P H I L O S O P H Y O F L A N G U A G E. (continued 5)

A note of these paradisiacal remembrances, a sorrowful memento of this heavenly innocence and primal beauty of a new-born world, seems like an inward and animating soul to breathe in—or as a thread of higher and intenser life, to run through—all the songs and exquisite delineations of a more than earthly poesy. Not that this ray of light ought or ever could form by itself the subject-matter of the finished work of any true poet. His subjects are generally, and indeed must be, somewhat more corporeal, being drawn for the most part from history and from life. What I formerly said of divine hope applies here also. Even while the picture of reality which is set forth is worked out most elaborately, with accurate observation of all its little and nicest traits, this purely spiritual and almost unearthly tone ought, nevertheless, to be present. It must be found there as the inner soul of the whole, however veiled beneath the outer world that is portrayed in the story. No work, however, in which this inner thread of life is totally wanting, is or ever will be in its essence more than simple prose, even though in form it be verse. Art it may have unquestionably, and wit, a story, and irony; all in short, that can be wished—any thing but poetry. For, except where its true notion is either already lost or fast disappearing, the idea of poetry can not possibly be separated from that of enthusiasm. The calm, cold poetry of the head, if such can for a moment deserve the name, is to the true inspired poetry of enthusiasm in the same relation that the spurious faith of the pure reason stands in to the living faith of the full feeling which springs out of a profound personal conviction and love.

Now, the full essence of this enthusiasm, which, according to the Platonic notion of it, takes in all things in its embrace, is in the Christian harmonic triad of faith, hope, and love, dissolved, as it were, into its three time-forms. For though faith has its root in the present, still, in every case, it looks backward to some past, whether of an extant or still earlier revelation, which at the same time it embraces and adopts into itself. And even in that faith which admits the revelations of history, or that practical faith which, in the ordinary transactions of life, places its trust in human testimony and the recorded facts of experimental science (since even out of the domain of religion faith is inseparably mixed with all that man thinks or does)—in all these kinds of faith a similar reference to the past might easily be pointed out. To the future it is that hope directs itself, while in love there reigns a full and intense feeling of the present. And even so of God’s everlasting love—this, too, has ever been and always must be understood as a full, intense, and abiding feeling of a never-ending present, which, without beginning and without end, goes on forever in abiding felicity. Besides this subdivision into three branches or elements, species or forms, there is yet another character by which these three fundamental Christian feelings are essentially distinguished from the single and all-embracing one of enthusiasm. To this distinction I have already alluded, and it consists in this, that whereas enthusiasm indicates nothing more than a passing state of a more intense consciousness, the three categories above mentioned contain not merely a transient but a permanent enhancement of it, or, in other words, a consciousness which has really become higher and more intense, and as such, endures in full self-possession and inward enlightenment. Accordingly, when we are speaking of the relation of faith to knowledge, this scheme of the fundamental feelings of Christianity seems in the highest degree appropriate to that philosophy which undertakes to show the connection between knowledge and faith, and the passage from one to the other. For it is in truth well calculated to lead to this end, even more rapidly and more surely than the Platonic fundamental principle of enthusiasm, notwithstanding the profound and essential affinity which subsists between these two views of the world and things.

With respect to the relation of faith to knowledge: we must remember that the positive dogmas of a fixed definite creed belong to theology, and lie altogether out of the domain of philosophy. For though a truly learned exegesis of Holy Writ most unquestionably demands a truly philosophical spirit, it is not philosophy itself. And this applies also to ecclesiastical tradition, as running parallel to and co-ordinate with written revelation. This enlarged assumption, however, of a twofold source for deducing a knowledge of the truths necessary to be believed, and for their dogmatic interpretation, as touching on a particular province of history, or as some, perhaps, will rather say, a controverted point of church authority, must be left to theology to discuss and decide. It does not fall within the true limits of philosophy, which properly is concerned only with faith in general, and the notion thereof relatively to knowledge. And here comes in the greatest of the distinctions between the philosophy of life (which is founded both on an external and also an internal and higher experience, being itself a science of experience) and the philosophy of absolute reason. The relation between faith and knowledge, as respectively established by them, is thoroughly and essentially different. According to that absolute view of the world and things which rests on and springs from a pure and necessary rational science, faith and knowledge stand in absolute opposition to each other. The only connection into which they can possibly enter is that by which faith is called in to the aid of reason, and in order to supply its deficiencies. When, for instance, the unconditional science can not by itself attain to fullness and perfection of knowledge, or, after all its labors, finds itself standing unsatisfied even within its own domain, then the transition is made forcibly, and, as it were, by a great and sudden leap into the opposite and totally different domain of reason, in order to seek there refuge and protection from itself. And this indeed is the only way still open, if not to a complete reconciliation between the two, yet, at least, to a peaceful compromise of the respective claims of knowledge and of faith. Quite different, however, is the relation between them, as set forth by the philosophy of life, which takes its position in experience and the knowledge which is based thereon. For, in the first place, faith and knowledge are not so rigorously separated, nor so absolutely distinguished in it as they are in the preceding system. And, secondly, as regards the order and succession of the two: here, in the wide field of man’s experience, both inward and outward, in nature and in his own self, it is faith for the most part that furnishes the beginning and foundation of knowledge, which, however, as such is incomplete, and requires further development. We have already remarked, that the positive dogmas of a particular faith, together with the scientific investigations appropriate to them, form a special domain of higher experience. This is a statement which scarcely requires any labored proof. And we need not dwell on it further than to remind you, that even here the faith, so far as it is dogmatically propounded, forms the foundation. In this higher region faith is the first and that which makes the beginning, while the knowing forms the further development. Descending into its particular applications, the latter furnishes an explanation, or, rather, elucidation, of the whole. Still it must all the while adhere faithfully to the fact of a revelation, and maintain its authority over the rational principle which otherwise seeks to depress, and does often actually overbear it. And so is it also with the first awakening of the consciousness. And even in experimental science, the order between faith and knowledge is exactly the same. In actual life, too, every great enterprise begins with and takes its first step in faith. In faith Columbus, compass in hand, and firmly relying on its revelations, traversed, in his frail bark, the wide waters of an unknown ocean. In this faith he discovered a new world, and thereby opened a new era in the history of science and of man. For all his inquiries, all his thirst and search after information, all his thinking, guessing, and supposing, did not as yet amount to a complete knowing—by such means he could not succeed in working out a full conviction, either for himself or for others. It was the given fact, the unquestionable proof of actual experience, that first exalted his bold conception into true and perfect certainty. In a greater or less degree this is the course by which all the great discoveries in science have been made; passing by a slow but still advancing process of thought from faith up to knowledge. And the same character of faith is stamped on every great and decisive act, every important event in the history of individuals or of nations. And if, in contrast with these grander phenomena, an instance be required from the first and almost unnoticeable beginnings of consciousness, I would refer to the first time that, with manifest purpose, the infant seeks and finds for itself its mother’s breast. But perhaps the force of this illustration may be questioned, as being drawn from what might be called a mere gratification of an animal want. I shall therefore take one which borders closely indeed on the former, but which does not appear to be so immediately connected, not to say identical, with instinct. We will take, then, the second moment of consciousness—that at which the child regards its mother for the first time, full, apparently of reflection, and, certainly of attention and meaning, as it were with a wish to say something, if it had the power to talk. And this eye, upturned for the first time, full of love and meaning, what is it but the first look of faith? And though even this opening dawn of consciousness involves a certain distinction and recognition, it is still very far from the certainty of knowledge. And is not the former instance highly appropriate and well fitted to illustrate the relation in which man stands to God? For that paternal heart, which, as the living pulse of omnipotence, beats sensibly in the boundless universe—is it not also, as it were, the full maternal fountain at which the immortal spirit imbibes its first milk, and indeed all its nourishment for eternity? In short, at the vivid point of experience, the first—the still delicate and innocent—beginnings of feeling are very often in close contact with the full maturity of the most enlightened knowledge, expanded and elevated to the height of its Infinite source.

At this point, then, of living experience, faith and knowledge are not so sharply separated from, or so unconditionally opposed to, each other as is commonly thought. The relation of faith to knowledge is that nearly of the beginning to the consummation. Such, too, is the case with experience and revelation, as the data of all scientific knowledge. These two also stand in close dependence on each other. Their mutual relation is something similar to that of the external manifestation to the inward energy—of the visible body to its animating principle, or to that inward spark of light which the body serves as an organ and vehicle, or as an outward garb and veil. In history, and in every science that in any way deserves to be called historical, the spirit or mind has been long and generally acknowledged to be the first and only thing that gives to the whole its true worth. And in the domain of physical science, which of all branches of mere empirical knowledge is the most comprehensive and most extensive, the case is precisely similar. The externally given phenomenon of the fact or natural object that is under consideration, forms only the outward investiture and is to be regarded as the mode of manifestation—the visible form—of the inner life, and law which rules within it. And man’s chief object in investigating the former is, if possible, to pierce its shroud, and to seize and to discover the inward law of life, as all that is most essential, and as the germ of existence, which is wrapped up and hidden in the outward and sensible veil. Many of the special branches of physical inquiry, such as botany and mineralogy, can only be considered as preparatory labors, which are to furnish the materials and apparatus for future science to act upon, and not really as sciences. When all the facts of mineralogy shall have been brought under one great and universal law—when the isolated results of anatomical research and observation can be reduced to one common physiological idea—when chemistry, by its exclusive analysis, and decomposition of matter into its ultimate elements, shall be able to discern, in the different gases and other imponderable agents, the various forms of the invisible principle of things—when a higher range of physical research shall penetrate the grand primal phenomena of the electric shock, of magnetic attraction, and the prismatic decomposition of light, and its artistic imitation for scientific purposes, then only shall we be able to remove the last veil which shrouds the mysteries of nature.

For the whole effort of natural science is indefatigably directed to reaching to that hidden center of life through external existence, of whose inner light and splendor the whole corporeal mass of the sensible world is but the broken and multiplied reflection, and empirical science but the chemical precipitate, the gross material residuum of its pure and spiritual truth. It is to this that all the results of science point and tend; every investigation in the domain of natural history, which in any degree pretends to be philosophical, likewise leads to this conclusion. Assuming, then, the existence of a God as the Creator of the world, what else can nature be than a revelation of God and divine love—a visible manifestation thereof in outward and material matter? And how, if otherwise conceived of, can it ever be understood or comprehended? Supposing also (what at the first we may very well allow) that even from this point of view much remains obscure, enigmatical, and unintelligible to us—still these incomprehensible, or, rather, uncomprehended, matters are merely a few individual instances. The whole, nevertheless, will, on this hypothesis, be found full of deep significancy, and satisfactory, not only to the feelings, but even to the inquiring and questioning intellect. But, according to the opposite view of the universe, though many, or, let us say, very many individual facts in nature may be acutely explained and scientifically understood; still the whole, if it be not looked upon as a revelation from God, but a peculiar self-existent entity, remains forever an enigmatical mass of indissoluble complications. Stripped by this hypothesis of its higher design of leading man onward to the divine, it becomes, for him at least, perfectly unmeaning. But when, on the contrary, the universal system of nature is regarded as the unfolding and visible revelation of the hidden majesty of the Creator, then, together with that other one which is written and contained in the divine law and sacred records, it forms one consistent whole. Holy Writ and nature, according to this view, appear two mutually explanatory and supplemental halves of that book of God which is written on the inside and the out. The inner voice of conscience also has often, and indeed from the very earliest times, been represented as a revelation, though of a different kind; and the moral feeling and its peculiar law have been supposed to be frequently opposed to, or at least wholly independent of, nature and the natural law. But even this internal revelation is also double, like the external one of Holy Writ and of nature. For in its negative prohibitions, in its gentle or terrible, but ever-distinct warnings, as well as in its positive requisitions, it is quite distinct from its other form as a feeling of devotion and of mental prayer, or of an illimitable aspiration after God and divine things. And it is by no means allowable to confound or mix up these two distinct forms. For the one is universal, however variable in its degrees of intensity; whereas the other manifesto itself rather by way of exception as an individual vocation, or, if the term be preferred, as a peculiar genius for piety, and a special sensibility for holy thoughts and feelings.

Now this fourfold divine revelation, embracing the two external branches of Scripture and of nature, and the two inner ones of conscience and devotion, has its seat in the four faculties of the lower order which have so repeatedly been brought before our consideration. For the memory is the organ of its written and oral transmission and perpetuation—nay, of writing and language generally, according to the intimate connection which subsists between them. And in the next place, the external senses, with which we may also associate an immediate intuition into the depths and mysteries of nature, are the organs for perceiving and understanding the sensible phenomena. Lastly, there is conscience, and, on the other side, a longing after God and divine things, as the highest and most enhanced degree of human pursuit—of the profoundest aspiration of man’s soul, and the purest desire of his spirit. For it is even here, in these subordinate faculties, where the deep decline and gross degeneracy of the human mind in its present state most strikingly displays itself, that a susceptibility for improvement is first excited. Here springs the earliest impulse to return to the higher state from which we have fallen. Here the divine seed of resuscitation soonest expands itself, revivifying and restoring to its pristine worth and dignity the morbid and lifeless consciousness. The internal revelation, however, of devotion and prayer must be regarded as clearly distinct from, and as lying altogether out of, the domain of philosophy, even as the learned exposition of Scripture, and a scientific study thereof, forms a peculiar branch of intellectual pursuit. But though philosophy must not be mixed up with it, yet on the other hand it must not lapse into, or inseparably identify itself with, a pure mysticism of devotional feelings, or, if the term be preferred, a theory of prayer, and a mere contemplative meditation on the Deity and divine things. And the reason is obvious: devotion, with its mystical feelings, must necessarily and absolutely attach itself to the positive data of a fixed dogmatic faith. For in such alone can it find, not only a definite form and a maturely-developed external shape, but also an inner assurance for itself as well as a safeguard against the possible errors of fanaticism.

And here, however, it must not be forgotten that the intrinsic essence of divine longing, as well as of all other holy feelings, can never be or seem alien and repugnant to the philosophy of life, which indeed takes its rise out of this very center of a high and holy love. On the contrary, it must always be intimately associated with and amicably disposed toward it. The philosophy of life, therefore, even while it carefully guards against falling into a mere exposition and commentary of Scripture, may freely borrow from the old Scriptural language its awful spiritual phrases and its vividly forcible expressions. It would, in fact, be an overstrained pedantry, and an excessive affectation of scientific purism, were it to wish to avoid it. Still it is necessary to draw a precise line of demarkation between religion and philosophy, and carefully to observe their limits. And in the same manner, philosophy will abstain from an undue encroachment on the province of natural history, or on the domain of ethics where the internal revelation of conscience furnishes the basis of all moral legislation. At least it will keep from so doing as long as it is anxious to preserve its true dignity as a philosophy of life, and of thought and science in general, and fears to degrade itself by becoming nothing more than a special branch and application, either as mere morals or natural philosophy. This, however, does not preclude from it the liberty of occasionally entering even deeply into them, or of taking a general survey of their results, or borrowing largely from their facts, as pregnant instances, remarkable phenomena and similes, in order to make this remote region illustrate its own sphere, though properly they do not belong to it. Philosophy has enough to do with what really forms the subject-matter and contents of its own province, without seeking to enlarge it by any extraneous addition.

Now, to these four forms or sources of a higher revelation, both internal and external, a fifth remains to be added. It constitutes, as it were, their common bond of union—the center at which, converging and coming into contact, they exercise a mutual influence, and, adjusting and accommodating themselves to one another, combine in living union and perfect harmony. This we would designate by the general name of a revelation of eternal love. But a revelation of eternal love in man, and not merely such a one as we might, with good reason, pronounce nature and the whole creation to be. And even when we say in man, we do not merely mean thereby such as is revealed in his instinctive emotions of devotion and religion, but that, rather, which speaks out in man’s most universal feeling, and in his profoundest and intensest consciousness. But if love itself is nothing but the pure idea, the inmost spirit and essential energy of all true life, and especially of that which is highest and most exalted, then must this revelation of love be pre-eminently the subject-matter of the philosophy of life. For it is even the rich and intrinsic center of the other four sacred sources of divine revelation, and out of it all higher life, thought, faith, and science, flows into the soul of every man that has any susceptibility for such exalted excellence. This remark, moreover, implicitly determines the relation which both faith and enthusiasm (according to the Platonic notion of it) hold in general to science, and also to revelation and love, though, indeed, with respect to the latter, it is only inchoately and in outline that it is so fixed.

But, in order fully to work out and complete the idea of science, according to all those external relations which we have already laid down, it will be necessary to examine the several elements of this idea in their internal coherence, and also, by means of contrast with a complete evolution of the system of inborn error, to set them in the fullest and clearest light.

We have already declared and enumerated the several elements and degrees, or species and constituents which, together, make up scientific knowledge. First of all, there is the understanding and explaining, the discerning and distinguishing. In the second place comes the living cogitation or complete comprehension of the actual, which forms the true center of scientific knowledge, if not its very self; and, lastly, that which is closely connected therewith, the immediate perception and recognition of truth, and an inward feeling of certainty. All these, however, are more or less falsified and led astray by the principal of those scientific errors which are innate in man’s mind—which sometimes secretly undermine, and, at last, totally subvert and destroy them. First of all, the living thought is often converted into a dead cogitation, being carried away from its natural direction toward the actual, and misled to an unsubstantial pursuit of empty abstractions. The total confusion of ideas which this leads to is fatal to all distinctness and precision of understanding, and renders it impossible to have a clear discernment and correct judgment of things. And then, in this bottomless abyss, the firm foundation of actual truth and inward certainty sinks and is swallowed up.

Every one, indeed, of the four fundamental faculties of the human mind contains, in itself, a faulty disposition and pernicious germ of a special and precise form of scientific error, which establishes and fully develops itself in its appropriate domain, and which, when circumstances are favorable, is matured and shaped into a system of falsehood. It is chiefly in the visible consequences of its further development, and, also, by the intrinsic inconsistencies in which it is involved by the unfounded assumption from which it sets out at the very first, that each of these abortions of unsubstantial and empty cogitation is most easily detected. And, in fact, in the history of the human mind and philosophy, and even of science generally, the essential characters of these leading phases of scientific aberration are only too distinctly legible to him who contemplates that great intellectual picture with an eye unblinded by prejudice.

The error most peculiar to the reason, and which, in its domain, springs up almost indigenously, is one that has already been frequently mentioned—viz., the phantom, of the unconditional, or the delusion of absolute necessity. Now, all the data on which man’s knowledge must be based have a triple source; they are presented to him from within, from above, and from without. But the reason, which is the faculty of the logical connection of ideas, and of the logical necessity which rules in that connection, often quits this safe and solid ground of reality, as presented to it in triple experience, whether of revelation and history, or of natural science, and resting entirely on itself, tries to build exclusively on its own foundation. Whenever, therefore, it attempts this impossibility, it invariably copies the mathematical method of demonstration. And so there immediately springs up the false semblance of a necessary knowledge. As the faculty of logical thinking, the reason is at the same time a power of endless progressive development. To invent, however, to create and to produce, is absolutely beyond its capacity; and it forfeits its own rights, whenever, abandoning the pursuits most appropriate, and assigned to it by nature, it usurps the prerogatives of an inventive and productive faculty, and thereby gives birth to the abortions of false metaphysical systems.

When, however, the firm basis and sure principle of some real and actual fact is once given, then the further scientific development, derivation, and wider deduction from this first foundation may be carried illimitably onward. There exists no cause at all why we should wish to set bounds to its advance. For were we to do so, we should perhaps afterward discover that they had been drawn either too narrowly or too prematurely; as, indeed, has already been too often done in many a branch of mathematical science. And, even because it is exactly in mathematics that the illimitable procedure of scientific development manifests itself most signally and most brilliantly, and is at the same time not inconsistent with the greatest rigor of form and certainty, if only it originally sets out from a stable principle of actual reality, this science will furnish, perhaps, the most appropriate and pertinent illustration. And, indeed, the more so, as the prejudice still subsists in men’s minds, that the first foundation of mathematical science is an original invention of the reason—a pure product of the internal intuitions of the intellect, and that this science stands quite apart from all other so-called sciences of experience. But in its first development and acquisition, this is very far from being the case. If we could only observe in others, or could in our own case recall to mind how long it is before a child can actually count three, or clearly separate from itself the external objects it perceives, or learns to distinguish between any two objects, or between them and itself, we shall be forced to admit that the first basis of enumeration has an empirical origin, and that it is on such, consequently, that all mathematical science is built up and founded. Geometrical lines and figures are properly nothing more than numbers, or the fundamental arithmetical notions fixed in space and invested with a corporeal shape, and thereby become visible. It is, however, not unusual to regard the first principles of geometry—such as the point, the right line, the square, and the triangle, out of which all else is compounded—as independent of experience, and existing absolutely in and by themselves. But, in truth, these primary facts of geometry are, without exception, first furnished by experience. And even if, for the purposes of science, they are advanced in a degree of abstract purity and of notional completeness, which they do not possess in the external world of sensible things, where they are always combined with more or less of gross admixture or of imperfection, this is only what is the case, in exactly the same degree, with the first principles of all other experimental sciences.

Astronomy is one of the highest applications of mathematical science, which in it is carried to its highest limits of development. But here, too, the latter has grown together and in common with natural science. The complicated and elaborate calculations, the approximate hypotheses of mathematical astronomy, are intimately interwoven and mixed up with manifold sidereal facts and observations. Properly, therefore, and rightly understood, mathematical science forms no exception to the general principle that all knowledge is based upon experience, derived from inward, outward, or, it may be, higher perceptions. Consequently, it is not so much in kind as in degree that it is distinguished from other experimental sciences. We must not, however, forget that in very many cases of the application of mathematics to real life and natural history, it is not so much a material science as rather a mere organ and instrument for the advancement and further elaboration of the particular sciences to which it is applied. Viewed relatively to a higher physical science, mathematics do but form the mere outline and articulation of the whole structure of the inner skeleton of the whole body of nature; or, rather, it is the hidden key and rule of speech of the marvelous language of revelation, and of that otherwise hidden existence which is here brought to the light, and which we call nature—its inner grammar, in short, and higher symbolism.

In order to guard against this abuse of reason, to which every thinker must feel himself but too liable, and which is universally acknowledged to be possible, it has been thought sufficient to distinguish the perversion from the right application of it within its natural and due limits. With this view it has been maintained that the knowledge and certainty which are conceded to and are within the reach of man are restricted to the sensible world; while, on the other hand, in the suprasensible domain, all judgment is denied to reason, and absolutely all knowledge to man. But this position is very far from being justifiable. For if, as we maintain, all knowledge is really imparted, or, in other words, a gift or revelation, its measure and limits can not be determined by way of anticipation, nor do they in truth depend at all upon man. Such limits rest entirely with Him from whom all has proceeded, and who communicates or has communicated to His creatures severally whatever it is His will to communicate or impart to them, or absolutely to enjoin upon them. But this revelation and communication, on which all religion and science ultimately rests, being once given and received, reason need not by any means be excluded from the suprasensible domain. On the contrary, it may in a certain degree lawfully co-operate in the effectually working of it, and, to a certain extent and under certain limits, may even judge of it. Indeed, when the first foundation of actual reality is once given and established, and moreover acknowledged as such, then the use and employment of reason is no less legitimate here than it is in the domain of the sensible world, or in a special science of experience directed and confined to terrestrial things. What is meant hereby, and how it is to be understood, will best appear from what I am now about to add. Though theology, as little as religion itself, can draw exclusively from or rest entirely on reason—for this would be fatal to its very idea—still it is not only allowable, but even highly desirable, that theology, in its practical application and method, should be thoroughly rational. By this means alone will it be able to preclude not only a pernicious confusion of ideas and the mistakes of fanatical enthusiasm, but also all unprofitable disputes and the absurd bitterness of animosity. And thus, under the prevailing influence of reason, the spirit of love and concord will outlive all the violent attacks and deep wounds of controversial ardor.

In its application, therefore, and external form, all science is, or, rather, to speak generally, ought to be, rational; even though it can not derive its subject-matter from reason, nor in any way depend upon it in this respect. For whenever she attempts to produce the latter out of herself, she invariably gives birth to the metaphysical phantom of absolute entity and of absolute knowledge, or that false illusion of reason which sets up an identical dualism and intrinsic unity of necessary being and necessary thought, as the two inseparably connected forms or species of the one eternal essence which, superior to and higher than both, contains in itself the primary ground of all existence and of all consciousness. Before this illusion, the idea of a personal Deity naturally falls to the ground. It is all too low and too mean for the lofty conceptions of this imaginary phantom of reason. Nowhere, I would observe by the way, has this illusory system, which is utterly fatal to the truth, been carried out with such rigor of consequence, or set forth with such masterly powers of exposition, as in the works of Spinosa. In this view of the world and things, however, we have two forms of a necessary thought, running, indeed, continually parallel to each other, but never becoming perfectly coincident. Accordingly, no system of it has ever been able to attain to a general recognition and reception. For, notwithstanding that perfect unintelligibility is essential to this view, being deeply inwoven in its whole system, and running through its most delicate threads, and reaching to its inmost corners, each new master of mathematical certainty in this method of negation and systematic nullity seeks the cause of the obscurity in some intellectual defect of his immediate predecessor in the exposition of it. Accordingly, he feels himself called upon to make some slightly changed turn and arrangement of the thoughts, and so to come forward as the inventor and founder of an entirely new fabric of truth; whereas, in truth, his new form and method are fundamentally the very same delusion of a mere rational semblance of logical necessity that formed the foundation of the old and condemned systems. However greatly the outward garb of language and phraseology may have varied in the course of centuries, still the error itself has remained identical and free from change.

And even if the necessary connection of these two worlds of objective existence and subjective consciousness, which run parallel with each other, should be conceived of, somewhat after the idea of Leibnitz, as a pre-established harmony, having, as such, its origin in a personal God, still, by this apparent recognition of the sovereign hand of omnipotence ruling and guiding the whole creation, it is only in the external form that it is relieved from the objection of dualism. For, fundamentally, this theory resolves itself into the mechanism of an intrinsically blind necessity, by means of which the two clocks, as it were, set originally together by the Supreme Artist, run on forever and agree, while otherwise they have no sort of connection or contact. Such a theory evidently furnishes no true solution of the difficulty, and leads to no satisfactory result. Quite different from this is the true inner unity, which, however, is no mere sameness—the true living harmony, which, however, is no pre-established one—between the external sensible world of nature and the inner conceptional world of the consciousness, as contemplated from the position of life, and of a philosophy which takes its source and foundation from life itself. According to this view, every thing in the outward reality of corporeal existence is truly and properly animated, ensouled, and even living. Or, at least, life is the source from which both the external object of material existence and the inner thought, life, or consciousness, alike take their rise—in this one common notion of life, that which exists and that which is conscious meet together and are fused into one. The whole of the supposed contrariety falls at once to the ground; and nothing remains but a certain difference of degree, steps of transition, and fluctuation from one state to another, similar to that between life and death, sleeping and waking. What we call existence is merely the visible appearance of a thought, it is the external expression, the corporeal shape of an inner life. No doubt this inner and hidden life of nature, when contrasted with the perfectly clear and free consciousness of man, or still more, when compared with a higher and superior being, appears perfectly unconscious. But, in truth, it ought not to be considered as being always and entirely such; at least, it was not so originally. We ought rather to explain it as a life and consciousness which have fallen into a state of slumber, dreaminess, or trance; and even if we must suppose it to be stiff and rigid with actual death, still it is not with that death which is eternal and everlasting. This, however, implies at the same time that we may look upon it as being in a commencing state of reawakening, though, indeed, it be very far as yet from being fully awake. And, in truth, in man’s most perfectly developed consciousness, do we not trace such or a similar reciprocation between sleeping and waking, dreaming and thinking, memory and oblivion—between the full, clear day of understanding, comprehension, and discernment, and that night of error and darkness that can not be dispersed, which conflicting opinions, with their passions and complications, cast over the human mind? In truth, no absolute line of demarkation, no impassable barrier, subsists. On the contrary, there are numberless points of contact and steps of transition easy enough to trace from the state of a living and wakeful consciousness into that of sleep, or of an apparently total rigidity and numbness. Strictly and accurately speaking, however, there is, according to this view of life, no such thing as death; there is only a fluctuation and variation of life through its several transitory forms. Still we must not forget that, relatively to the present state of things, all of these forms can not be regarded as transitory. In nature, death has no existence, i.e., death is neither essential nor from the beginning. It was brought in afterward, and incidentally, into creation. And indeed, for man especially, the immortality of the soul forms not only an article of the creed of a higher hope, but it is also a visible fact of nature, an indisputable truth of history, that every where plainly and loudly announces itself. This hypothesis of a real vitality, inherent in all the forms of existence, which we may very properly term the only hypothesis of feeling which the living truth admits of, was, in ancient times, the general creed of nature, enforced by the universal feeling of mankind, and originally held by all the nations of the earth. It is only in modern times that the one-sided sagacity of an elaborate and artificial science has drawn this strong line of demarkation between thought and entity, and thereby lead to a total deadening of both. No sooner, therefore, had existence and consciousness been torn from their common root of life, and thereby forced asunder from each other, than, with a view of filling up the great gap between them, the deceptive rationalism of an irrefragable chain of destiny, and a necessary predetermination of all things, took the place which life had formerly held, but from which it had been forcibly expelled.

LECTURE IX.

AMONG the widely-diversified forms and ever new applications under which the rational system of absolute knowledge and necessary connection is wont to exhibit itself, from time to time, some are occasionally found in which the first foundation is not established in that mathematical form and that rigor of demonstration which marks all the subsequent steps of the systematic edifice. In a few systems, at least, reason, as the faculty of the subjective Ego, is expressly assumed to be an intrinsic fact of the consciousness. And this is done, apparently, in the very same way that in the philosophy which sets out from life itself, the theory of the consciousness, or the development of the notion thereof, commences with some such fact of the inward cogitation, as a first principle given and established by internal experience. But the question, whether in any rationalistic system this assumption be really meant—in which case the whole system would be to be regarded as purely a science of experience—or is only apparent, being adopted for some secondary object, will be quickly determined as the development of the entire system proceeds. A few characteristic remarks, both simple and easy to be understood, will soon enable us to decide. If, as regards the form, with a pretended mathematical form of demonstration, it immediately introduces the old ontological confusion of unintelligible abstractions, we may assume it as highly probable, nay, set it down as certain, that, in spite of its different form and bearing, it is essentially the same invariable error of identical thought and unconditional being that is set forth in such a system. But the token by which such scientific fatalism most surely and infallibly reveals itself, is the subject-matter of the system. We can have no doubt of its presence wherever the present state of life and consciousness, which is merely accidental, and by no means its original one, is proved, or, rather, by a pretended demonstration, is set forth as its necessary condition.

On the contrary, that incessant alternation between life and death, such as the latter exists at present in nature, and which, in all its various forms, coming and going like night and day, sleeping and waking, ebb and flood, affects not the individual only but the whole human race, must, according to truth, be ever regarded as a perpetually changing event, assuming manifold different shapes, and being variously modified by the influence of human freedom. And not even for the purposes of science is it allowable to see, in what is but a transitory state of the present constitution of things, an eternal and immutable law; nor in its application to the individual cases of actual life, to assume a necessary predetermination resulting from some indissoluble chain of destiny.

Moreover, this illusory phantom of the unconditional—that peculiar error of the reason whenever it is unduly applied and left wholly to itself—and the semblance of rationality which arises thereout in a predetermined and indissoluble enchainment of all events and phenomena, is not confined to the domain of science and its inner world of thought. In poetry, under the notion of destiny, it holds a prominent and remarkable position. In the tragedy of the ancients especially, it comes before us in peculiar splendor and majesty, as the blind fate of an iron necessity. Since, then, this notion, though in itself and originally nothing but a mere delusion, has yet, through an almost universal belief in its reality, acquired and exercised for centuries a fearful power over the minds of men, it can not, of course, be omitted or refused a place in a truly artistic view and portraiture of life. This view of the general constitution of things, thoroughly and deeply tragic as it is, must ever remain intrinsically and essentially heathen. But even the most perfect creations of tragic art stand a full degree below, or, at least, hold a somewhat subordinate position to, the epic songs and lays of the oldest foretime. For this rich and copious stream of primal and eternal recollections is the source from which every other form of poesy branches off and derives its inspired waters; the living play of its billows, as they sweep along with full and undivided flood, bears with them all the magic treasures of fancy; and like the world-encircling ocean, with its ever-changing undulations, it flows around all the ages and epochs of nature and humanity. The epos, in short, is poesy itself. In it pre-eminently the very essence of poetry is present, and there, also, are its truest manifestations. Every other form of poetic art constitutes but a special kind, and, as compared with this pure original, is, so to speak, a mixed or applied poetry. For in the same way that music is an art of longing, while the arts of figure are the channels in which the highest enthusiasm for visible beauty expresses itself; so poesy is the bright reflection of the world as it is mirrored on the ever-flowing love-stream of eternal recollection. But enthusiasm invariably attaches itself to something positive. On this account it is that the plastic arts are intrinsically of two kinds essentially different in character. While a heathen beauty predominates in the statuary and buildings of ancient times, a spirit of Christian inspiration is no less decidedly and visibly apparent in modern painting and architecture. And, in some degree, this remark applies, to dramatic poetry; for, in its inner spirit and character, encroaching, as it were, into the domain of the plastic art, it forms a peculiar species of mixed poetry. But in epic poetry, in the same way that all streams flow into and commingle in the ocean, all contrasts are softened off and dissolved, and, in a true and genuine epic poem, the ancient mythology must not impress us as heathen—or, at least, this character must not there be so decidedly apparent as it is in Grecian tragedy. Every age that enjoys a high civilization, and a rare degree of intellectual enlightenment, even though it has not lost all relish for noble and original poetry, applies itself, first and preferably, to those mixed forms which allow the freest development of art, and in which it frequently attains to the height of excellence. When, however, during the reign of the cold poetry of the head, the tragic view of the world and things manifests itself no longer in the grand style of free invention, but interweaves and works itself up with some artificial and elaborate picture of prosaic reality, the impression it leaves is doubly painful, conveying but the closing reflections of a destructive skepticism. And in the place of that genuine poetical truth which marked the deep and pregnant feelings of ancient poesy, of which scarce a trace is here to be found, we have, on the whole, nothing but the scientific illusion of some empty notion in the deep but bitter feeling of universal negation.

In the whole series of the essential errors of science—of which some one form or other is peculiar to each of the four great faculties of the mind, and which, though not as an inevitable and irremediable limitation of it, yet still, as a defective tendency and an hereditary germ of deviation, is there indigenous and domesticated—among all these various forms of error, the deceptive phantom of the unconditional, the seeming identity of necessary being and absolute thinking and knowing, has been shown to belong especially to the reason whenever, quitting the right road, it refuses to confine its operations within their due limits. In consequence, however, of that close concatenation and mutual influence which pervades all the different forms and species of man’s intellectual development, I deemed it any thing but superfluous to call your attention to the fact, that this system of necessity, or, in other words, this scientific fatalism, plays a very essential part in the poetical view of things, and to notice the shapes it there assumes. And just as this delusion of the reason, which has given rise to so many false systems (which, however, are but one, since they do but repeat, in different forms, one and the same error of the absolute), has had a powerful effect even on poetry, having exercised a great and decided influence on the internal constitution of the tragic drama, so, in a similar manner, there is a peculiar species of scientific error which owes its origin to the faculty of imagination. Now, as might well be expected, wherever this inventive and productive faculty directs itself exclusively to the side of prosaic reality and to palpable corporeal phenomena, this error, and the erroneous scientific system to which it gives rise, have, above all others, a dry, meager, and grossly material character. Those lovely illusions of a fancy innocently sporting with emblems and figures, which most immediately occur to our mind while speaking of an error peculiar to that province of the imagination, although purely scientific—I am alluding to the fabulous world and imaginary deities of ancient mythology—these furnish but little, if any, obstacle in the way of science and of the acquisition of physical truth. Considered, therefore, in this light alone, they would scarcely demand a place in our present disquisitions. For, for us, the whole of them possesses only a certain poetical truth—or, at most, perhaps, a deeper and most penetrating search may discover in them a symbolical signification, which is, undoubtedly, full of deep meaning, and therefore is, in so far, also true. But the case was very different with the ancients themselves. And, on this account, when heathenism was the prevailing faith, a lively opposition was raised against them. A stern law of morals and philosophy, with indiscriminating censure, would have swept away the whole of the national mythology. Right and just as this censure may appear to us, so far as it was directed against the arbitrary fictions, or grossly sensual features of these fables, still it is impossible to concur with it totally and entirely. Occasionally, the point of view is taken too narrowly and too exclusively. Moreover, it is undeniable, that these ancient objectors did not sufficiently recognize the symbolical meaning of their own mythology. And, in fact, they were far from being in a position to take a survey of the whole cycle of legends among different nations, and so to trace the historical connection of them all; and even if, in some single points, they understood and gave due weight to this symbolical significancy, occasionally making use of it themselves, it was only as a mere intellectual amusement, or with the narrow object of illustrating some occasional ethical discussion of limited interest.

But a far wider and more extensive view of antiquity lies before our eyes, and history in its comprehensive survey now takes in almost the whole of the ancient world. Modern inquiry, therefore, with its vast erudition, its patient observation and quickness of apprehension, has succeeded in establishing more completely than heretofore the general truth of this symbolical basis of ancient mythology. And by this means it has been able to trace the inner threads of a higher truth which lay concealed within those fictions, and were the source of their vitality; for it was from such a beginning of truth they originally set out, however widely in their subsequent course and growth they may have deviated therefrom. Indeed, if it is allowable, on the ground that the true religion must, from the very first, have been one and the same, to give the name of Christianity to the simple religion of the first men and great saints of the primeval world, then may we well venture to assert that a vein of Christianity and of the knowledge of the true God runs through and ever and anon manifests itself on the very surface of heathenism and in its several mysteries. And, in truth, it would be any thing but an unprofitable task to trace, through this variety of symbolical expressions, the sinuous and intricate course of the human mind in its manifold development, as it pursued every direction, and took up the most opposite positions in order to view and contemplate the truth. However, this Christianity of the primeval world, even where it kept itself free and pure from all admixture of fiction and distortion, can only be regarded as a Christianity in anticipation. Or, perhaps, we may look upon it as an ascending progression (though not uniformly advancing, but marked with many an apparent check and recession, or even many a void interval of expectation), up to the last term of consummation in the visible and actual manifestation; just as, on the other hand, Christianity, since that epoch, may appear to the historical inquirer in a descending series, if not in its definite form and shape or intellectual development, yet certainly in the inward moral sentiment, and the power of a living faith.

It is now a matter pretty generally admitted, and which is, moreover, daily gaining a wider concurrence, that in these fables, which, at the first glance, appear the mere sportive creations of fancy, there is even contained many a beautiful hieroglyphic of nature and of natural truth. A brief allusion to the fact, therefore, will suffice for our general view, which calls upon us to notice it just so far only as is necessary to make our survey of the human mind and its development complete.

Now, if it should be demanded of us psychologically to treat of and to discuss at length all the delusions of the fancy, we should, indeed, open for ourselves a wide field of labor. It would rival that of the ancients in their treatises on the possible fallacies of logic, and the illegitimate forms of its syllogisms, with the different rules for avoiding and detecting them. But in truth, the psychological illusions of the fancy in actual life are no less numerous nor less diversified in their manifestation than the differences of individual characters, which are incalculable. And as to those logical errors, on the other hand, which relate solely to the form of argumentation, the consideration of them will be most profitably attached to those branches of science which concern the particular province of life in which they severally occur. However useful for the purposes of practice a detailed analysis and dissection of them may be, it, nevertheless, lies wholly without the limits of our present speculations. By scientific errors, which, as arising from a natural disposition and exciting cause in the fundamental faculties of the human consciousness, deserve to be called innate, must be understood none but such essentially false views of the whole constitution of things, or such scientific systems as result from some one-sided tendency or perverted application of the principal powers of man’s mind. We are not, therefore, concerned at present with the poetic fancy and the psychological delusions of this faculty. It can only be with an imagination that has exclusively given itself up to a scientific direction that we can have to do in discussing the question, What false system, and what error in science generally, or in physical science especially, can have proceeded from a perverted use of this faculty of fancy? This, it appears to me, can be no other than the well-known materialism—the atomistic view of nature, and, what is so closely connected with it, that atomistic thinking whose deadening character is far more dangerous and fatal to philosophy than that much-decried “system of nature,”[74] which, for the most part, has outlived its day, and, in its former shape, at least, is obsolete and out of fashion. This atomistic view of nature can not, for one moment, be regarded as or explained by an error of the reason. For the reason seeks every where for an absolute unity. But these imaginary atoms, out of which all is composed and compounded, are infinite in multiplicity. Among them there is nothing like unity. All there is ever dissolving itself, and falling asunder into an innumerable multitude of separate individuals. Neither can it be termed an error of the understanding; for the latter does not merely and universally, or every where and principally, employ itself with such anatomical dissections and mutilations. It labors rather before all things to understand, to comprehend the whole, to seize the inner meaning, to fathom the true significance, and to gain a knowledge of the very essence, in its true spirit and meaning. But all this, as it implies a living principle, is also applicable to such alone. Where there is neither life nor spirit, there is nothing to understand. These simple, minute corpuscles of nature, or these indivisible particles of the universe, as the foundation and principle of the collective world of nature and of sense, would form an inexplicable and unintelligible aggregate. But, in fact, the dissection and anatomy of the visible objects of matter has never yet succeeded in reaching these infinitely minute primal particles of existence. On the contrary, the chemical analysis of bodies terminates in certain living elements of a wholly volatile nature, which defy and elude all such gross and material manipulations. The whole hypothesis, therefore, must be held to be perfectly arbitrary; it is altogether an unfounded fiction. It is, no doubt, highly unpoetical, and any thing but fanciful; nay, rather, it is fatal both to life and fancy, but a fiction it nevertheless is. And on this account its origin must be ascribed to the imagination. It was, therefore, in this sense, and relatively to this fact, that I formerly asserted that when once the imagination—that is, the scientific imagination—applied itself to palpable corporeal phenomena, then the error that it would give rise to would be a dry and meager production of a grossly material nature. I might almost call it an imagination of death, inasmuch as the whole of it is founded on the dreary hypothesis that all is dead and lifeless, and, as such, contrasts so directly with that ancient and once universally diffused creed of nature which we so lately spoke of as teaching that in the visible universe, and even in the external and corporeal world, notwithstanding its appearance of death, every thing is animated, living, and ensouled. Further to combat, or totally to refute, the atomistic theory, would be inconsistent with our present object; that, too, is a duty which belongs rather to what is properly natural philosophy. Moreover, it would be a superfluous task; for a truly living philosophy of nature, based on a very different position, and taking far higher views, has long since and almost every where taken the place of this hypothesis, which, as it kills the spirit, so it dishonors nature. One historical fact connected with the theory is, however, deserving our notice. Leibnitz, we know, opposed to these atoms of Epicurus, as the constituents of all things, his own monads, as so many living and ensouled unities. While, however, by this expedient, this great thinker, and in his way, truly exalted spirit, retained the same idea of universal and atomistic decomposition, he did but reveal in it, as in so many other instances, that feature of his character which enabled him, by a sort of half rejection of, half connivance at, error, to put it aside with the skill of a diplomatist, rather than to get rid of it altogether.

But in science there is another erroneous tendency, which is still more deeply rooted, and which is far more pernicious and dangerous to true living philosophy than these ancient atoms and all these false, materializing systems of nature, which in some degree carry with them their own refutation, and that is an atomistic mode of thinking, which has its natural source in the present defective and disorganized state of man’s cognitive faculty. True physical anatomy is a most valuable science, and has already led to most important results. In this respect its merits can not be rated too high, so long as it does not dream of detecting with its scalpel the long-departed principle of life, but contents itself with endeavoring to point out and decipher in the dead husk, the still remaining traces of its general constitution, or of certain morbid states of the life that once lived and moved within it. But the dead and barren anatomy of thought leads not to any similarly pregnant results. Beneath its dissecting hand, the life that is still present is extinguished forever; and from the history of every science, instances innumerable may be adduced to prove that before this baneful spirit of analysis all high and noble truth disappears.

There are, then, two principal sources of philosophical error. On the one hand comes the illusory phantom of unconditional entity and of identical thought, with all that follows therefrom in the most diversified forms either of scientific fatalism, or a poetical pantheism, or some false or perverted tragic view of the world and things. On the other stands the atomistic theory, with its kindred errors of a materialistic cast of thought, and the atomistic thinking itself, and the dead analysis of general notions, with that imagination of death so deeply rooted in the human mind on which they all rest. And these two delusions form that curse of mental blindness which from the very first has invariably rested on such usurped absolutism and omnipotence of reason when it sets itself up as supreme. Or they are, perhaps, the now hereditary diseased symptoms of mental poverty and numbness which mark and distinguish the faculty of thought whenever it is caught and tied with the fetters of materialism.

The above are errors of a general kind, whether faults of objective thinking or perverted directions of thought, on which the personal character exercises little influence. It has, however, a far greater effect on those forms and species of scientific error which have their seat in the human will and understanding; for in the latter all become more or less individual, and in them character, sentiment, passion, and the free resolve, exercise the greatest influence. Consequently it is extremely difficult in the case of those errors which flow from a common, or, at least, kindred source, and which are so intimately interwoven together, to separate and determine what portion belongs to the mere cognitive faculty, and what to that which wills, works, and acts. However, I shall venture to speak simply and plainly of the prejudice of egoism, as having its root principally in the will, even though it often springs up quite involuntarily. Its existence extends widely over the pursuits and thoughts of man, and is even apparent in the spiritual domain, where the pure pursuit of the highest truth is not altogether free from it. It is very seldom, however, that this error shapes itself into a decidedly and completely idealistic view of the world, and a similar perfect system of science. For such a view finds on all sides so much opposition, and becomes itself so involved with difficulties, that it never can be carried out into a universally consistent system. At any rate, such a system is very seldom of long duration. It is so decidedly in opposition to man’s inmost feelings, that when it is first propounded, its startling strangeness often gives rise to the doubt whether it be really to be understood literally, and were ever meant seriously. It frequently happens, therefore, that the first author and founder of such a system of egoism makes in his second revision of it many and essential modifications; or, rather, he may be more correctly said to take quite a different position, and to give a wholly new turn to his ideas. Of this many an example might, if this were the appropriate place, be easily adduced from the history of the human mind in general, while our own times furnish some striking and remarkable instances of it. A lengthy analysis and refutation of a real and decided system of idealism would, therefore, be scarcely necessary, inasmuch as, properly, it furnishes its own refutation; at any rate, it would not fall within the scope of our present disquisition, whose principal object is to give a full exposition of the inner and higher life. For this purpose, all that was required was to notice this scientific aberration as a peculiar and remarkable form in the whole system of human errors, and with this view to sketch, in a few prominent features, its general character.

What I have said of the system of idealism, I would not, however, by any means wish to be applied to idealistic doubt. For this, like doubt in general, may perhaps form a salutary and highly beneficial crisis, out of which a well-established and enlightened system of knowledge is to arise. Indeed, I am disposed to believe, however paradoxical it may seem (and perhaps it is a profound inward feeling of its paradoxical character that carries with it my conviction), that this idealistic doubt is more likely to lead to a welcome change in the prevailing views of science, than that doubt which assails life itself, and which, as directing itself against the freedom of the will, I would call a moral skepticism; for the latter is diffused very widely indeed, and without any scientific pretension, as the mere fatalism of ordinary reflection.

What, however, we are principally concerned with at present, is the prejudice accruing to the cause of science from the fundamental errors which cling to the human mind in its present form. Now in this respect the evil influence of the prejudice of egoism is perhaps the most extensive of all. Even when it does not manifest itself openly in its most extreme and revolting form, it secretly insinuates itself into all men’s thoughts and actions, and pervades more or less every region of truth. Indeed, we may say, or, rather, must confess, that even in the most able, pure, and perfect expositions of well-established truths—whatever may be the form they take, whether scientific, historical, artistic, or rhetorical, or perhaps be designed for the practical illustration and guidance of life—a certain subjective bone and coloring is more or less perceptible. Over all human compositions and not merely art and poetry (where, though not absolutely and universally, yet still to a certain degree it is allowable), a peculiar light is thrown from the personal Me of the author, as reflected through the immediate sphere of his associates and the circle of ideas in which his mind has been accustomed to revolve. Against such an influence, whether proceeding from ourselves or others, we can not be too diligently on our guard. In all our judgments and conclusions we ought carefully to put it aside. And this is the only true and legitimate abstraction which holds good both for science and for life. But thus to abstract our own Me and subjective peculiarities is a duty which is far from being commonly observed, and is, in truth, extremely difficult, even with the greatest honesty of purpose, perfectly to accomplish.

As we have so often spoken of an unintelligible medley of barren abstractions as so many empty forms of thought, this truer notion of abstraction may well be allowed a brief passing consideration. It seems not improbable that in an older form of science, and a more religious way of thinking, this notion did possess this higher and more correct signification. At least, it is evident that if we would meditate upon God and divine things, and give up ourselves fully and entirely to these contemplations, we must first forget the whole outer world and withdraw our thoughts from it, and at the same time rise above ourselves and go out of ourselves and our own narrow and finite Me. Almost all the notions of science possessed originally a grand and exalted import. It was only in course of time that, deteriorated by common usage, they sunk into empty formulas of error. In life, indeed, the subjective prejudices of man, under the influence of a will carried away and narrowed by them, has had so wide a range of action as to be co-extensive with the whole field of human action. The willfulness of children forms the principle obstacle that education has to deal with; and the inflexible obstinacy and passionateness of party spirit is the ruling power in public life, the cause of most of its catastrophes, and the source of its greatest perils. In short, were we to attempt to extend our survey to all the prejudices which spring out of narrow subjective views, and the great and extensive authority which long-cherished opinions exercise both over the inner man and the outer world, the chapter devoted to them in a system or manual of a practical knowledge of humanity would be as long as that which should enumerate the false syllogisms and all the violations that were possible, either in thought or practice, of the logical form of right reasoning, or even as that other which should comprise all the psychological delusions of the fancy. We must, therefore, confine ourselves to a brief, but still complete sketch. And to insure such completeness there is one remark to be made, which is far from unimportant, or at least not superfluous. And that refers first of all to the relation which subsists between the aberrations of the understanding and those of the will, and in the next place to that between the fancy and the reason, and to the contrariety usually arising from an undue predominance of either of these two faculties. Understanding and will stand in a very close connection together, their reciprocal influence being very considerable. In many an error, or at least in many a perverse and erroneous direction of thought and opinion, we are scarcely able to decide whether the will and sentiments, or the understanding and special modes of thinking, have the greater part. How difficult, for instance, is it to determine this point in the case of the predominant spirit of contradiction, whether it reveal itself as a reaction, having indeed an external exciting cause, but still thoroughly passionate, or appear in the shape of a mere delight in opposition, such as is found in many, and often highly distinguished individuals. For both these motives have great influence, not only in life but also in the domain of science, developing themselves therein as a fruitful source of error.

As to doubt: it is even that state, or that tendency of the mind [geist] peculiar to the understanding, which though in itself not absolutely culpable or faulty, is certainly erroneous, and one which in its extreme manifestation becomes a negative error of the very worst and most pernicious kind in science. I have already several times mentioned, in passing, and by way of anticipation, that doubt appears to form one of the most characteristic and peculiar of man’s fundamental properties. As sleep forms for man, as compared with the pure and ever-wakeful spirits, an essential and peculiar state of his organic life in the body, and as that eternal hope which is innate in the human soul is acknowledged to be its higher stamp and Godlike signature, just so and in a similar way must doubt be regarded as the inborn character of the human mind, or at least as one of its most indelible features. And indeed this struggle of doubt and hope (which even after the full attainment of internal certainty and peace, still survives in a degree, showing itself when we come to the special points of practical application, and in truth will never wholly cease in this lower world), this conflict between hope and doubt holds no less important nor less extensive a place in the inner spiritual world than the reciprocation of sleeping and waking does in the external and organic, maintaining the due equilibrium of the bodily powers and their healthy state. Now, doubt takes its rise pre-eminently and originally in the understanding. The latter is its appropriate place in the whole human consciousness, though from thence it quickly spreads over its whole sphere and extends to its utmost limits. The delusion so peculiar to the reason, of an absolute unity or identity and necessity, leads rather to a false and perfectly imaginary science, which for the most part aims at possessing or dreams of having attained to a mathematical certainty. And though the intrinsic contradiction and inconsistency which reigns in this absolute view of the world and things, notwithstanding the denial of all contrariety with which it sets out, and which, apparently at least, it does get rid of at the beginning, is well calculated to provoke and occasion doubt; still it is not the seat where doubt is originally engendered and first takes its rise. The act of understanding, on the contrary, supposes an antecedent state of its absence. The object or thought which is now understood for the first time, must have already existed as a given matter, standing before us as a problem for our previous ignorance up to the time that we succeeded in solving it. In truth, the act of understanding is nothing more than the passing from ignorance into intelligence. And this passage is not always effected at one step, but for the most part by slow degrees, and often very slowly and gradually indeed. Now, doubt, as the intermediate state between the original ignorance and the inward yearning after certainty, forms the crisis of this passage or transition. Primarily, therefore, and as stripped of all perverted applications and unlimited extension, it is not in its essence an impediment to knowledge, but rather an indispensable aid and useful instrument for the attainment and perfection of sciences. Wonder, according to the sense in which it is employed in some passages of the Platonic philosophy, as the inner amazement of the spirit, or the astonished rapture of the soul at the happy discovery—the first opening out of the truth—wonder, we might say, is the mother of knowledge, which bears in its womb and gives to the light the first germ of it; but doubt is the father, by whom the internal basis, and also the external form of science, is and can alone be perfected. And inasmuch as science, although relatively and for any precise and given form it may appear complete, yet in itself, and generally, and with regard both to its eternal diffusion and intrinsic advance, can never reach to full perfection in this lower world; therefore doubt can never properly cease altogether. But still, if doubt is to remain a wholesome co-operative power of knowledge, one requisition and demand, and one only, must be made upon it. It must never question the hope and the end of truth itself, and must not give up that inward search after knowledge, of which it is really designed to serve as the organ. In the form of a universal skepticism, however, it falls into a tone of unconditional decision, which involves an assumption of complete certainty, and, consequently, of a perfect, though negative knowledge, totally inconsistent with its true character. It thereby undermines its own foundation.

Absolute doubt, therefore, alone constitutes scientific error. As such it must invariably be looked upon whenever, rising to the height of despair, it pronounces science to be unattainable. It is such unlimited extension that constitutes a fault or error. But even in this respect it is extremely difficult to determine for individuals, nations, and eras, this utmost limit, beyond which doubt becomes culpable. It is a shifting line of demarkation, according as the perplexity of infinite doubt, remaining nothing more than a passive state of internal conflict, is not raised into an abiding principle and unchangeable maxim of life. Besides, it is extremely difficult to determine, as a general law, how far doubt can and may go before hope is entirely lost. Nay, it is not easy to say whether, even in this pernicious extravagance, it may not transform itself into good, and bring about a salutary crisis of transition, and, being set free from its own exaggerations, discover the true road to the goal of truth, and to a thorough understanding of it. It is only when absolute doubt, in its full energy, is set up purposely and forever as the final conclusion of all thought and reflection, as the supreme science itself, being developed with cool, calm self-possession, and applied to all things without exception, that this spirit of absolute negation becomes totally erroneous. In this case, indeed, it is irredeemably bad; as the hostile antagonist of all that is good and precious, it overturns truth itself together with science.

And who, then, is the author of all evil in man himself, and in all his thoughts, knowledge, and volitions, as well as in all the rest of creation? It is the dark spirit of negation who so well knows how to veil himself in the false light of apparently brightest clearness. And since we have reached up to the height, or, rather, down to the depths, of this primary source of all error, it may perhaps be necessary to add a further remark or two on this prime author of untruth, with a view of guarding against the misconceptions that otherwise might arise only too naturally. In Holy Writ he is called the Spirit and the Prince of this world. In ancient times, this description has been greatly misunderstood. It was taken to mean that he is properly the demiurge and subordinate creator of this sensible world, in which there are so many traces of fearful dissension, profound corruption, and disorder. The intrinsic state of nature in its present condition appeared to many thinkers so inexpressibly miserable and so full of deadly evil, that they could not bring themselves to ascribe its origination to the true God. But even though nature be in fact ever so heavily laden with woes and intrinsically miserable—(and indeed it is spoken of in the Book of Truth as the creature “groaning and travailing in pain”)—though the world were even far more fearfully rent with disorder and corruption, and chained and fettered to a shape stranger to goodness and truth than seems at the first glance to be the case, still there would be no ground for adopting the oriental view of two principles. And indeed the wonder is how it could ever have found adherents; since this world, already sufficiently distracted, is thereby but involved in still deeper dissension, and actually rent into two distinct parts, so that it becomes no longer possible to think or conceive of such a thing as truth, or to hope for any veritable and satisfactory scheme of knowledge. This strange religious error, into which the primal world of Asia, with its deep and profound emotions, fell, is so remote and foreign to the more moderate, not to say colder, sentiments of the West, that it is extremely difficult to set it forth and understand it in all its actual awfulness. It would, therefore, be as idle as it would be inappropriate for me to enter further into this false, but ancient system of dualism. Still there is one remark which essentially belongs to our present subject, and is also closely connected with what has gone before. The first author of untruth, we have seen, can not for a moment be regarded as the true demiurge and creator of the world, as the oriental view would represent him. Nevertheless, inasmuch as evil, universally and individually, in great and in little, is a deceptive image and imitation of good, this spirit of everlasting negation has unquestionably a world of his own, which is his production, and in a certain degree called forth and created by him. And that is the null and seeing world of void naught, which, however, through a fatal delusion and belief in its reality, and through its opposition to the good as well as the true, has become a real naught, and must be considered as such. The actual world of the beneficent Creator was created out of nothing, since, besides Himself, all is nothing but a mirror of His perfection, a mere reflection of His infinite power and glory. But though it was made out of nothing, it was yet created for something, or, rather, for very much, even for an ever-advancing approximation to, and a finally complete identity with, its Maker. This good and noble something, as the supreme end of the true creation, is, however, opposed by the naught of the dark world of shadows, which has now become real, and, consequently, evil. Thus created, however, or at least shaped and produced out of something, it exists for nothing, even for that naught which constitutes the proper world, the field of action and vital atmosphere of the evil principle. In the case of an individual whose delusions have been carried to the height of passion, and whose soul is torn and distracted by a perfect despair of all truth, it is sometimes said that he has hell itself in his heart; such a mode of speaking (as is usually the case with such images and metaphors, which we use without associating with them any very clear or definite ideas), is perfectly and in sober earnestness quite true. In a metaphysical sense even, it is perfectly precise and correct.

If this absolute doubt, which is so often set up for the supreme principle of all thought and knowledge, were always to show and exhibit itself such as it really is, and in its inmost nature, and if what it ultimately leads to, and from what source it originally springs, were fully known, then would this skeptical view of things, with its wild exaggerations, which go beyond all the analogy of human nature, prove far less baneful than it does at present. In general it would less easily gain assent and make a far weaker impression. But inasmuch as this fatally pernicious and most absurd paradox does not stand out here so sharply and clearly as it does in the genuine idealistic theory, but is mostly veiled and hidden beneath the manifold beauties of an exquisite skill of exposition, which very often drops the rigor of scientific form, it consequently numbers far more adherents than could have been believed to be possible. Indeed, they are almost as numerous as the admirers of a poetical pantheism, with which it contrives occasionally to form a half compact and seemingly identifies itself. And this fact alone furnishes a sufficient reason why we should not pass it over altogether unnoticed in these Lectures. However, it must be borne in mind that all our objections and exceptions are directed exclusively against an absolute skepticism, as exercising by its perverted application and undue extension, a fatally destructive influence on science and on life.

The true doubt, which keeps within its proper limits and on the road to its appointed goal of a constantly advancing but never perfect knowledge, deserves to be regarded as an ever active and co-operative power for the development of truth and science. It must therefore be confessed that the appointed guardians of the publicly acknowledged truth (which, as such, ought to possess universal authority, both in the state and the spiritual domain) do not always exhibit the greatest wisdom and discretion. Too often do they violently suppress every movement of doubt without distinction, and allow no opening to it in any shape. For by this course they do but exaggerate the spiritual and intellectual evil that already exists. At least this purely negative method can never totally eradicate it.

We have now, then, completely depicted, in their leading features at least, the principal errors to which science is exposed. And if we have enabled you to regard them as errors both in their origin and their subsequent character, we must at the same time, by means of the contrast, have thrown additional light and distinctness on the idea of science, not only as regards its different elements and constituents, but also the whole periphery and center of internal certainty. If, now, it should be required of us to give a common characteristic of all the fundamental errors which, potentially at least, exist in the human consciousness—if it be wished that we should comprise under one general designation the false phantom of absolute unity and necessity in science—the imaginary fiction of death brought into nature by a dead and atomistic mode of thinking—the prejudices of the Ego or Me, and the spirit of eternal negation, which is utterly fatal to truth—then, for this purpose, nothing else would remain but an empty formula or unsubstantial notion, viz., the dead absolute. At least this would be thoroughly appropriate to convey that intrinsic indifference of all forms of scientific untruth.

Opposed thereto, and forming the center of a true and valid knowledge, is that source of eternal love within the feeling to which we have already so often alluded, designating it by either similar or somewhat different expressions. To defend and securely to settle this living center of all higher truth and true science against the attacks of absolute skepticism, was even the task which we proposed to ourselves from the outset. It was however far from our intention, while discharging this duty, wholly to put doubt itself under a ban. On the contrary, we look upon the latter as an essential means of improvement, and as an almost indispensable organ of development in a living progression of knowledge.

Now in these definite limits, both for the exclusion of absolute skepticism and for the recognition and correct application at all times of a genuine and salutary doubt, we have, we think, found a satisfactory answer to the great question of truth and of the possibility of man’s attaining to a knowledge of it. And if so, we have at the same time shown completely that doubt forms a decisive crisis in the human mind, and thereby happily solved the problem which at an earlier period we propounded with regard to it. And moreover, as was then declared to be necessary, the instinctive feeling of truth within the very center of love has been raised to and established in the dignity of an intelligent feeling or a solid judgment of inward certainty, and of an immediate perception thereof. And this immediate perception of inward certainty must serve as the transition from the first developed notion of the consciousness to our now more enlightened idea of science, and also form the connecting link between them. Before, however, we can close our present development with this notion of judgment or intelligent feeling of inward certainty, one question remains to be answered, or perhaps one remark to be added. And this relates to truth itself, as the inmost center of such an immediate perception, while the question that occurs is, what is it, per se, to know, and what is it that in the act of knowing really takes place in the human mind?

Now it has been long admitted that true knowing consists in this: that a man discerns things, not merely as they outwardly appear, but as they are really and truly in themselves. But this true intrinsic essence of things is seized or understood by him only who perceives them such as they proceeded from the Deity, have their being in Him, and such as they stand before His omniscient eye and are seen by him. What, then, is true knowledge, if such be possible for man? Now, supposing the existence of a living God—and how, without this universal primary and imperishable hypothesis, could there be either talk or question about truth or knowledge in general?—this supposition then involves the idea of an omnipresent Deity, in whom all existing things “live and move, and have their being,” even though He does not visibly appear, and is hidden to the outward eye of sense. Truly to know, therefore, would be, if we may so express it, to feel and draw out the latent presence of God in objects, and thereby to seize and perceive their true intrinsic essence. Now, if it is necessary to distinguish the several grades of development of this spiritual or intellectual feeling which draws out the inner truth of things, its first step must be described as a perception, which, however, is both from without and remote. The second would be a sensation, i.e., the full certain finding the truth in one’s self.[75] As to the last step of consummation, that would amount to an intellectual intuition, even though, by reason of human finiteness, it must ever remain indirect. Still it would not, on that account, be less profoundly searching and penetrating, while, in it, that of which we have now first become certain comes forth externally perfect, and admits of being imparted to others. And unquestionably for that philosophy which pretends to open and unveil a true and right understanding of the inner and higher life, after the first grade, which took for its basis the full and complete notion of the consciousness; and after the second, in which the idea of science is unfolded, this intuition of truth forms the third degree, and also the final close and completion, of the whole. In order, however, to understand how such an intuitive knowledge is possible, we must bear in mind that it is not we who raise ourselves to the divine idea; but that, on the contrary, it is it that takes hold of our minds, being imparted to and working within us.

The deadly attacks of skepticism may, no doubt, be directed successfully enough against an unconditional science of reason, where its action or reaction, which brings out the intrinsic contradiction of such a system, is both salutary and desirable, in order to destroy the false semblance of a spurious necessity. All its blows, however, glance off from a real and solid experience, and soon cease entirely. And just so, also, the limit of an assumed or credited impossibility, which is too hastily and too nearly set up, is quickly overstepped by facts themselves. Very often, before now, has it happened, in experimental science, that what man once not merely questioned, but actually declared to be incredible, nay, even impossible, has unexpectedly proved, afterward, to be an actual fact, and gained general credence as undeniably certain. How much is there not in nature that deserves to be called marvelous, and borders close upon the miraculous, and which makes, at least, some such impression on our minds and understandings as they have been hitherto developed? To one, indeed, who takes his stand on revelation, it becomes extremely difficult to draw a strict line of demarkation, and to raise an impassable boundary between that which is called natural and that which is termed supernatural, in the usual sense of these words. And, if all higher truth is imparted, and can not but be such, who will presume to set a limit or a measure here? Who will set bounds to the Author of revelation which He shall not pass? If, then, even in philosophy, all science and truth is really a revelation, and if it were recognized and understood in this light, then should we be able to put this matter to the test of experience, provided, only, that we be careful to draw from the right source, and to treat philosophy really and truly as a science of an experience higher than any internal or external one.

But man must not expect, even according to this point of view, to penetrate at once into the fullness of the divine mysteries, and arbitrarily to play with and mold them at his pleasure. The development of truth in the human mind always proceeds slowly, and step by step. Even when the whole beginning and sure foundation is already found, or, rather, given, the inner evolution and external application of true science unfolds itself with extreme tardiness. At each point of progress much still remains to be overcome, much to be improved, and even to be thought upon once more, and reconsidered over and over again. Often, too, at the very last moment, an unexpected obstacle presents itself, or some new procrastination of a conscientious doubt or care. To show that all this is to be expected, even according to the theory which makes science to be a divine communication, and that all higher knowledge is and must be such, I have a remark or two more to add. And here I shall not follow the same course that I took in my exposition of the possible forms of error, tracing the origin of each to some predisposing cause in the several faculties of the mind. It will suffice to take for granted the keenest susceptibility in the truth-loving soul, the greatest activity and energy of the spirit in its search after and cognition of science, and a perfectly pure will co-existing and having a common foundation in a purified, newly-invigorated, and enhanced state of the human consciousness.

Very often, even in the noblest minds, a lively, open sense and profound sensibility of the soul for the higher truth is found associated with a secret dread and profound apprehension before it. At this, however, we need not to feel surprised. It is not so much a lasting illusion, as rather a slight partition-wall between the first new impression and our habitual self; for each fresh influence of higher truth draws us noticeably away from our usual circle of ideas, and often painfully eradicates some favorite notion and cherished opinion. This fact, then, will serve to explain this slight feeling of resistance which precedes a complete adhesion and identification, and as such requires to be treated with the utmost delicacy and tenderness. Or let us take the case of a great mind in possession of a higher and comprehensive knowledge, and most assuredly he could never have attained to it without many a bold venture in living thought; for without boldness nothing good or beautiful, much less great, is ever reached or attainable. And this is true also of language, for the bold thought demands a correspondent boldness of expression. Where, then, is such a one to look for the limits and the standard of a legitimate venture—the guide and safeguard against temerity—when his boldness of speculation springs really from a profound love of truth, and a pure enthusiasm for science? The risk of error and mistake, and even a sense of solemn accountability, meets him on all sides, and fills him with anxiety and reserve. The hypothesis has been deemed allowable, at least it has been advanced, invented by way of simile, of a man being intrusted with and holding in his hand the full truth—or, rather, let me say all truth in heaven and in earth—since, if we suppose science to be imparted and a gift, there can be no limits set or predetermined to its extent. Now, it has been asserted that such a person would be seized with hesitation, fear, and doubt, whether he ought to open his hand all at once, or only half open it at first, or whether he ought not even to keep it a long time closed. But to turn away from this fiction, which, in reality, transcends altogether the measure of human capacity, then, as regards the necessary gradation and salutary slowness that marks, and even the hesitation that must take place in all human learning and development, and even in philosophy, no less than in the internal region of the consciousness, what rule or guide has man? For such a standard nothing, apparently, remains to us but to assume the notion of a logical conscience as a quality in the true thinker necessary to preserve him from every false step, either within or without. That there is such a logical conscience, wholly independent of all moral relation, is perfectly obvious. By it we must understand not only a careful measuring and weighing of all thoughts, but even of every word and expression; and we have chosen this term as well fitted to enforce the great importance of this sensibility in matters of scientific truth, and to indicate the place in the consciousness where it properly has its seat, and the principle from which it must take its rise. The genius-gifted boldness of a great thinker would be little likely to convey confidence, if it were not at the same time associated and harmoniously united with the essential element of a cautious and gradual procedure. In its essential features, though in a somewhat different form and relation, the Greeks, in their philosophy, were acquainted with and possessed this notion of a logical conscience; for, in some measure, it is even implied in this very word philosophy, which was intended to indicate, and intrinsically means, an unselfish and pure pursuit of truth. But the fact becomes still more evident by the contrast with, or, rather, by the notion of, the sophist, as opposed to that of the philosopher. By the former they understood a common and vulgar traffic with wisdom, or even an interested and wholly unconscientious abuse of scientific truth to personal interest, or the gratification of selfish humors and passions, and even of vain glory. All this the Greeks regarded as absolutely worthless and despicable. And much is it to be wished that we, in our days, remembered a little better, and strove to imitate this stern morality of the old Athenians in their notion of the high dignity of truth, and of the respect due to this sanctuary of science, which, at the distance that they were allowed to approach to it, they reverently worshiped and honored.