands forth unexpectedly in the full majesty and splendor of final consummation. All, then, that now remains to be done in this way is, in the case of love (since the earthly passion is for the most part only transitory, often confounded with the phantom of passion, and is, perhaps, totally blind), to point to a higher and better love, which is abiding and eternal, and, at the same time, endued both with sight and knowledge. For such alone can be of real value for the cognition of truth, and the right understanding of life. Such alone, in short, can contribute to the acquisition of that science of man, and especially of the inner man, which we are here in search of.

But now those three principles which constitute the grand harmony of that higher intelligent feeling which leads to science and also to religion, are at the same time, though in a less dignified relation, the impelling motives and ruling influences of actual life. For it is almost impossible to take one step forward in life without some feeling or other of trust and perfect faith in the general result. All our proceedings, in short, are based on some confident assumption or other, even though it is one which, perhaps we can not mathematically demonstrate, and which, when the moment for action is pressing upon us, we are unable perfectly to analyze. And hope, too, in some shape or form, is universally acknowledged to be the true moving impulse of our whole existence. So, also, love of some kind, true or false—it may be pure and lofty or mixed and sordid, if not altogether counterfeit—forms the very sum of life and of all enjoyment of it—ay, even life itself. An example or two, consequently, from the ordinary relations of actual life, will enable not so much to demonstrate, indeed, as rather to remind you of the difference which subsists even here between a trust and confidence that is merely reasoned out by logical inference—a faith externally assumed, and one that is the result of personal experience and confiding love. Thus reminding you of what in this life is manifest enough, I hope to set most distinctly before your eyes the difference which subsists also in the higher region of faith. Let us suppose the case of a friend dangerously ill or in a state of extreme suffering, and we are in search of a physician able to relieve and heal him. One is recommended to us of great reputation for extensive knowledge and of a judgment strengthened by long experience. We are told that he has effected remarkable cures, that he has never been known to lose a patient by neglect, or by mistaking his disease, and that withal he is very kind and extremely attentive. These, we are aware, are great recommendations: but he is a perfect stranger to us; we feel a kind of reserve and restraint toward him—as yet he has not our perfect confidence. How very different is the case when we ourselves have experienced all this—when we ourselves have witnessed his comprehensive view, the number and variety of his remedies, and the penetrating glance of genius in the moment of danger—when with grateful recollection we feel that we must ascribe to him either the preservation of some dear one’s life, or our own unhoped-for restoration to health and strength! Such is the difference between a reasoning faith on rational grounds and a personal faith based on our own experience and vivid conviction. And in truth this simile is not remote and far-fetched. It comes very close, indeed, to the matter itself, if only it be true that the soul is often diseased, and that religion presents to us no inexorable lawgiver of a rigid rule of reason, no stern judge of severe truth, but a wise physician touched with the feeling of our infirmities, and able to save to the uttermost.

Or let us take another case, which will go still more deeply and touch more nearly the very root of the social relations of life. An individual of high rank, as often happens, is about to enter into a lasting union with one of whom he personally knows little, if any thing. In regard to rank and fortune, of agreeableness of person and manner, as well as accomplishments, not to say mental endowments, he has the best and strongest assurances. But the character of youth is generally undeveloped. Not only may all that is morally beautiful, and every great and noble disposition, lie therein, but there may also be slumbering within it the violent elements of passion. It is only the full development of life and love that will expand the one or the other. The question, then, for one contemplating such a union is, can he have such a confidence in the character and sentiments as naturally ought to precede a union which is to last for life. She has received an excellent education—she enjoys a spotless reputation—her whole family stands high in the respect and esteem of men—its friendship and society are every where sought and valued, not merely for its rank and station, but also for its amiable qualities. Moreover, another lady of established character for all that is good and estimable, has the most favorable opinion of her, honors her with her friendship, and loves her as a younger sister, or as her own daughter. All these considerations are, perhaps, sufficient grounds and rational warrant for an anticipatory confidence in such a case. But how widely remote and how different a feeling is this from that deep trusting confidence which springs up after the union—which a wife’s conduct instils into a husband’s heart—when, no longer captivated by mere personal charms, but almost entirely forgetting them, he rather rejoices to notice and to contemplate those qualities of the inmost soul, which, being most congenial to his own tastes and habits, afford him a sure prospect of unbroken harmony and felicity in the remainder of their wedded life.

It is extremely difficult to lay down any general rule by which in individual cases the boundary line may be drawn between a mere reasoning faith, resting on external considerations, and one that is founded on personal feeling and experience of life, in its gravest and most decisive moments. Very often a confidence that in its origin was quite arbitrarily taken up on a cold calculation of reason, will suddenly receive a full confirmation, and pass into that profounder assurance which draws its strength from our own feelings and experience. And as it is in actual life, so it is likewise in the higher sphere of faith. In matters of religion, and of science also, that which originally was merely a belief of the cold and abstract reason is subsequently transformed by degrees into a profound faith, rising at last into an abiding personal feeling, and even a deep intuition of living truth. As a first beginning, then, and as the foundation of a better, and as the first step of a higher and fuller development, a merely rational faith requires to be treated with respect and judged of with all due allowance. But when it is set up as perfect and complete in itself, and challenging the most rigorous requisitions of science, or when it is put forth as sufficient in itself, then our decision must be that this self-devised rational belief is only a substitute for, and not faith itself. For this must ever be vivid and based on an immediate personal feeling, and on this account full of love, and indeed both founded upon and proceeding from out of love.

Properly, the three elements of higher life are inseparable; and it is therefore extremely difficult to propound any invariable law applying to individual cases, as to the order in which these three grades of internal development must or ought always to succeed one another. Essentially they are one and indissoluble. As faith and hope are based upon love, so is love dependent on both the former; and this is as true of genuine love on earth as it is of that which lives in a higher domain. If its faith be hostilely disturbed, then it loses its hope also, and the very root of its existence. If hope is entirely cut off, it does not, indeed, lose thereby faith itself, and its object, but it preys on itself.

That in which all these three grades of feeling are most perfectly united, blended, and fused together, is enthusiasm. All genuine enthusiasm is based on some exalted and elevating faith; it is a form and species of the higher love, and involves in itself a grand and divine hope. And this is true of genuine patriotism, and of artistic enthusiasm, no less than of the religious, which is most akin to scientific, especially as the latter was understood by the ancients, and according to the place it held in the Platonic philosophy. But though thus combining all three, enthusiasm is yet essentially distinguished from them. Enthusiasm is only an elevated state of the consciousness, which, although in capacity it admits of being durable, is generally regarded as transitory. Accordingly, it is of a passing state that the term is generally understood. But the three degrees of feelings are elements of a permanently exalted consciousness—of the mind generally, in its highest state. And this is even that triune living consciousness, restored again to perfect unity, and to fertile operation. It is even that to which I have been, from the commencement of these Lectures, continually alluding, and especially in the assertion that it is necessary to pass from the existing state of the consciousness—which is neither its fitting nor original condition—with its four parts, one of which is mostly divorced from the rest by its undue exaggeration, and to revert to its higher and living constitution; which return I spoke of as the essential condition of true philosophy, if not its very self. Now, if any should desire to give one common name to this higher, or, rather, highest, state of the consciousness, inclusive of its three elements, and call it enthusiasm, it would be necessary to add the remark, that this enthusiasm is absolutely one, universal, and of the highest kind, having for its object the divine itself: and that, moreover, it is abidingly permanent, and at the same time reconcilable and even really associated with the most clear-sighted prudence.

Some such a highly exalted and sublime conception of true enthusiasm is to be met with, and, indeed, predominates throughout the Platonic philosophy. So far, therefore, it might be said, that the essential in this harmonic triad [Dreiklang] of Christian sentiment was not wholly unknown to it, even though it knew nothing of the ideas of faith and hope in this form or direction. Comprising all in one, it gave such especial prominence to love as to make it by itself the very basis of science—of that science, at least, of which alone there can be any question in the present place, the science of the inner and higher life. For it considered such a science as being simply a love which has arrived at intelligence, and has thereby become firmly fixed, and, moreover, elevated to the highest degree of clearness and perspicuity.

The relation in which these three properties stand to spirit, soul, and sense—those three principles already mentioned of the consciousness, when in its undivided perfection it attains to a full, vivid operation—is somewhat of the following nature. Faith is an act of the spirit, by which the higher feeling, being distinguished and separated from all that is not essential, and being purely and spiritually apprehended, is set forth as an intelligent feeling, and consequently as a judgment, and in this light comprised in an imperishable idea. Love is the turning or directing of the whole soul toward the higher and divine, that is, even to God Himself. Hope, however, is the new life which emanates from them both, and in which the divine ideas become actual and active; or, in other words, it is the internal sense and fruitful susceptibility for the divine idea and its energies and influences.

Now, the next problem which properly comes before us in this place of our exposition of the human mind, and of the degree of certainty which is attainable by it, is accurately to determine and to indicate the true intrinsic essence of science. What, then, is it to know? How is it brought about and accomplished? In the next place, it will be necessary to explain the origin of error, which is ever opposing science, often imperceptibly deluding or undermining and destroying our convictions. This will, then, enable us to solve the questions and difficulties suggested by doubt in general, after we have once ascertained the place which is to be assigned to it in the human mind. And thus we shall at last be able to determine completely, precisely, and satisfactorily, the relation in which faith and enthusiasm, love and revelation, stand to science.

Now, in order to arrive at a full idea of science, it will be essential to distinguish its several elements—understanding and generalization [Begreifen], and also discernment—the different forms, too, of thinking—the necessary in reason, the possible in fancy, as well as the scientific cogitation of what is actual.

But before entering on this field of our labors, I would premise one general remark. It refers to the nature of that certainty which we have to look for and may expect in philosophy, according to the idea of it which we have made the basis of our speculations, as being the noblest and highest manifestation of man’s desire of knowledge. And here the examination of the words of a great and famous thinker, with regard to his own system, will best serve me for the introduction and exposition of my own views. The system of Spinosa—for I allude to him—is, it is true, in ill repute for its obscureness and unintelligibility. The remark, however, to which I refer, is wholly unconnected with his system. It is an estimate of his own knowledge, and is quite clear and intelligible to all, as every one will admit when I come to quote the words. And, perhaps, the obscurity of his system arises chiefly from the matter, and the position taken up, rather than from the author’s method, and the form of exposition. For, if only we can once bring ourselves to allow that the mathematical method is suitable to philosophy, we must pronounce Spinosa’s style most excellent. It is, in fact, remarkable, not only for the rigor and precision of its definitions and proofs, but also for the structure of its sentences and general composition, so far as excellence was attainable in the modern Latin of the schools, to which, however, Spinosa has succeeded in giving a wonderful evenness and uniformity of expression, having handled it with a facility never before paralleled.

As to the system itself, and the rank which, according to the position here assumed for the philosophy of life, ought to be assigned to it, it will hardly be necessary to enter into a particular review. Generally we have already expressed our opinion, and the judgment we should pass upon it may be deduced from the remarks which I formerly made when distinguishing between the two directions or views which, in its search after truth, present themselves to the reflecting mind for its choice between faith or doubt. One of these views of the world and things is based on the idea of the living triune God, whom faith embraces, love desires, and in whom all our hopes are centered. Now, this hypothesis implies, by a necessary and inevitable consequence, that the world is not self-existent, but, as we have all been taught, had a beginning, having been created by God out of nothing. According to the other theory (and to one of these every profound and truly scientific system of philosophy must in its essential principles belong), the world had not a beginning, but is eternal, being one with God—or, indeed, speaking absolutely, all is one, and necessary thought and necessary existence are not properly and essentially distinct, but only so many different forms or aspects of the one eternal and necessary essence. Now, of the latter system, according to the opinion of all competent judges, either of his own or our times, the work of Spinosa is the ablest and most consistent exposition that science has ever yet produced. But between these two systems and views of the universe, the philosophy of life can not long hesitate. Seeking to arrive at a clear insight into all that is divine, so far as it is traceable within the higher life and inward consciousness, and adopting and regarding it as an imparted fact of an internal, no less than of an external revelation, she can not be at a loss to decide between faith in a living God and that idea of one necessary essence which is at the same time both God and the world—an idea which, making thought and being identical, proceeds to give to all else correspondent arbitrary definitions. Indeed, the question can hardly arise for the philosophy of life, or if it does, it may at once set it aside. Now, this general observation on all such systems of necessity implies, of course, the condemnation of that of this great and famous thinker. It too must be at once rejected as fundamentally false. Such a censure, however, does not involve any thing of personal vituperation. All such feelings need not to be mixed up with it. For, in truth, it often happens that the greatest and most richly endowed minds, and the most single and straightforward characters, if they once take a wrong direction, fall into the profoundest, or, as they have been termed, the most violent errors. But in every case it is but equitable to make a distinction between the author and his system, however severe may be the judgment we pass on the latter. In the case of Spinosa, too, we must bear in mind that he was by birth and education a Jew. As such, he was not only without the pale of Christianity, but even regarded it with strong national prejudices. If, therefore, his system is not consistent with the truths of religion, or, rather, if it even violently clashes with them, he is scarcely obnoxious to reproof. At least, he is not half so much open to censure as those who, not having this palliation to urge, assume a hostile position toward religion, while their animosity is not relieved by any splendor of great talents, but marked throughout by the meanness and narrowness of their views and the ordinary character of their scientific theory and system.

The expression of this great thinker to which I have alluded, relates to his own self and the object he had in view by his literary labors—to his work, in short, or system. It is contained in a letter to one of his most intimate friends, and runs as follows: “Whether my philosophy be the very best, I know not; at least I do not wish to decide that point; that, however, I have discovered the true philosophy, I have not the least doubt.” All this sounds modestly enough; and in all probability it expresses his real sentiments and opinion. It sets up, however, a pretension which I can not by any means admit. Spinosa here takes the term philosophy in a different sense from its old and original signification. Among the Greeks, the Sophists alone derived their name from a pretension to perfect wisdom and science. But the followers of a true wisdom, from Socrates’s time at least, explained philosophy to be what its name imports—a desire of the highest knowledge, and a pursuit of divine truth. And this is the essential point which, involving a total difference of opinion, has divided the minds of men through centuries and tens of centuries, and is as yet far from having attained to a satisfactory solution. And herein the Socratic idea of philosophy, which is also my own, receives a species of historical confirmation which that other mathematical notion of it stands still in need of. But to return to our author. By philosophy, as indeed is clear from his very system, he understands a perfect science and absolute truth. Now this perfection of knowledge does not, it is true, pretend to extend to and embrace all individualities. Still it is at least intensively an omniscience—which by the further development and expansion of what it possesses within itself unevolved, would in its external comprehensiveness embrace every particular case. And can such infinite knowledge and omniscience be ascribed to any other being than God? If we at once acknowledged this, it would surely be more agreeable to truth to consider man in this life as being merely in a preparatory state, where at most it is permitted him, step by step, to approximate still nearer to the height of knowledge. If that degree of knowledge which is conceded to and is attainable by man, really suffices for the wants of life, we might, or, rather, to speak more properly, we must be content with it. Probably even that which it is allowed to man to reach, has never yet been actually attained to by any individual. And why in any case are we unwilling to wait, if, as it undoubtedly remains forever certain, that when this period of preparation shall have closed in that eternity which is really life, man will in one way or another arrive at perfect certainty and clearness of insight into the nature of himself, the world, and the Deity, and will also fully understand the now inscrutable relation of God to man and the universe?

Now, while we regard the last half of the judgment which this great thinker has passed upon himself, as a pure self-delusion naturally arising from, and, indeed, closely connected with, his whole system, we must also qualify the first half, and subject it to many essential limitations. The best philosophy that of Spinosa most assuredly can not be called, and this for two reasons. On the one hand it sets out with the pursuit of mathematical certainty and precision—an end not attainable in this branch of human inquiry; on the other, it commences with a principle fundamentally false, starting from the imaginary notion of absolute necessity as the original first and last illusion of the reason. Better, however, it most unquestionably is than many others, which, no less false, are with their superficial dullness, their half compromise and jumble of inconsistent principles, still more pernicious. Violent errors, to use an old phrase, are those which serve to give a new impulse to science, and arousing it from its stationary point of imperfect development, excite it to advance one step nearer to the truth. They serve to accelerate a whole crisis of movement and transition. In this respect, accordingly, a system of philosophy which is far from good in itself, may, nevertheless, be pronounced good in a relative sense. In other words, it is one the study of which may occasionally prove salutary and profitable. It will benefit those individuals, or even a whole nation or age, who are in the very crisis of transition, and capable of digesting such strong meat, are healthy enough to elaborate such a system of error into the sound elements of truth. That this opinion is by no means unduly lenient, or overtolerant, but that its justice is not unsupported by historical experience, is proved by the history of our national philosophy in these later days. Thus, on the German philosophy of nature, in the first stage at least of its development, the system of Spinosa exercised a great and decided influence, which, however, has now altogether ceased. All the most original, too, of our thinkers, whether they belonged to the older or later schools, who stood aloof from all system or party, have also paid his works great attention. For this they riveted by their wonderful simplicity and rigor of consequence, and their loftiness of scientific thought, even while they failed to win a general, much less a complete adhesion to his theory. But this feeling is quickly fading away. A great internal victory has been gained over its seductive charms, which is of inestimable importance to the cause of truth. It is fast quitting the field of human thought and inquiry; and if it still holds its place in a few minds, it forms there alone the last remaining obstacle to the complete triumph of the science of life and revelation—the last lingering mist of mental darkness and demoniacal illusion before the rising sun of a newly breaking day.

It may perhaps appear inappropriate, and indeed highly objectionable, to have spoken of a pernicious system of metaphysical error before such an audience as the present, especially as from the first I expressed my unwillingness to enter at large into its details. But I have, I think, a full and complete justification. A very similar, or, rather, the same view of the world and things as that which it propounds, and whose essential peculiarities I have, I think, correctly characterized as one of the leading branches of human error, still prevails, and is not confined in its manifestations to a metaphysical form. It meets us every where in still more accessible and highly-attractive shapes—in every form and dimension—in the interesting but simple tale, and in the magic creation of poetical pantheism. And since so many poets and other popular writers are a kind of half or whole, conscious or unconscious, Spinosists—to use this name in a wide and general sense—it would be to affect an unscrupulous delicacy, which would neither be in measure nor in season, were I to abstain from all notice of what is otherwise so notorious. If the philosophy of divine experience, with its totally different form and spirit, were but carried out as perfectly and completely as this silently-reigning system of rationalism, with its consistency of error, then should we at last be able fully to comprehend, and, to our great amazement, discern all that is meant by this its dangerous rival, and how very much it involves.

My object has not been to make a polemical attack, and to give a complete refutation of this system. Such a design neither lay within my prescribed limits, nor could it be other than useless and superfluous in a philosophy which took its position from life, and especially the inner and higher life. What I had chiefly in view was, to establish a precise and rigorous distinction between the Socratic notion of philosophy, as a gradual approximation to eternal truth and the first science, and that false mathematical conception of it which sets up a claim to absolute knowledge, and by a rigid observance of system, pretends to the attainment of omniscience. And this was a distinction which, both from personal considerations and with regard to the present undertaking, it was incumbent on me to insist upon, in order to avoid the slightest misconception. Having myself long since recognized the three categories of an elevated consciousness—faith, hope, and love—to be also the essential elements and primary foundation of all higher thought and knowledge, so far at least as the latter, having life for its matter and subject, must take life for its starting-point and foundation, I have therefore publicly advanced this doctrine. Still, nothing could be more foreign to my whole mode of thinking and feeling, or so directly opposed to it, as the design of forcing adhesion to my theory of faith, hope, and love, by the might of logical demonstration, or even the thought of constraining, by the weapons of science, the convictions of any one. Nay, even if I were gifted with magic powers of persuasion and irresistible eloquence, so as to be able to win the whole world over to my own way of thinking, or, rather, conviction on these matters, still I should have no wish to accomplish such a general concurrence in this manner. Such a method would not be appropriate to this domain of philosophy, and, above all, it would not be the true and right one; for philosophy must ever be the fruit of one’s own personal reflection, and invariably spring from an immediate feeling of a want and defect within, otherwise it can scarcely exist in reality. All teaching, therefore, or communication of philosophy, has properly no other end and aim than to furnish a vivid impulse to self-reflection. Beyond this it can only serve to suggest the limits of a right and lawful exercise of such meditation, and, by pointing out the road that leads most directly to this end, to warn against the devious by-ways of error which branch out from it at every point of its path. Every one who is in earnest in the pursuit of truth has, moreover, already within himself a principle [Anfang] of faith, hope, and love, in some shape or other, and not merely a principle, but a very system of them, even though it do not always manifest itself exactly in a scientific form. If every one who in any degree lends a sympathizing ear to my present discourses feels himself in any degree confirmed by them in that principle of a higher faith and love that is as yet in any degree developed in him—if he feels himself moved by them to still more lofty aspirations after the highest end of hope—if what to him is the center of love and life has been more fully and more clearly evolved by them—if his thoughts have taken from them a clearer and more distinct order and arrangement, then will the first wish and principal object of my present labors be perfectly realized, and attain to their fullest and completest gratification.

We would, therefore, for our parts, remit to God and the future all properly unconditional and absolute knowledge. For, irrespectively of the delusive phantom of a pretended mathematical method and rigor of demonstration, which is both fundamentally false, and, moreover, totally inapplicable to the present sphere of inquiry, such an absolute science, merely as claiming to be positive, trenches ultimately on omniscience. We therefore prefer modestly to acquiesce in pretensions more suitable to man’s position in the world. If, therefore, we confine ourselves within the prescribed limits, and are content with a gradually but steadily advancing approximation to perfect truth, as it is in God, we shall soon find that even within these boundaries a legitimate idea of science may be set up and advanced. And this science, it will quickly appear, not only contains within it a stable foundation of irrefragable certainty, sufficient for all the wants and requisitions of life, but also opens a wide space for the further exercise and development of all time, thought, and cognition, and the most ample field for all genuine spiritual hopes and pure wishes of a higher nature. In its free development it is by no means subject to the narrow limits of earth; while, as resting on the firm basis of experience, it is little affected by doubt, which, though plied with all its acuteness and with its endless refinements to the very height of subtilty, shall never undermine or essentially injure it.

I said an idea [Idee] of science. I did not employ the term notion [Begriff], as in the case of the consciousness; for the latter, in all its completeness, is given to us by internal experience and the observation of our own minds. In the case of the consciousness, consequently, the only point is to set it forth in a well-ordered and fully comprehensive term, as completely as it is revealed to us in reality. But of science there can not be more than one idea. An ideal standard may be set up to guide us in our attempts to attain to it, and to indicate the degree, measure, and method of its possible acquisition. And this idea and standard can only be derived from the highest idea of all—that of God, who is the eternal truth itself. It is thither that it must go, as to its first source. Now this idea of science, after the complete notion of the consciousness which I have already established, is the second result to which our inquiries have brought us. It is the second step of progress in our present development of thought.

Now this idea of science, which points to it as possible and actually attainable, and which also in fact leads us to it, rests on two assumptions. It implies, in the first place, that man must continually advance to a fuller understanding of a given truth, and, having the capacity, is also able to do so, if only he has a real and abiding wish for it. How, indeed, can it in general be doubted, that we are not absolutely incapable of understanding any given truth, when the very fact of its being given implies it in some degree at least, however limited, and when the very apprehension of the given matters forms a beginning, it may be a very imperfect one, of understanding? But, in the second place, the idea of an actually attainable science rests on the assumption that we are in a condition to recognize as such, and in its true light, the error which springs up every where in the human mind, and by so doing to emancipate ourselves, if not from every trace of its former influence, yet, at least, from its absolute dominion and tyranny. And since in this field of human errors we are at least at home, there can be no obstacle to our taking a full and complete survey of them, and taking the exact measure of their shallowness. This requisition, as well as the possibility of its accomplishment, is fundamentally involved in that old Grecian maxim, “Know thyself,” when interpreted in its more scientific sense. And in truth there is no ground to doubt its possibility, if only a firm footing—the ποὑ ςὡ of Archimedes—can be found for us out of ourselves and of the ordinary state of the human consciousness. And such a stable point is actually found and provided for us in the revelation of a higher truth than man’s. That a recognition of error as such is possible, and thereby the emancipation of the mind from its slavery may be facilitated, will be best and most clearly evidenced by actual experiment. We must, then, try to assign to each single faculty of the consciousness, in its present degraded and distracted state, the essential scientific error which peculiarly clings to and besets its exercise, or at least to point out the tendency thereto which is deeply rooted therein. And such an experiment may be made successfully, if we take up our position in the high point of view furnished by a consciousness restored again to unity and harmony in God. Now, from this point of view it is, no doubt, impossible, as we have already remarked, to assume or concede the existence of innate ideas—at least, not in the usual and literal sense. Innate errors, however, may well naturally be assumed to exist in the first degraded state of the human mind. Not, indeed, that there rules in them any blind inevitable necessity, but, rather, a false tendency—an evil habit become a second nature—which is only in appearance an original imperfection. And such have been often enough recognized in the illusions of imagination and the narrow limits of the reason; only the recognition has not been complete and total enough, and, consequently, not sufficiently explanatory. Indeed, the notion of scientific error, as innate in the human mind, must be taken exactly in the same light as the moral weakness and frailty of man in his present condition—as being, in short, peculiar to the whole race, and transmitted, as an inheritance, from generation to generation.

Now, to the knowledge of error, as such, is opposed the recognition of truth—the higher, that is, divinely revealed truth. And this perception it is that furnishes the stable point of intrinsic certainty to every species and form of human cognition. But here the question might arise naturally enough: How can man recognize a truth, which, nevertheless, is revealed to him from without, making himself thereby, as it were, at once its master and its judge? How, in other words, can he, as it were, know again that which is now first given to him, and which previously he was not in possession of. In this matter the case stands almost exactly the same as it does with innate ideas, which are not to be understood literally as involving the hypothesis of a pre-existence of the soul—and as it does with that eternal memory which, as connected with the theory of innate ideas, rightly and more correctly interpreted, is both justifiable and tenable. If man is to be declared totally incapable of this recognition of divine truth, then must he be first stripped of all the high prerogatives which the Almighty has bestowed upon him above the rest of the natural creation. The very last trace and vestige of the divine image that is in him must be erased and destroyed. Among these endowments, that which we may well call the dangerous privilege of free will holds neither the last nor the lowest place. God created man free, and free he is even in his relation to God. It is left to man’s choice, whether he will or not acknowledge the Deity above him. But this being the case, this free and unconstrained acknowledgment, so far as the choice is rightly made, by no means involves any exaltation of man’s judgment above the law of God. On the contrary, it is nothing more than a free and voluntary assent to the divine. However, it is the inward experience that we have here to consider. For the facts and external data of mere experimental sciences can only so far belong to our present consideration, as they bear upon the inner experience of the consciousness and the knowledge of human nature—as well upon that more exalted experience (which is indeed contained in the former) of a higher destination imported and announced to man by God. And this is the case with history or language. It is exactly in this relation that a scientific knowledge of either stands to our present subject. But not only language, but every object also in the whole domain of human inquiry—in the vast realms of art and nature—belongs thereto, or may be made a part of it, if only it stands in or admits of being brought into this relation to the inward and higher experience. Now this understanding of the truth that is above man, which is ever growing in clearness and brightness—this perfect recognition of whatever is erroneous and false—this ever-advancing comprehension of the actual, so far as the latter lies within its limits, form the three grades or spheres of science which, even according to this idea of it, may unquestionably be regarded as possible, and founded also on the actual and real.

The latter is an important point; as to all else, the different ways, methods, and directions of thought belong to the outward form, rather than to the intrinsic essence of science. Essentially, there is but one law and standard for all ways and modes of thinking. The necessary thought of the reason, with its strict logical concatenation, no less than the possible thinking of the scientific imagination, with its generally symbolical dress, must, if it would not lapse into error, and become ultimately null and vain, adhere to the actual and real, and stand and maintain itself on the firm soil of experience. It is only when the necessary cogitation sets out from reality that it is truly necessary; and in like manner is it with the possible. If it does not rest on the firm basis of the actual, it is not really possible and actually attainable. Without this intrinsic gravity and point of rest, the mathematical method, with its pretended rigor of demonstration, no less than the most ingenious but arbitrary hypotheses, are perpetually oscillating through the wide realms of infinite space—like pure fictions—not, however, like good fictions based on realities, for such often possess a deep and profound significance, but like thoroughly unmeaning and aimless figments, and unsubstantial phantasms. Against the intrinsic reality of the mind’s experience and its science, which is built upon this foundation of a recognition and understanding of what is revealed and imparted to it, of an acknowledgment of what is spurious and false, and of a comprehension of the actual and real, all the doubts of skepticism avail little, or, properly speaking, nothing. If, however, we set out from the unconditional science of reason, holding it and considering it really to be such, then there is no longer any safeguard to keep us from falling headlong into the bottomless abyss of endless doubt. In such a case, the human mind may for a time be lulled into a calm, which, however, is any thing but a true and perfect serenity. Between that arbitrary faith which is the mere creation of the reason, and devised for the express purpose of filling the profound void which man must feel so long as his heavenward aspirations are unsatisfied, and the endless doubts of his intellect, there is at best but a temporary and passing truce: it is no true peace. It is like some “Concordat,” which, effected with the greatest difficulty, and ever on the point of being dissolved by the mutual jealousy of the contracting parties to it, does but leave each member to follow his own devices, so long as he engages to abstain from all hostile interference with the other. In such a case, a complete and harmonious co-operation of the mind’s hitherto divided and estranged faculties is not for a moment to be thought of. That, however, must be sought by a very different path.

LECTURE VIII.

IN the domain of art it is an old and established opinion, not only that a peculiar genius is required for its original creations, but also a special sense or feeling is indispensable for a correct appreciation and estimate of the works produced by the former. Indeed, we can hardly call it an opinion; its validity is so universally acknowledged, that it is acted upon as a principle. In the same way the Platonic philosophy assumes for its foundation an enthusiastic aspiration after divine truth and a higher knowledge of it. Moreover, as it sets out from a consciousness elevated and expanded by enthusiasm, so it looks to the same for access and adoption. And this is the source of that affinity between this species of philosophy and an artistic enthusiasm which is traceable in all ages and nations, however widely different in the general character of their minds, among whom the former has in any degree manifested itself, assuming, every where, if not the shape of dialogue, yet some other equally beautiful form of exposition. Hence, too, so far, at least, as this is possible in the domain of science, the point of view of this philosophy is predominantly artistic. The more, then, that in modern days, and especially among German writers, the school form has become prevalent in science generally, and especially in philosophy, the greater is the merit of those who have striven to give to philosophy this artistic elegance and structure, or, at least, to preserve it and restore it to favor. And even if any be disposed to set less value upon this artistic grace and enthusiasm for the beautiful in philosophy than, in my opinion, is due to it, they must, at least, admit that it tends to promote a more liberal and comprehensive culture of the mind. On this account it is surely to be defended, and deserves our most favorable judgment. This remark does not apply, exclusively, to our own German literature and culture, and that devotion to the arts of the beautiful which is so peculiar to our countrymen; it has a general reference to all modern nations. A more artistic feeling is a universal want of the times to counteract the prevailing school form, and the preponderating mathematical view of the world, or, at least, a predominantly mathematical cast of mind. Accordingly, Hemsterhuys, who, in philosophy, adopted a view similar to, if not identical with, the Platonic, though writing in the French language, which was not his vernacular tongue, has labored with a masterly hand to give to his style the exquisite beauty of art. But still, notwithstanding this common affinity and enthusiasm for the beautiful, a distinction exists, and must ever remain, between the scientific notion of beauty and the mere artistic conception of it, and that fanciful view of the world and things which is derived from and dependent on it. For, according to the latter, the highest beauty is to the poet and artist nothing less than the height of truth, as, indeed, it really is of poetic and artistic truth. But, to the view of science, between the divine and eternal truth and beauty, even the highest beauty, there is, and ever must remain, a certain degree of distance, which, if it do not amount to an interval, is yet, nevertheless, a line of demarkation. Eternal truth is even God himself. And if, occasionally, in the Platonic philosophy, the Prime Being is distinguished and designated as the archetype of beauty, this is but a loose way of speaking, not exactly consistent with scientific accuracy. For, according to the latter, the excellence of beauty is but a perfect mirror, or a pure reflection of eternal perfection, but not eternal perfection itself. Indeed, in order to express its perfect purity from all admixture, and from every the least stain of the sensible world, as well as from every mist of earthly delusion that otherwise might cling to and encircle it, I should prefer to call it the holy beauty, rather than the archetype of beauty, or even the height of beauty. For the latter shifts and varies with the subjective tastes of individuals. One man sees the standard of beauty in an Apollo, another in some other equally sublime and highly-finished god-form of ancient statuary.

What, then, is this beauty, according to the pure and original notion of it, and relatively to reality? For, according to the principle which the philosophy of life assumes, we must trace every thing back to the real and the actual—to the actual and the real of nature and of earth, or else to one that is higher and more spiritual, nay, even Godlike. What place, then, does beauty here hold? what is its relation to the rest of creation, or, still more generally, to the whole created universe and its author? What is it in and by itself, and in truth?

Now, in that sacred language which treats of holy things, and devotes to them well and carefully-weighed expressions and terms, mention is made of a wisdom created in the beginning, and before all time. As, therefore, it is said to be created, it is plain that by it is not meant, and that we must not confound with it, that uncreated and eternal wisdom who is elsewhere called the Almighty Word, by whom the whole system of nature, and all things, were created in their original beauty. Now this created wisdom, which, consequently, as such, is also a creature—what else is it than the thought, the image, the expression and impress of the hidden and internal essence of the Deity—wherein its inapproachable depth and unfathomable abyss are outwardly projected and rendered visible? Is it not, in short, the exact mirror and unsullied reflection of the divine perfections? But, however we may choose to name and describe it, the creature—even though its creation may have been before the whole world, and even before time itself—must always be kept distinct from the uncreated Being of eternity and omnipotence, who, moreover, called the former into existence. Now, if we were to apply to this created wisdom the expression of “a soul of God,” which was formerly employed by a few writers, but which was soon allowed to fall again into disuse, from a dread of the misapprehensions it might possibly lead to, it would give, perhaps, a good sense. It might thus serve to distinguish this, the first of all creatures, in its pure and original beauty, from a mere soul of the world, or of nature, however ideally conceived. Only, in that case, care must be taken to keep in remembrance, that such a mode of speaking can only apply to a creature, and that of such alone is it allowable so to speak. For—in correctness of language and in the true meaning of words—a soul, as being, on the whole, and predominantly, a passive faculty, can not be attributed to God, in whom all is infinite power and pure activity, and who, as such, ever worketh and never ceases in His infinite operations.

It is this, the first of all created things, which, with its pure splendor, lights up in brilliancy whatever in the rest of creation still retains aught of childlike innocence and blessed purity. It is the inner charm, the spiritual flower of nature, the hidden germ of that paradisiacal loveliness which, though veiled in this terrestrial shroud, still gleams forth occasionally. It is even that sacred beauty which fills to the full the true artist’s soul, even though he is never able fully and completely to realize it. It is that for which the thinker, in his inspired enthusiasm, seeks in vain for words and expressions. All the forms and terms of language fail to reach its high excellence. For, in fact, so long as man, holding it to be a pure ideal, regards it as nothing but a thought or notional relation, he can not but fail to seize and apprehend this mystery of love in all its living reality.

And here it is that I would apply the words, already quoted, of a great thinker. They were used by him in reference to his own system of science and philosophy; and though in my application they relate to a very different matter, it is, nevertheless, one which has an intimate bearing on the first science. Slightly modifying his words, then, I would thus say: whether the notion of beauty I have here advanced be for the artist absolutely the right one—i.e., whether it be perfectly satisfactory and sufficient, or whether in its special application to a particular branch of art, and in the actual execution of any given work, it requires several intermediate notions and means of transition, and whether, moreover, several elements equally essential must concur therein—that I know not, or at least I make no assertion about it. And indeed, I see clearly enough that even for art and its perfect realization, something else is wanting besides the pure idea of beauty alone. This, however, I do know and am quite certain of, that, viz., the notion of beauty which I have here advanced, and besides which scarcely another will be found, is the true and right Christian notion, of which all the statues of heathen gods, all fantasies of nature, all mental ideas, are but single rays, faint memorials, corporeal images, or mere scattered and mutilated fragments.

The thought, too, of that blissful state in the infancy of creation—when sorrow had as yet no existence, and evil, with its many woes, was not—is a notion not insignificant, but full, rather, of rich influences for the higher and more spiritual aim of art, and especially for the deeper and profounder essence of poetry. I have, indeed, already alluded to this notion; and I revert to it because I feel it is one which does not deserve to be so totally neglected as it usually is. Now, the higher poesy was termed, in consideration of that Godlike idea of eternal hope which predominates in it, the dawn of an uprising morn in the world of intellectual culture and poetic fancy; but at the same time I remarked that it was accompanied by a mournful recollection of a great foretime, long since passed away and departed. Not that this sad backward looking to a lost infantine happiness of the first times is in discord with or in opposition to the hopes of the rising dawn. Rather must it be regarded as in harmony with it. For this feeling is, as it were, the reflection of that hope—the same light thrown back from yet another side—even as the lovely hue of the sky at eventide, and the bright rays of the breaking dawn, make a kindred impression on the fancy. In this respect we might almost venture to say of poetry and its inmost essence, that it is but the spiritual echo of the soul—a sorrowful remembrance of a lost paradise. I do not mean that the latter and its history, such as it is transmitted to us, or even as it has been handled by the English poet, is the only fitting or even a particularly happy subject for poetry. I allude rather to that paradisiacal state of universal nature throughout the whole globe—creation’s state of infantine happiness, before it was ruined by revolt from God.