P H I L O S O P H Y O F L A N G U A G E.

PREFACE OF THE GERMAN EDITOR.

IN these pages we give to the world the philosophical Lectures which the late F. V. Schlegel delivered last winter, at Dresden, to a numerous and distinguished auditory—the last monument of his life and mind. To many of his personal hearers they will probably be welcome, as enabling them, in the perusal of what their own ears so lately heard, to realize more distinctly the matter of the Lectures, and the whole person of the eminent individual who was so unexpectedly taken away from among them. But to a still larger circle of the friends and admirers of Schlegel, this publication will, no doubt, be acceptable, especially since, under a pervading reference to language, it throws much light and more fully carries out the views advanced by Schlegel in the Lectures delivered two years before, at Vienna, on the Philosophy of Life. In this rich and important fragment, Schlegel’s whole idea of philosophy stands out far more clear and distinct, though, for its complete elucidation and exposition, it was his intention, had he been spared, to add at least one more series of Lectures to the three already given to the world.

The present publication is eminently calculated to show what in these three connected series of Lectures it was the author’s first object, both as a thinker and teacher, to accomplish, viz., to convey the living words of his inmost mind, rich with the fruits of many years’ study and research, to all who possessed a sensibility or disposition likely to be roused and animated thereby to pursue or promote some kindred inquiry or object. It would, therefore, be a proof of grave misconception to make such requisitions on these Lectures as are incompatible with this end and with the character which they most covet, of being, in the higher sense of the term, a living discourse; for, to satisfy such demands was neither the design or wish of the author. It was not his purpose either to take some single abstract notion, and by detailed elucidation to make it clear and obvious, nor to set up some rigorously limited system of notions, with its definitions and arbitrary terminology, whose great merit should be made to consist in such regularity of plan and faithful execution, as should every where command the notice and the wonder of the reader. In short, it was not his object, in some partial speculation of the reason, exclusively to set forth a long series of abstract propositions as a model and precedent for such essays. Those, however, who, to use Schlegel’s own words, look upon these Lectures as a series of questions to which their own hearts, silently, indeed, give a concurrent answer, or find therein the satisfactory solution to many difficulties suggested by their own reflections on the life and mind of man, will not be able to get rid of a just and righteous sorrow, to think that the voice from which they still looked for many such questionings, and much similar instruction, is suddenly silenced, and that none remains who, as inheriting the spirit of the departed, or as his favorite and intelligent scholar, is able to supply what is still wanting.

With this heavy feeling of sorrow, it seems perhaps inconsistent to express a passing regret that the author has not been permitted himself to superintend this edition of his Lectures, and to make those corrections which here and there might have appeared to him desirable. A few passages, noticed thus (†) in the text, were marked by Schlegel himself, either for emendation or enlargement, and the loss of these corrections we can not but miss and regret.

LECTURE I.

BY philosophy—and this term best expresses the historical and original conception as it was understood by the Greeks, who so variously and ingeniously developed it—I understand man’s innate and natural curiosity, so far as it is universal in its scope, and not from the first limited to any one specific end or subject.

This natural curiosity, consequently, stimulated by the mysteries of existence, whether in the external world or of its own consciousness, would fain make all these enigmas clear, to itself, and by attaining to an inward illumination, would discover the true signification, or, if we may so call it, the all-explaining key-word of life. And, indeed, there is no reasonable doubt but that the possession of this revivifying and living key-word would give to life, both individual and universal, a much more exalted energy. For nothing less than an internal light of intellectual brightness, or of the spirit made clear to itself, is that search after truth and knowledge, by which we discover the key-word and true signification of life, as a whole. By it all the powers, qualities, and faculties of the soul are strengthened anew, inwardly elevated, and augmented in force and fertility. And if any would prefer to give the name of science to this highest and earliest speculative knowledge or pursuit of internal certainty and divine truth, we object not, so long as it is admitted that it is not a science precisely in the same sense, and still less in exactly the same or similar form, as the other sciences, which are directed to one specific aim and limited to one subject. Free as life and the free-formed spirit itself, ever new, wonderful, versatile, and infinitely varied, both in internal structure and external manifestation, are the ways of man’s thinking and speculative spirit. A ready and apposite illustration will clearly demonstrate this peculiar freedom and manifold variety in the methods, species, and developments of philosophy. At any rate, if it do not place it vividly before our eyes, it at least suggests the idea of it. The written dialogues of Plato—that great master of philosophical exposition and of the thinking dialogue of science, with its ever-living and changing play of thought, and earnest spirit of investigation—are perhaps not less diversified in their course; not less wonderfully manifold and exuberant with all the riches of genius; not less peculiar in their general conception, as well as external development; not less exquisite in the finish of the several parts and divisions, than the poetical productions of the greatest and most admired of dramatists.

Those who are best acquainted with the art and the intellect of the poet and of the thinker, will be least inclined to dispute the justice and accuracy of this comparison. We appeal to the instance of Plato with greater confidence, not only because he stands alone, as inimitable for beauty of exposition, and for fullness and grace, as well as spirit and vividness of style, but also because (as is apparent from the numerous and varied compositions which he has bequeathed to posterity) every path of inquiry previously opened, as well as every road and by-way of dialectic subtilty still conceivable or possible, were perfectly familiar to this lofty intellect. There was, in short, no field of speculative thought and investigation, however high or deep, that remained unexplored by him. From any one of his most perfect master-pieces, consequently, we might perhaps, by a precise and exhaustive analysis of the art and skill that lies hidden in it, gain a more correct notion of the true and profitable method of speculative thought and investigation than from many or most of our compendiums of all absolute ideas and metaphysical chimeras, or from the systems at present in vogue of unconditional logical negation.

In order, however, to establish this view of a true philosophy of life, which in its very form is also living, it is unnecessary to appeal to any single example, even though it be one so splendid as that of the Socratic school in general, or of Plato, the greatest thinker it has produced. For in fact, the whole history of philosophy, from its commencement to its close, will serve as a proof and confirmation of its truth. In various ways does it teach and convince us that in this lofty struggle after truth the most divergent, and even apparently contradictory methods and tendencies may, however, and actually do lead to similar conclusions, nay, to one common result. It shows us that, however various may be the paths, the end of knowledge—the eagerly-sought jewel of truth itself—is by no means always and in all cases tied to any immutable and exclusive rule of one fixed form and solely felicitous method of thought, as to a magic charm on which all depends, and from which all success must flow. The history of philosophy, I said, for, understood in its full extent, in its correct sense and spirit, and in its deepest significancy, what else is this than the internal reverse of the picture of man?—the intellectual half of humanity, in its development through all the peculiar and remarkable processes which in the pursuit and cognition of truth—that noblest exercise of man’s powers and faculties—he has at any time had recourse to. And in tracing this gradual progression, we may easily discern an invisible guidance which shows itself, especially in the more remarkable epochs or transition-points and decided periods of the struggle. In the general exciting cause, and the new directions which the inward intellectual development occasionally took up, and the law it followed, an entirely distinct order of things manifests itself to the glance that looks beneath the surface, of a far higher and more exalted nature than aught which is comprised and established by the insignificant rule of our ordinary school methods, or which is only estimated and judged thereby.

It is by no means my wish to set aside the usual scholastic form in the academical exposition of scientific philosophy, or in any way to depreciate it when it is effectively carried out on strict principles. In its right place, and when the occasion demands it, we must acknowledge it to be indispensable. It is not to be neglected with impunity. This is especially the case in that period of our life which is more particularly and exclusively devoted to the study of the sciences, when philosophy naturally takes its place among the rest in the academical course, and also in the systematic mode of instruction assumes a form similar to the other sciences. It is involved in the already advanced but briefly and imperfectly developed idea of the spiritually free and ever-varying, ever-shifting form which belongs to the very nature of philosophical thought and knowledge, that when circumstances predispose, and its external relations afford the opportunity and occasion, philosophy should adopt and appropriate the limited and less absolute form of other sciences, or, as I would rather express it, may and can condescend to assume them. But this is only a special application for some collateral purpose, a deviation and exception from, and not the rule itself, if we thereby understand the natural rule, or that which is essential and original, and consequently the simplest and highest.

As regards, however, the philosophy which pretends to be the science of life, and not merely of the school, this principle follows from the fact, that when taken as a whole, and when the question is not of any special application to a particular view and object, its form also must be free and vivid. Consequently, even when classed and associated with the other sciences, it justly lays claim to the first place among them, as being of a different nature and origin.

It is far, therefore, from being requisite that philosophy, following the mathematical sciences as a handmaid, should endeavor servilely to copy them, as has been so often erroneously done, and, in spite of experience of its impracticability, over and over again attempted. Still, with a true view of a living philosophy, mathematical science, however dead in itself, and even fatal to a higher spirit, attains under profounder apprehension to intrinsic significance, and becomes elevated and ennobled. The true method (that, namely, which alone deserves to be so called, the method of truth) is based on the simple process of thought and its living development, in which one thought springs and unfolds itself naturally from another, and rigidly excludes all that is foreign and repugnant. The true method does not move in paragraphs and numbered propositions, making an outward parade of an apparently strong chain of evidence, in which, however, a rigid scrutiny often detects some specific link in the chain totally valueless and without illative force, or at least weak and far from cogent, or placed in a false position, to which it has properly no reference, and only in appearance filling the void it covers. Thus it is also with what we call system, or systematic. We are indeed accustomed to employ this word in a twofold sense—either to convey praise, or in an evil and deprecatory signification. In the latter use we say, “This or that work is nothing but a system,” or, “According to this or that system.” But by such phrases, when criticising any comprehensive theory of scientific thought, we do not mean that the work is entirely without foundation, purely and absolutely imaginary. For in such a case it would hardly be worth while to spend more words upon it. Our meaning rather is, that while containing something that is true, and much that is excellent, undue importance is ascribed to the system, or too much is inferred from it, every thing being forcibly made to agree with it, and itself carried beyond the limits of sober truth: in a word, that the systematic coherence is only external and specious, and the result of much labor and art. In reality this is very frequently the case. This course is too often pursued in the theories and discoveries of modern science, especially in those branches which stand in the closest relation to physical life and its preservation, and are consequently most influenced by the fashionable ideas of the age. Some happy thought, bearing the very stamp of genius, some ingenious idea or entirely new view is started; on this foundation a system is forthwith raised, either by the author himself or his followers and disciples. Embraced with the ardor of enthusiasm, the novel theory is further extended and promulgated, and becomes the watchword of a sect or party, until, degenerating into a mere fashion, and being borne up awhile by the eddies of the moment, it sinks at last into insignificance, and is swallowed up by the vast stream of time. When once the matter has reached this point or this stage in the pathology of human thought and opinion, then that first idea and original invention may be considered as good as defunct, or at least is, as it were, buried alive, and the true vital principle which originally animated it is no longer perceptible.

But in a good and legitimate sense we may characterize a scientific work or a scheme of thought as systematic, or as forming a system in itself, and as such approve of it, if only it possesses the virtue of internal consistency, and the spirit of unity pervades and animates it. And if this consistency of idea be really intrinsic and spiritual, and at the same time living and natural, it will be easily recognized in its perspicacious simplicity of form and expression. It will need neither the external display of systematic precision and prolix demonstrative argumentation, nor the apparently rigid concatenation of paragraphs, in which, however, the forced connection and the panoplied array of propositions form but a poor device to conceal the deficiency of intrinsic life and unity.

The case is precisely the same with the science of human thought and philosophy, as with external life and daily experience. Nothing is more highly estimated in society, business, or politics, than an active and consistent character. Properly speaking, this example is not so much a simile as the very thing itself, or the same subject viewed from another ground or in a different relation. But this high and rare property of a genuine consistency of character does not depend on the delivery of a multitude of philosophic adages in and out of season, or the specious thrusting forward of moral maxims, but rather manifests itself amid general reserve and silence, by its straightforwardness of action, or when it speaks, by the clear simplicity of its language. So is it also with consistency of idea in philosophy. The intrinsic and vital unity of a comprehensive system of thought—the systematic coherence which results from a reigning idea of the whole, reveals itself and is to be known by a simple and familiar form of expression, not unlike that of a friendly conversation, and is not exclusively confined to any prescriptive or preconceived formula of the schools or artificial method.

But in respect to academical instruction, and the position which philosophy either may or ought to occupy therein, I have one remark to add. If I may judge by my own experience, or by what I have at times observed in others, either when as a youth I was an academical student, or when afterward, as a visitor at several of the German universities, I took part in the scientific pursuits, and occasionally as a lecturer propounded my own views and opinions, a decided and striking division seems to subsist between philosophy and the peculiar scientific studies proper to the future wants of life. This is, however, less the case with the study of medicine, which, being founded on, and conversant with, the science of nature, stands in a close relation to philosophy. Still even the prosecution of this natural science proves distinctly enough that the interests of general science follow entirely different paths from such as are most eligible, and more especially conducive to the acquirement and collection of particular information. Still more does this apply to that numerous class who devote themselves to civil professions, and whose future life is to be employed in political departments. By them philosophy is pursued as a mere collateral and secondary object of study, as a half-superfluous intellectual luxury. But this she nowise admits of; she demands an earnest and devoted affection, and must be embraced with the full ardor of love. It is in this very earnestness of purpose, and this genuine attachment and enthusiasm, that it has its source and being. Hence we may often observe many a studious youth attracted by the general question as to the nature of the human soul, and by these sublime investigations into the mysteries of existence. Under the influence, as it were, of some magical spell, he is absorbed in them so as completely to forget and lose sight of the studies appropriate to the calling he has chosen, or at least to neglect them, viewing them as comparatively secondary, while others of more practical tendency steadily devote themselves to the study of their profession, and confine themselves exclusively to its pursuit. Rigidly rejecting the metaphysical charm and seduction of system, as a dangerous lure, they care little, if at all, for the contempt with which the other class, whom dialectic speculation has bewitched into forsaking its proper object of study, looks down upon them as incapable of rising to the height of its own exalted argument. Now, if I might venture to hazard a suggestion for the removal, or at least the accommodation, of this alienation from, not to say opposition to, philosophy, which exists in the tone of our German universities, and if it be not out of place here to enter into this matter, my first desire and advice would be, that the study and course of philosophy should be kept entirely distinct from that of the profession or the particular science which is learned with a view to future avocations in life. In such a case philosophy might most advantageously be taken up by the student after the completion of his other studies, in short, at the conclusion of the whole academical course, setting, so to speak, the crown upon it, and forming the last step which the pupil must take before he enters upon the realities of life.

Moreover, there is no leisure for idle meditation during the years of academical study—that period of preparation which few have a second time afforded them, and which, being entirely practical, ought to be specially devoted to the perfect mastering of the special sciences which in after-life are to occupy us. It is rather in our later and maturer years, after the acquirement of the particular professional knowledge, and even in the midst of the active business of life, that leisure, together with a convenient opportunity, or a natural occasion, is afforded for that meditation with which philosophy ordinarily begins, but which in its results remains no idle speculation; or for that apparently superfluous inquiry, which, however, investigates a subject more necessary and more essential to man than all else.

So much—if it has not been indeed too much—I believed it requisite to say concerning the form of philosophy, not so much to justify or to excuse that which in the present case I could alone adopt, as rather from this point of view also to establish the independent position, and to depict the lofty aims of philosophy. For if philosophy is nothing less than the actual science of life (and the skeptical query whether such a science be either possible or attainable by man, will in nowise affect the question; for if the doubt concerning the nature of life, or life itself, is suggested by life, and consequently is living and real, it amounts to the same thing, and the objection applies alike to the doubt or the certainty)—if, I repeat, the object of philosophy be the sublime conception of our inner life, struggling to unravel the mystery of its own being, how can it be right, or how could a wish arise to exclude from it one half of humanity, or society, or of civilized life? The proper sphere of philosophy, no less than of art, is the whole civilized public. This is the body in which it must circulate, and to which its action must be applied. The specious ground for such an exclusion can only be looked for and discovered in the ordinary school form, which indeed, as I have endeavored to show, is by no means essential to it, but rather a mere accident, which is so far from being necessary, that it is not even of universal application.

If, therefore, the subject-matter of philosophy is the whole inward life of man, if its end is the solution of the ever-recurring questions of the speculative consciousness, and the reading of the enigma of existence, or however else we may choose to characterize and express it, it is assuredly something of a distinct and more exalted nature than any of the preparatory sciences which make up the academical course of study for the specific objects of some limited calling and profession. The philosophy of life, as it sets out only with one simple position—life, viz., man’s inner life—is restricted to no particular sphere, but embraces them all in their fit season and occasion. When, indeed, in the youthful, not to say childlike spirit, standing on the threshold of expectation, this inward feeling of life or consciousness has not as yet shaped itself into an ardent speculative curiosity, or a grave and melancholy questioning, or when at least, it has not passed through the first stage of thoughtful wondering, then it is as yet too early for the awakening of philosophy—that inward search after truth and meditation on the nature of our existence and consciousness, that self-examination, those half-doubting yearnings after an unknown love. Youth, inexperienced and undeveloped, may reasonably be supposed to be excluded from a participation in this natural field of philosophical speculation, although even in this, as in every other case, it is extremely difficult to define the precise limits. It would also be idle to repeat the remark so often insisted on by the sages of antiquity—that where life is totally absorbed in the business or pleasures of life, or distracted by the cares of avarice or ambition, so that, strictly speaking, no voice from within is heard, no soul-cherished feeling or sentiment, nay, even scarcely a thought purely spiritual, still survives, or finds a place in that world-engrossed bosom—there philosophy finds no ear for her sublime revelations of the inner life, nor dares hope for a responsive echo to her high-soaring meditations, and that profound emotion from which it draws her own birth.

Philosophy, I said, takes nothing for granted but life—an internal life, that is. The more perfectly, the more manifold the aspects, and the more comprehensively within the given limits under which this life which it supposes is viewed and studied, the more easily will it fulfill its object, the sooner will it attain to that which constitutes its proper end and aim. For this aim is to render clear and intelligible, both to itself and others, that higher life, whose existence it assumes as the necessary basis of its speculations. But how would this primary postulate, this natural basis of philosophy of life, be restricted and limited, if the sex which is so pre-eminently marked by strong and deep feeling should be entirely excluded from the sphere of its inquiries. Indeed, according to a more liberal, comprehensive, and enlarged point of view, such as is most consistent with the true nature of things, youth, with its enthusiasm and quick sensibility for the beautiful—its first and most exalted love—is not to be exclusively given up to the fine arts. As the latter are elements of life, and very important elements too, they can not be excluded from the sphere of philosophy, but, on the contrary, form no inconsiderable portion of its general problem. The objection, however, might be raised, that these, the best and fairest of the gifts which nature dispenses with a liberal and benignant hand, are but transitory, and that they wither and disappear before the first rude touch of external circumstances that limits their free play; so that, to judge from appearances, they scarcely can abide, or be steadily kept up to the gravity of philosophical contemplation. Often, it may be urged, some unpropitious destiny, some sudden storm of fate, overwhelms and destroys them, stripping the youthful tree of life of all its leafy honors before it has properly put forth its blossoms. This, no doubt, is perfectly true. In most cases, however, the destroying principle does not come from without. Fortune and external circumstances have little to do with it. It lies rather in the inner impetuosity of passion, in self-will, or some other dark shade of character, perverting and bringing jarring discord into the most exalted feelings of the soul. Would it not be well and especially advisable to place from the very first these tender and delicate flowers of youthful feeling within the influence, and under the action of an inward illumination and reflection, as the only probable means of imparting to them greater hardihood and durability, and thereby to convert the fair but ephemeral flowers of youthhood into the mature and enduring fruit of sincere benevolence, of a generous activity and inward harmony? There is, in truth, no easier or more simple mode by which man can hope to arrive at this end. It is only by means of such inner light, and purity of sentiment and luminous meditation, that we, can hope to work our way to the key-word of existence which shall reconcile every difficulty, clear up every doubt, and attune to harmony every discord. For hereby also will the power be gained which alone can sustain and protect this inner life from every destructive influence. This enlightenment, however, is nothing else than the philosophy of life, and therein consists its essence.

Now, in order to place before us the very center of the entire question, and at least to notice beforehand that which must more perfectly develop itself as, step by step, we trace the natural process of thought, both in life itself and the science of life, one remark is necessary. The soul is nothing less than the faculty of love in man. For this reason, also, the loving soul (if I may here make such an application of the words of a great teacher) is the clear mirror in which we gaze upon the secrets of divine love either reflected or symbolically figured as so many enigmas, which, nevertheless, serve us as light-giving and guiding stars amid the darkness of this earthly existence. And in this pure mirror of our soul we plainly behold the eververdant and immortal plants or hidden flowers of nature, like the dark bed of the deep through the clear waters of a still sea. In this mental mirror nature greets us with features less strange and unknown, and with familiar aspect seems to claim at once a kindred sympathy.

In these slight and passing remarks, I have touched briefly upon many a topic of which the full development must be reserved for our subsequent Lectures. Still, though thus limited, they contain the grounds which to my mind fully justify my adhesion to the opinion which, more than thirty years ago, in the first commencement of my literary labors, I advanced with regard to the question of the propriety of excluding one half of mankind from this region of speculation. And although, in maintaining this sentiment, I have to stand alone in, or even am opposed to, the age in which I live, still on this point I prefer to take as my guide and precedent the ancients, the Socratic school, and, above all, the great master, Plato. And were it necessary, and the present place admitted of it, I might easily, both from ancient history and modern times, adduce authorities enough, both in number and in weight, to refute the opposite opinion, or, rather, prejudice.

The sphere, therefore, and field in which philosophy has to move, or to which it has to apply itself, is no narrow one, hemmed in and confined by any unwarrantable exclusiveness. On the contrary, it must, so far is possible for aught that is human, be complete and perfect. And for this reason also, she must not, as indeed she can not, take her rise in a consciousness artificially parceled out and divided, and, in short, but one half of its true self, and which, being biassed and visionary in its views, is divorced from real life. It can originate only in the mind’s greatest perfection and in its full and most undivided entirety, inasmuch as to make this consciousness clear to itself and to others constitutes even its proper function and entire aim.

In the latest period of German philosophy many an ingenious path of investigation has, no doubt, been here and there struck out. By a critical comparison of different views, systems, and opinions, dialectics, as a preparatory course of study, has been improved, psychological research advanced, especially the philosophy of nature enlarged. Still, on the whole, a purely abstract mode of thinking, totally estranged and separate from actual life, is almost universally held to be the only right road to a profound philosophy. This so-called pure and abstract thinking takes nothing for granted, and allows of no postulate or axiom; it acknowledges none besides, and generally has no foundation save itself; it starts from itself alone, and in so far has, strictly speaking, no proper beginning. Consequently, without proper end or aim, it goes on continually revolving around itself as a center, and within its own charmed circle. Assuredly, where the dialectic art and system moves within this narrow range of thought, and restricts itself thereto, employing a language which, while it is sharply abstruse, metaphysically recondite, and pre-eminently abstract, has at least the merits of clearness and distinctness, and ingenious classification, then the very first result of such an exercise of dialectic art is profitable, although merely negative. For it establishes the fact, that truth and knowledge are not to be attained by this method; that thus it can not profitably be either sought or found. It shows, too, that this dialectical preludium itself in nothing more than a preliminary exercise that at most does but serve as an introduction to another more lively way of fruitful thought; though even as such it is suited, not indeed for all, but simply for those who enter upon it with this view of its nature.

Human language, with its wonderful suppleness, can adjust itself even to the consciousness which is parceled out and abstractedly divided, so as perfectly to copy and reflect it in its ever-movable mirror. It is able to give a perspicuous order and an artist-like shape even to the mere logical thought which has no subject-matter. It only fails when the logical conceit of mere empty thought contemptuously rejects in the giddy whirl of supreme abstraction, as its last earthly defect, the laws of grammatical art, and refuses to add to its abstract style the merit of perspicuity, in order that, as a metaphysical chimera, it may in the inaccessible darkness that shrouds the obscure of the high-enthroned “Ego,” soar higher and higher, and withdraw itself as much as possible from the eyes of man. A confused terminology, perfect unintelligibility, are the never-failing companions and peculiar characteristics of a false philosophy, which dreams of finding the inestimable jewel of truth and science in a never-ending and elaborate division of the consciousness. It places perfection in an abstraction carried continually higher and higher in its emptiness. But in truth it is only in the living unity of the full consciousness that we can properly understand the pure logical forms of thought, such as they are inborn in the human mind, or are engraved thereon as the first directive traits and principles of its intellect and rational activity. They must be judged of according to the place which they occupy in the whole, and relatively to the manner in which they act in or influence it. It is thus alone that their true signification can be determined and truly conceived.

As often, however, as from that self-styled pure, but in reality empty and totally abstract mode of thinking, which is divorced from life and the realities of things, it is hoped to raise or to evoke, as it were, by spell, a real system of true knowledge, we have a repetition of the old history of the Babylonian tower, with its consequent confusion of language. Every new system of this kind is nothing more than an additional section of or an appendix to that ancient confusion of speech, as well as of views and opinions, so ancient in the history of the human mind. Each of these builders in the edifice of endless error commences with pulling down the fabric that his immediate predecessor and all before him may have commenced, while in the space he has thus cleared for his own labors, he founds and rears the imaginary tower of his own knowledge and science. He has at least the firm intention to raise it still higher—nay, far and far above the height that all before him have attained. But one man understands another just as little as himself. More and more entangled and obscure, consequently, becomes this new confusion of ideas, till at last nothing remains but the anomalous ruins of crumbled and abraded thoughts, which even when entire were only so many lifeless stones—mere abstractions, soon either wholly forgotten, or if surviving, becoming daily more and more unintelligible—since the original lexicon or alphabet, or the all-explaining key to these rare and singular characters, can be recovered only with the greatest difficulty.

A true and living philosophy can not choose and pursue this method of ever-advancing abstraction; much less can it recognize it as the only right one. It proceeds rather from life itself and the feeling of life, and, in truth, from a feeling and consciousness of it, which strives to be as complete as possible. Far is it from dreaming that it is in any artificial and elaborately-worked-out division of the human mind, that it must seek its success or hope to attain its aim—the end of all true knowledge. Without that, it feels that man’s consciousness, in its existing state, at least, is already too much rent and distracted by division, and being by means of this dismemberment checked in its natural action, and weakened and impeded.

And this even is the point on which all turns. That philosophy of so-called pure, but properly empty thinking, separated and abstracted from actual reality, without end and without beginning, without ground as without aim, knows nothing of our postulate of life, in the full extent and sense of this word, so far as any thing is full and complete for man. The thinker, once entangled in the meshes of such a philosophy, can not admit of such an hypothesis, will allow to it no value, or, rather, knows nothing of it, and would never be able to make any thing of it. And yet, notwithstanding, in this very philosophy an hypothesis is started, or, rather, assumed beforehand—one, however, which in truth is entirely arbitrary, and which, when examined more closely and with rigid scrutiny, betrays at once its utter baselessness. It depends on or consists in assuming that the human mind, as it exists at present, is in a perfect state, and has remained entire and complete, and altogether unaltered from its original constitution. It holds that nothing is wanted for the attainment of truth, beyond a careful and skillful analysis of man’s self-consciousness, and a correct and appropriate classification of its several members. But, on the contrary, whenever we yield and give ourselves up to the feelings of our inward consciousness, and try carefully to understand it simply as it is, the first thing that strikes us most forcibly is a discord and opposition subsisting not only between ourselves and the external world, but a strife with one’s self raging in the inmost center of the mind, so that it seems to fall asunder and to rend itself into absolute unconsciousness and irreconcilable contrarieties.

Now, is it probable that strife would form the original state or the proper destiny of the human or even of any other being? can this, in short, have been the case from the first?

Strife, it is true, prevails every where in human life. It has its parties and divisions in the present no less than in the past, in the free intercourse of private as well as in political life, in the family as well as in the faith, in knowledge as in thought and opinion. Wherever these act upon life, or in any way affect it, they invariably involve it in hostile opposition and sectarian animosity.

But the immediate question here is not of this strife of the passions, or of the moral corruption of the inner character, which is excited by their indulgence, although, in truth, the external strife of human nature, which comes forward, as it were, in a visible and bodily shape, and its earliest source in the hidden contentions of the inmost soul, which arise from its entire constitution and the present condition and state of our faculty of thought.

Just a little also do we refer to any view taken of the sad mutilations of the human consciousness resulting either from some faulty organization and disease, or from those defects which proceed from defects of character or weakness of intellect. The conditions which, relatively speaking at least, we call physically and morally sound, as being free from all remarkable deficiencies or disorders, are, nevertheless, not to be regarded on this account as perfect, and endued with full living energy, and possessed of their original completeness. On the contrary, in the general mind, such as on the whole we find it at present, and which, in this respect, we may look upon as being in its true and proper state, there is much that is evidently perverted from its right object, much that has fallen a prey to disorder. And indeed we are naturally led to take the same view of it when we discover most of the several constituents of the mind for the greater part extremely weak, and as it were in a crippled state, and its different faculties seldom if ever maintaining a deep pervading harmony, and keeping in perfect unison with each other. It is to this internal opposition and original dissension of the thinking consciousness that I here would draw your attention, as psychologically manifesting itself between thinking, feeling, and willing. In this dissension, so deeply rooted in our inmost being, intellect and will are, even independently of the effect of human institutions and observances, but seldom in harmony; while reason and imagination, if not always opposed, are at least greatly estranged, and seldom maintain a mutual good understanding.

This is man’s first and ever-recurring, ever-renewed perception of his inward life. Careful observation of self is ever impressing on him a consciousness of what we might almost call an inborn, or at least hereditary, discord and division in the human mind. This intellectual fact, which is one purely psychological and totally independent of the disturbing influences of passion or disease, may in truth well carry us to the conclusion which, independently of it, so many other moral phenomena and historical traces appear to point at. It leads us on almost irresistibly to embrace that exposition of it which has been held in common by almost every ancient people; the doctrine, namely that man at the very onset fell from his original state of harmony into dissension and disunion, and has since sunk many degrees lower and lower from the dignity which belonged to him on his first creation. But as this primitive obscuration and degeneracy went to the inmost root of man’s being, under its influence, not only his relations to the external world, but also in himself, in his pure internal thinking, feeling, and willing, all is deranged, discordant, and fragmentary, so that very rarely indeed do the three co-operate effectually in a living and enduring harmony. And it is doubtless because the prevailing theories of the human mind overlook the fact of this great change that they are so utterly unsatisfactory and generally so tame and superficial. The determination, however, how far this event is to be regarded as an historical fact and rests on authentic tradition, is a question which lies beyond our present purpose, and belongs rather to a purely critical investigation. The immediate and specific aim of philosophy is simply to analyze and clearly understand the psychological fact of the discord and dissension which subsists between the several faculties of soul and spirit, and to exhibit it just as it is. Having accomplished this, it will then proceed to indicate the point or position from which the work of restoration must be commenced, or by which at least the way which leads to it may be discovered; the path, namely, of return to the original harmony of the soul. In other words, its ultimate object will be to discover the means of restoring a living and perfect consciousness, and of bringing about a more harmonious co-operation of its hitherto divided powers and faculties, whether of soul or spirit.

Now, even in ordinary experience, certain propitious combinations of circumstances do occur, when this inward strife and innate or hereditary discord between the understanding and the will, the reason and fancy, is happily overcome. Under their influence the faculties, which previously were separate and divided, or hostilely arrayed against each other, are, partly at least, and for one individual life in all its incidents, actions, and productions, brought into profitable agreement and harmony. These rare occasions are furnished by extraordinary energy of character, unrivaled artistic genius, or other high and rare mental endowment. These, therefore, form not only so many experimental proofs of the possibility of restoring the now discordant elements and the isolated organs of the inner man to completeness of unity and entirety of life, but also furnish stable points from which to start again, and to carry on the work of restoration. Such instances, however, are but exceptions from the general course of things. Fortunate and rare exceptions they are, no doubt, but still, even as such, they only serve to establish more surely and incontestably the predominance of the rule, and the universal fact of the internal strife among the faculties of the human mind.

Not unnecessarily to distract your attention at the very outset, I shall for the present omit to consider many subordinate and derivative, but applied and complex faculties of our mind and soul, such as memory, the external senses, the various instincts, and the conscience. Restricting, therefore, myself immediately to these four principal powers—understanding and will, with reason and fancy, which we may regard as the four poles of the internal world, or as the quarters of the human consciousness, I shall consider generally the opposition which displays itself between these elementary powers of man’s mind. This fact is so universally recognized, and so generally predominant, that it displays itself even in the experience and incidents of every-day life. To what amounts the opinion so commonly expressed of many men, nay even the greater part of distinguished characters, “that their judgment and will are not in unison?” “What extensive learning and comprehensive views does he not possess,” is said of one man; “what acuteness, excellent judgment! What might he not accomplish if he had but the will; but he is so changeful, you can never depend upon him, so inactive, so void of energy of character, that he does not himself know rightly what he wishes.” Now in such passing estimates of men, it is deserving of remark, that it is not the passions, or of passionate transgressions of the moral law, that come in question, but rather some internal defect and weakness. “He has the best will,” is said of another, “is always active, capable of any sacrifice and devotion, and of a firm and undaunted resolution; but at the same time he is so narrow-minded, so unbending and short-sighted, and possessed by such inflexible prejudices, that nothing can in truth be made of him, and every enterprise is sure to miscarry that he has any thing to do with.” The discord is not indeed in every case so strongly marked and distinct, still every one who at all observes his own consciousness may easily determine, and satisfactorily answer the question, whether this opposition between the understanding and the will, or at least the disposition thereto, is not deeply fixed and rooted in our inmost nature, and on the whole universal. Whence else springs the high estimation in which steadiness and consistency of character are generally held, but from the fact that it is a rare exception for will and understanding—the inward thought and the outward practice—to be in perfect harmony and agreement? And in truth consistency, thoroughly carried out in the whole life, steadfast unison of idea and practice—in short, power—immediately enforces our respect and admiration, even though we may not be able to agree with the motive and principles on which it acts, and moreover remark much in the whole line of conduct deserving of blame, when measured by the highest ideal standard of moral justice and perfection. How often do we feel this to be the case in the historical judgment and estimate of great and celebrated men, where our admiration by no means implies or carries with it a full and perfect approbation of every trait in their character or actions. Another mode of view and comparison will perhaps serve to set in a still clearer light the characteristic feature of the human mind in its present broken and discordant condition. Man usually directs his glance downward to the brutes, in order, by pointing out its difference from the animal world, to determine the peculiar essence of his own being and nature. In this comparison, after much and painful investigation, man discovers that although his physical organization and the principle of life, the blood-soul, as the source of vital heat, is of the same kind and nature with that of the brutes, he nevertheless possesses a rational soul, which they do not enjoy.

More instructive would it be, occasionally at least, to raise our contemplation to things above. By this method, many characteristic qualities of the human mind might be briefly but distinctly set forth in sharper contrast by comparison with other created things, or, as the poet calls them, “superior spirits, with whom we share our knowledge.”[62] Leaving this belief in the existence of purely spiritual beings, which was common to all nations of the old world, to rest on its own deep foundation, and passing over the doubts which might perhaps be raised against it, I shall simply take for the basis of my comparison the general idea of these angelic essences, such as from the very first it has been long and widely entertained. Now, from this point of view I should be at least justified, were I to point to that fickleness and inconsistency, or weakness and even defect of character, which I have above mentioned and depicted as forming the ordinary condition and the specific characteristic of man, which according to our hypothesis does not belong, either in the same degree or at all, to the pure spirits. With them understanding and willing are altogether one, and every thought is at the same time also a deed, every fact perfectly comprehended and carried out, with a design perfectly understood. Their activity is ever one and the same living and uninterrupted operation, whatever be its direction, in a bad as well as a good sense. And thus it is that with these spirits knowing and willing are one; so that a living and effective intellect is even a very spirit, and equally so is a perfectly self-conscious will. But a spiritual being like man, in whom intellect and will are not one, is, as contemplated from this point of view, a spirit divided and distracted, and one that has fallen into disunion with itself, which only by means of a new and higher aspiration can be again raised to its full energy and living unity.

Still more obvious, and even more striking than the general and universally prevailing discord between the understanding and the will, is the opposition and division which holds both the fundamental faculties or opposite poles of the inner world of consciousness, namely, between reason and fancy. The fancy is the fertile, and, properly speaking, the inventive and creative faculty of man; but she is blind, and subject to many, or rather, we must say, innumerable delusions. This is not the case indeed, at least not in the same degree and manner, with the reason, as the faculty of calm prudence in man—the internal standard of the moral equilibrium of his nature. Still, actually to produce, truly to bring forth or to create, is, with all its reasoning, utterly beyond its power; and if at times, as is the case with the false philosophy and mere dialectical thinking, it does make the attempt, it gives birth to naught but lifeless abortions and mere thought-created phantoms of abstract nothingness. It will hardly be necessary to track this opposition between reason and fancy farther, and to follow it into the great arena of public life, or to prove by a lengthened discussion that the men endowed with the best reasoning powers are not at the same time or especially endowed with the fire of genius, or that the most æsthetical and artistic natures are not always the most logical. True genius, however, forms a rare exception to this rule, because in him the faculties of soul and spirit, which are usually found isolated and opposed, are happily united and effectually co-operate in an harmonious unison. In other words, we have in such a case a union of the creative fancy, which in the productions of genius is the most essential point, and the acute, discerning sagacity, as also the distinctness of sensible shape and order, which can not be absent from any real production of art. And yet, for all this, the understanding of the artist is something quite distinct from practical reason and logical acuteness. There is, moreover, another state, or, rather, quality of the soul, wherein the else divided reason and fancy are intimately associated and entirely reunited. This is a natural, pure affection, and the very faculty of love, which is itself the soul and the peculiar essence of man’s spiritual soul. For example, a mother’s love for her child, which is the deepest and strongest of the natural affections; no one can call this love irrational, although it must be judged by an entirely different standard from the reason. At least it does not arise from any carefully-weighed process of the reason, for it is over it that it gains its greatest triumphs. In love both halves of the soul are united. For, taken separately and apart, reason is only one half of the soul, and fancy the other. In love alone do both concur, and the soul is there present totally and perfectly. In it both halves, which otherwise are ever apart, being again united, restore a perfect state of the consciousness.

And in the same manner there is also a means of reunion for the understanding and the will. And that, too, is a pure, strong, and morally regulated love. Whenever, proceeding from the very depths of man’s being, it has become, as it were, a second nature, and having received a higher and diviner consecration, it forms the still and invisible, but ruling soul of life, then is it the best and surest road for attaining to the reconciliation of the otherwise inveterate and deeply-rooted discord between the intellect and the will. By such a love the inmost man may be restored to peace and harmony with itself, and the otherwise distracted consciousness, regaining a full and perfect unity, is enabled to exercise its best and highest energies.

The following are briefly the results of this our first psychological sketch, so far forth as they are necessary for the purpose and object before us. The ordinary state of the human mind, such as, in its present condition, it exhibits itself to our internal apperceptions, is one of fourfold discord and distraction. Or, rather, if we may so speak, it is a quadruply divided consciousness, as being a prey to the double contrariety between the understanding and the will, and between reason and fancy. But the mind, when restored to its full and living perfection, is threefold, or, if the expression be here allowable, it is a triune consciousness—the soul restored to unity in love—the mind or spirit requickened by the energy of a consistent life, and, lastly, the internal sense for all that is highest and divine—which third member, as the external medium and the ministering instrument of the other two, can not interfere with or disturb their profound harmony. Now, the return from the mind, checked and limited in its operation by its existing divisions and discord, into a living triple or triune consciousness, is the very beginning of a truly vital philosophy, and, indeed, of a renovated and enhanced vitality.

LECTURE II.

WHEN man is considered relatively to his external existence in the sensible world and nature, to which by his body he belongs and forms a constituent part, then the three elements of which, as regarded from this point of view, his whole being or essence appears to consist, are body, soul, and spirit. Now, not even from these are schism and conflict excluded. There is little or no harmony between the higher and spiritual principle of the inner man and the outer world to which properly his sensuous faculty belongs. The natural wants and the organic laws of our corporeal life are at issue with the moral law of the inward feelings—with the exalted requisitions of the soaring thought and the profound desire of the pure spirit. The struggle between these two distinct laws or ordinances of life, the higher and the lower, forms, perhaps, the chief problem which in his moral destination on earth man has to solve. At least it constitutes the first beginning and step thereof. No doubt, the external frame of the human body, with its wonderful organization, presents in the prime of its development the corporeal image of a more exalted and more spiritual beauty. In its highest and happiest expansion—in its noblest forms—in many a bright gleam, for instance, of animated expression on the countenance of youth—we read the graceful reflection of a more than earthly loveliness. The stamp of man’s heavenly origin is not quite extinct or completely defaced even in his frame. But on the other hand, it is exposed and subject to innumerable injuries, sufferings, diseases, and corruptions; so that we feel at once the truth of the Apostle’s words, in calling it the “body of this death.” Added, then, to the other two elements of man’s being, spirit and soul, the organic body forms the third constituent, in which, however, is contained the ground and occasion of conflict and strife. In the inner man, indeed, taken by itself, and in soul and spirit, as the two constituents of his higher life, there is involved no absolute element of discord. No doubt even here the harmony is liable to many disturbances, and perfect unison, perhaps, is very rarely to be met with; but still the discord has not its ground in the essential constitution of these two principles of soul and spirit. The contrariety between reason and fancy, understanding and will, though existing in the fourfold consciousness of man in its present state, prevails not there by any law of necessity. It is not a result of their essential constitution. Simply, the spirit is the more active faculty of the whole higher principle and of its internal life, the soul the more passive one. I have designedly employed the expression the more active, and the more passive, while thus speaking of soul and of spirit; for perfectly passive, and entirely devoid of liberty, the feeling and loving soul is not, as neither, on the other hand, is the spirit perfectly active and independent. The latter stands in need of the fellowship of the soul and of the life-giving feeling to kindle and to expand it. To a certain degree, both spirit and soul, or at least the preponderance of the one or the other, are dependent on the organization and organic differences of sex. In general, we may at least assert and admit this much: that, viz., spirit or thought predominates in man, but spirit or soul in the female sex. But even here (so incalculably great is the diversity of human character and disposition, so various are the methods and forms of education and moral culture) many exceptions, either by way of complication or deviation from the original simple relation, are found to subsist. In no case, moreover, can this preponderance of the reigning element be taken or understood as a total isolation or severance from the other. On the contrary, there are manifold transitions and fusions in the reciprocal action of soul and spirit. In the same way that there are peculiar modes of thought, a special kind of intellect, which, by a happy divination, goes infallibly to the point and the truth, and is entirely the judgment of feeling—the issue, in short, of the feeling soul; so, too, there are many impressions on the feelings (an ardent love, for instance, and a purely intellectual enthusiasm), which take their origin immediately out of some thought, or generally from the understanding. And, in fact, the very separation of the two generally does but lead to their more intimate union, and furnish a new bond of unity. Thought and feeling stand reciprocally in need of each other. As thought gains new life and animation from the rich feeling, with its facile, tender, and profound emotions, deriving therefrom its vital nourishment and sustenance, even so the feelings are not unfrequently first awakened, and very often strengthened and elevated, by the lofty flight of thought in its bold and searching investigations. It is even this that constitutes, in part at least, the attraction of social intercourse, the charm of love, and the happiness of a well-assorted union, which does but become more close by years—the one party finding in the other the intellectual or (if the term be preferred) the psychological complement of his own being and character.

But now a similar complement for the void and deficiency which, even in the most favored dispositions, enjoying the highest advantages of learning and culture, still remains in man’s consciousness and internal existence, may be found in yet another wise, and by a far superior method. We may, for instance, seek this consummation of our nature in that Being who contains in Himself the fullness of all might and of all existence—of all life and of all love—and out of whom both soul and spirit proceed and take their beginning. Now, if we should wish to form an idea of the heavenly state of supreme felicity, such, at least, as in forecasting hope we may suppose it to be, and indeed are justified in so doing, then we may doubtless think of it as such that in it both soul and spirit, sunk in the abyss of eternal love, will rest perfectly satisfied. Or rather, in a living communion of thought and feeling, they will most intimately sympathize in this ineffable majesty, being absorbed in the never-failing stream of the infinite plenitude of divinity. In this state of bliss, the body will be dissolved and no longer existent. At least transfigured and changed, it will remain nothing more than the pure, luminous veil [Lichthülle] of the immortal soul and the spirit, now totally and freely emancipated. For it will no longer be possible, with any propriety, to think of the body as separate and distinct from the soul and spirit, as in truth and fundamentally it will not be separate from them. Now, for this blissful state of perfect union with the supreme essence, no less than for those single and rare moments of mental ravishment, during which, even in this earthly life, man occasionally, though transiently, does, by vivid thought, transport himself to such a state, the third element, which as the connecting link must accrue to these two fundamental energies of man’s inward being and existence, in order to complete and perfect it, is God Himself. For it is here even as in the external world of sense; there must be a third element. There, however, it is the body, which, as no less essential than the other two, completes the existence of the total man. Merely psychologically regarded, and when we adhere and limit ourselves to the given sphere of the internal consciousness, the triple principle of man’s being is neither God, soul, and spirit, as in the higher blissful state, nor even body, soul, and spirit, as in this material world, but simply spirit, soul, and sense. These are the three elements of the mind, which as such immediately concern us at present, and form the essential basis of the following considerations.

Much is there that attaches itself to this principle, or follows from it. It would consequently only lead to confusion were we at present to take a full survey of all these cognate matters and consequences, and lay them before you at the outset. Many of them will arise much more naturally afterward. Even the treating, and the elucidation, of the relation in which the senses, as the third element of the human mind, stands to the other two, and the place which it holds among them, will hereafter come more appropriately before us. And this is especially true of a question which, however, has an important bearing on the matter before us—the question, viz., whether or not some particular faculty, either of soul or spirit, is to be regarded as an internal sense, a moral instinct, or an immediate perception and intuition of the highest and best. And, connected with this inquiry, is the remark, that even in the usual outward senses there lies a spark of higher spiritual perception—such, for instance, as the artistic eye for beauty of form and color, and for grace of motion, or the musical ear for lovely sounds and measures; so that even the senses are not so purely corporeal, so totally material and grossly sensuous, as at the first glance they appear. But there is another topic which here enforces itself on our consideration, and which, for the correct apprehension of the whole matter, is even still more important than that of the relation which sense holds to the other two elements of man’s consciousness. And this is to determine whether these two, soul and spirit, are really different, or whether it be not probable that, as the active and the passive powers and aspects of a higher principle in man, they are, on the whole, one and the same, and consequently ought not, in thought even, to be unduly separated and distinguished. But however this question is to be answered, even though in man they be really and necessarily united, still a relative distinction of them is justified by that preponderance of one or the other which manifests itself at different times and in different relations of life. But a weighty reason exists for supposing that they are essentially two elements. A fair presumption that, after all, soul and spirit are not perhaps one and the same under two several sets, arises from a comparison of man with other created spirits, if only it be allowed us to make a further application of a parallel which, on a certain hypothesis, we have already hazarded. For, however problematical at most the results of such comparisons may appear, still in such cases as the present they are often very useful. They tend, at least, to give a sharp and precise determination of the peculiar and characteristic features of man’s consciousness. Now, the free and pure spirits far surpass man in energy of will—in activity and power—and, secondly, in rapidity and clearness of apprehension, possessing as they do an intellect immediately intuitive. In these properties, as contrasted with the mutability and weakness of man’s vacillating will, the slowness of his groping and erring intellect, the angels have greatly the advantage of man. But, on the other hand, the human mind or spirit possesses in its peculiar creative fertility a vast prerogative, which can not—not, at least, in the same degree—be ascribed even to the pure creatures of light. And, in truth, it is on the soul, which is not merely receptive or sentient, but also inwardly productive, lovingly creative, and ever giving new forms and shapes to the old and common, that the creative faculty of invention, so distinctive of man, ultimately rests. At least, it forms the inner foundation and root out of which it springs and rises. Fancy, indeed, with its external shape and visible manifestion in art, is only one portion of it. But still the other part also of the soul, viz., the reason, when directed to its right end, and so long as it remains within its natural limits, is a faculty of endless intellectual development, infinite advance, and perfectionment. And, in truth, the position is by no means new, that perfectibility or the faculty of endless improvement (which, however, is associated with an equally great and no less infinite faculty of deterioration), is the essential and wholly peculiar prerogative of man. It is his characteristic property. With regard to the other aspect or portion of the same property, the productive fancy namely, and its creative productions, a similar view to our own—and, indeed, under the same parallel and hypothesis—is expressed in the poet’s assertion already quoted—

Only the term “art” must here be understood in a wide and comprehensive signification, so as to take in language. Or, rather, language itself is the general, all-embracing art of man. For nowhere does art evince its peculiar, internal, and intellectual fertility, its creative faculty of invention, so striking as in this wonderful structure of human language, with its many compartments. Man, we might well say, in general terms, is a production of nature that has attained to the perfection of language. In other words, he is a spirit to whom, before all other creatures, the word explanatory and declaratory, the guiding, the communicative, and even the commanding word, is lent, imparted, committed, or conveyed, and even therein consists his original, marvelous, and high dignity, so far surpassing the ordinary standard of creation.

On this account, therefore, it is only natural and consistent, i.e., agreeable to man’s nature and dignity, that the comparative juxtaposition and parallel which is to lead to a more correct characterization of the human mind, with its peculiar faculties and properties, should, as I said, be directed upward, rather than, as is usually done, downward to the brutes, and to the animal consciousness, if, indeed, we may justly ascribe such to them. Now, in this method of comparison I would go a step farther, for by so doing I hope to promote the more perfect understanding of the whole, and also to arrive at a correct and accurate notion of the several faculties of man’s spirit and of the powers of his soul. Which, then, of man’s faculties or powers may be rightly attributed to the Deity, and which not? To answer this question, however, it is not my intention to enter into any very difficult and abstruse investigations, such as would neither be very apposite to this place, and perhaps (to speak generally) would be absolutely without and beyond the limits of the human understanding. It will be sufficient for my purpose throughout to take for granted what, according to the universal feeling of mankind, is generally admitted, and which is even as generally intelligible, as it is easy of apprehension and clear. But when I thus without hesitation take for granted a universal belief in the existence of a divine principle, notwithstanding the doubt which in the human mind springs up against all else, so also against the highest object of faith, I do so with a deliberate view and purpose. For I shall reserve the solution of this grave problem to a later period of my sketch and exposition of the thinking consciousness and of a true living science. It is there, in truth, that it will find its most natural and appropriate place. Here, however, for the purposes of our intended comparison, which, as the instance itself will prove, is likely to be highly instructive, it will be sufficient if I confine myself to a single remark. The little that we know or can with certainty predicate of God may be comprised almost in the few words, “God is a spirit.” It is by virtue of this proposition that we ascribe to Him an omniscient intellect and an all-mighty will. Both these attributes or powers of God, are, it is self-evident, in the most perfect harmony, and can scarcely be separated from one another; whereas in man they are frequently widely divergent, at times even hostilely oppose each other, and at best do but check and limit their mutual action. Here, however, arises the question whether in strict propriety we may venture to ascribe to the Deity any of the other mental faculties and powers which man is conscious of, though on a greater and different scale, and in a very extended sense?

Now, in the creative energy of God, there is, in truth, comprised the plenitude of all fertility, and, if it be allowable so to speak, an inexhaustible source of all invention.

But still, as every one must at once feel, a productive faculty of imagination and a creative fancy can not on this account be ascribed to Him; for, were we to do so, we should step at once into the domain of mythology with its fabulous gods. And even as little, in strict propriety and accuracy of language, can we attribute to God the faculty of reason, which, in man, is the opposite of fancy. Reason is the connecting, inferring, discursive faculty of thought. But all this, with its graduated series of ideas or conceptions, is not applicable to the Deity, for in Him all must be thought of as standing at once and immediately before the divine mind, or, rather, as directly emanating from Him. Consequently, in a strict sense, and following a rigorous precision of a thoroughly correct designation, we may indeed ascribe to God an immediately cognizant and intuitive understanding, but not reason; since, by this term, it is only by a violent abuse of language and a total conversion of ideas that a faculty of intellectual intuition can be understood. One kind alone, or branch of reason, is immediately intuitive; and that is the conscience, or the moral instinct, for the appreciation of whatever is good or evil, right or wrong. This might not inaptly be called an applied reason; viz., a reason applied to the will and to its inmost motives, and to its just commencing, still inchoate determinations, out of which external actions ultimately issue. But even because conscience is an immediate perception of right and wrong, a moral instinct for good and evil, and, consequently, in form, wholly distinct from that function of reason which infers and deduces consequences, I am indisposed to give it such a name, and would rather regard it as a peculiar faculty of soul or heart, subsisting by itself, and intermediate between will and reason. In any case, it would be superfluous to observe how highly inappropriate it would be to designate by this name that warning or punitive judicial vision with which God looks through and penetrates the inmost heart, even though we must seek here the root and origin of the lucid oracles and simple revelations of the human conscience. As a property, however, it can only be ascribed to those beings who, like man, behold the law of God far above them, but by no means to that Being who is Himself the sum and source of all moral laws. But let us now revert to our first question of the predication of reason to the Deity. If, in our present reigning systems, and especially in the latest German philosophy, reason is, notwithstanding, ascribed to Him, or, rather, the eternal, unconditional, and absolute reason is itself called God, and rationality is made to be His essence; this is but the immediate consequence of the predominantly pantheistic tendency of these systems, in which the Deity is identified with the mundane All, and resolved into the universal essence. For, inasmuch as it was felt that it could not be merely the all-producing and all-absorbing—the all-bearing, infinite, vital power of the heathen systems of nature—and, since a more scientific designation was required, nothing remained for the totally abstract designation of the one All, but the name of that faculty which even in the human mind forms the principle of unity.

No doubt, in the preceding centuries, one or two great teachers have employed very similar, if not identical expressions, in reference to the Deity; still this, to my mind, appears an exception from the general rule, to be explained and justified only by individual terminology and points of view. And, at any rate, it is much safer to follow the ancient usage on this point. Accordingly, I have made it a law scrupulously to observe it throughout. But if people will at once subvert the ancient modes of speech, and completely interchange and confuse the ordinary signification of the terms reason and understanding, then all must naturally turn on the thing itself and the internal thoughts and the proper meaning which lies at the bottom of them. And then, by a due consideration of these, a mutual understanding may perhaps be eventually arrived at, notwithstanding the different modes of speech. With most of the writers and philosophers of the present day this, perhaps, is scarcely to be hoped for. The grave question, however, here (and which, as it lies at the bottom, must ultimately decide on this difference of phraseology), is this—whether philosophy in general is, according to the rationalistic way of thinking, a mere philosophy of reason, or a higher philosophy of the spirit and of spiritual revelation, or, indeed, of a divine experience.

Further, whenever, in the olden phraseology, there are ascribed to the Deity, memory and even desires, not to say impulses, which, viewed nearly in the same light as man’s appetites and passions, are designated by the same terms, all this is to be understood in the same way as the expressions concerning His all-seeing eye, His ear, and His mighty arm. They are merely figurative and symbolical phrases. In the use of them there is no pretension to scientific accuracy, with which understanding and will are universally and actually ascribed to Him. They are devoid even of that apparent probability which gives rise to the question, whether imagination and reason can, with the same propriety as the former two, be attributed to Him. With as little truth can a soul be ascribed to Him. For this is, exclusively, a passive faculty; whereas, in God, all is energy and activity. The expression, however, of a soul of God, is found, by way of exception from the general usage, in a few among ancient writers.

A more correct mode of indicating what is meant by this term would be to say that God is love, and that love is even His essence. Or the same idea would be well conveyed by speaking, under the form of a living force and property, of God’s fatherly heart as the center of His being, of His omnipotence and omniscience, and of the infinite love which results from the two. No doubt even this expression of God’s fatherly heart is merely figurative and symbolical. Still it is one of high significance, and, as such, it is not a mere figure without meaning. For, the higher and profounder spiritual philosophy, from Plato down to Leibnitz, has ever purposely employed such symbols and figures to indicate that which properly is inexpressible. In fact, it has always preferred them to the abstract notions employed by the rationalizing systems of our own lifeless metaphysics of naught, which, as they are void in themselves, so do they in reality say nothing.

Thus, then, has the very first step in this comparative psychology carried us, at once, to the utmost limits of what is knowable by man. Still it has tended, in passing, to place in an eminently distinct light many important matters and essential properties and faculties which belong to our present sphere of psychological inquiry. It is now, however, necessary for me to turn my regards back to the point from which we started. In order to commence our philosophy of life with the center of life and of man’s whole consciousness, we set out from a psychological fact, which immediately impresses itself on the awakening consciousness. This fact is the perception of the discord which reigns in our entire self, and especially of the deep-rooted dissension which, in their usual state, divides the four principal faculties of the consciousness, according to the twofold contrariety of understanding and will, and of reason and fancy. I will here merely add the remark, that further still, another essential property of man, and a state equally characteristic and peculiar to him, is closely associated with, and, indeed, is grounded in this internal discord, viz., the freedom of the will and the state of doubt. Now, this freedom of will which belongs to man is very different from the freedom of God, or even from that of the pure spirits who were first created. The notion of free will, however, is so deeply and firmly grounded in our inmost feelings, that man’s universal conviction of it can never be wholly undermined by any doubts of the reason, however subtilely advanced, and, in appearance, demonstratively urgent. No objection or difficulty can totally extinguish and annihilate the persuasion of its truth within our breast. For even after the greatest shock which our faith in ourselves may sustain, either from reflection or from subtilely refining on the subject—after what, apparently, is a complete refutation of its truth, this divine and inborn prejudice (if I may so term it) of our intrinsic freedom still springs up again. As the inextinguishable vital flame of the spirit, it rises anew from the expiring embers of those deadening doubts, which are themselves nothing more than the dead notions and null phantoms of a false semblance of thought. Now this freedom of will is a liberty of choice, i.e., a will long vacillating between two different series of ideas—of opposing grounds and reasons, and, at last, deciding for one or the other. This volition, however, is, by its nature, so little decided, and frequently finds so great difficulty in coming to a decision, that even when externally it has already concluded its deliberations, it often becomes again undecided and begins anew to hesitate. Or this freedom of choice in man may otherwise be described and thought of as a decision of the understanding, which compares together two different volitions, carefully weighs the conflicting grounds in favor of each, and, at last, in its final judgment, recognizes the preference to one or the other. Consequently, this free will and choice, so peculiar to man, depends intimately and essentially upon that controversy between understanding and will, which, if not inborn, has become, at least, a second nature to him. I have spoken of this freedom of will as peculiar to man, since it is not necessary, and rather would be a most arbitrary hypothesis, were we to go so far as to assert, that, assuming the existence of other free but created essences, our own special kind of freedom is the only possible and conceivable one. Still, for our present purpose, it is allowable to make such a purely hypothetical simile and comparison, if (a point on which the experiment itself must decide) it be likely to render our own peculiar form of consciousness more intelligible and conceivable. In this sense, then, we may go on to say, that we must conceive the liberty of the blessed spirits as being in its essence very different from that of man’s. As such it belongs to beings who have long passed beyond the probation of the still undecided choice, or who, at the very beginning of their existence, were, by the design of the Creator, withdrawn from it, and have, consequently, attained to eternal freedom, together with undisturbed and undisturbable peace in God, who is the sum and inexhaustible source, as well as the unfathomable, of all freedom, no less than of all life.

But even irrespectively of this freedom of choice for actual life and its particular objects and motives—irrespectively, also, of the freedom which is conversant about external actions, and of the inward moving causes of the will which contain the first ground and hidden germ of the former, and of that state of uncertainty which follows therefrom, and which not unfrequently long vacillates between one side and another—there are, also, in pure thought, simply as such, a similar state of internal hesitation or doubt—i.e., of a thought hostilely attacking, undermining and destroying, denying, and annihilating even consciousness and cogitation itself. Left wholly to ourselves, when, closing our regards to the external world, and without any definite object, we calmly commit ourselves to the stream of purely internal thought, we soon become sensible of this fact. On the one hand, there crowd on the mind the impressions of the outward senses, and the manifold creations of the peculiar, never-resting faculty of cogitation, seeking to gain the mastery over and to carry it along with them. On the other side, the distinguishing and discerning reason comes in with its questions and doubts, and chemical analysis, to resolve every thing finally into naught, and to explain all the conceptions of the mind as groundless and unsubstantial, as so many pure illusions of the senses, conceits of caprice, prejudices of a limited understanding, and mere pictures or creations of fancy. Thus, then, the ever-swelling flood of thought in man’s inner being and cogitation is not any calmly-flowing stream, in which wave quietly follows and succeeds to wave, as through rich and fertile plains it pursues its course from some distant source to the wide and open sea. The fearful conflict of thought is rather some double current, where, amid the crags and rocks, the pent-in waters, confining one another, beat up into foaming breakers—or, still more dangerous, beneath their apparently calm and smooth surface, they form the tearing whirlpool with its bottomless abyss, which, at the least incautious approach, hurries, irresistibly, into its vortex the tossing little boat of man’s brief existence. For the most part it is only in natures originally, at least, highly endowed and noble, that doubt and this internal struggle of thought rise to the height of despair. These alone are finally driven, by the rejection of all belief in themselves, into utter ruin both of soul and spirit. The tendency, however, to a state of struggle and doubt is universal. It seems to be nothing less than a characteristic property of human nature, and to have its foundation in the dissension subsisting between reason and fancy, which has so firmly established itself in the mind of man. It may happen, no doubt, that in a mind whose opinions are settled both in theory and practice, no instability will be found to subsist in the plans which guide and regulate life, but that, on the contrary, they are, on the whole, followed out with fixed resolution and decided energy. And yet, even in such a case, particular doubts will occasionally arise affecting many matters (which, although subordinate to the fundamental laws of life, are, nevertheless, far from being unimportant), so as to force upon us the remark, or even to extort the confession that, in general, such a state of immovable determination does not belong to human nature, and that this internal conflict forms one element of that warfare of life to which man is called. The predisposition to this I have referred to the discord between reason and fancy, and, for brevity’s sake, I have employed, throughout, the latter designation for it. I must, however, avail myself of the present occasion to observe, that fancy is not limited merely to poetry and the fine arts, and their respective creations, but inasmuch as all productive thought belongs to the imagination in the same way that the negative does to the reason, it also co-operates more or less with science. It is, therefore, chiefly in this latter and larger sense that we here employ the term, since it is from the contradictions of the productive and negative thought that the struggle and state of doubt arise.

The first truth, then, that psychology arrives at, is the internal discord within our fourfold and divided consciousness. Having commenced with a slight characteristic sketch of this fact, I have attempted to give a further and deeper grounding, and to invest it with a higher and profounder significance. To this first perception we appended, as the second member in the series of our philosophical investigation, the idea of a triplicity of consciousness as restored to its perfect and living action. According to this view, the simple division of the mind is into spirit, soul, and sense. And this will, in all our subsequent Lectures, form the basis of our psychological reflections on the human mind. It will also serve as the transition from the ordinary state of the consciousness in discord with itself, and with its fourfold division, to the reunited triple consciousness. We shall make it the starting-point and first step in this philosophy, which, as it sets out from life, is also to lead to a higher life.

But now, even in the mind’s ordinary state there are many such beginnings of a higher order of things—many moments of a more concentrated energy, which bespeak a joint operation of the otherwise divided faculties and powers of soul and spirit, and have for their result a partial restoration, at least, of harmony to this otherwise dismembered whole. Among these I would mention, first of all, that inner fixity of character, where thought, will, and conduct are consistent throughout; secondly, a true artistic genius in the creations both of poetic and plastic fancy. Lastly, there is that ardent and disinterested love, with its magnanimous self-sacrifices, which, though it surpasses all the limits of reason, can not, nevertheless, be looked upon as a mere imagination or illusion of fancy, forming as it does a profound and natural energy of the human soul, and constituting in truth its true and proper essence. No doubt the external phenomenon and effect of this elevated principle of the soul is often tarnished and lessened by the dull admixture of earthly ardor, and the bewilderment of passion. A true and perfect manifestation of the feeling, consequently, is no less rare than the truly felicitous creations of real artistic genius. Still it is to it that we must look for the first principle of a higher living thought and the true science thereof. The truly loving soul needs only the excitement and guidance of a mind or spirit ripened and matured in divine experience. Accordingly, the consciousness thus restored to unity and completeness of perfection becomes actively operative in its triple energy. And in the same manner the spirit striving with most ardent aspiration after the divine, requires nothing but such an animating contact with the loving soul, in order to attain fully and effectually to its desired end.

In the series of combining elements or principles of union for the otherwise divided consciousness there is yet another phenomenon, both great and comprehensive in itself, and which also reveals itself as such in actual life and experience. And this phenomenon is furnished by language, with its wonderful variety and yet truly artistic uniformity. For it is the vital product of the whole inner man. All the faculties both of soul and spirit, however discordant generally, combine each, in their full share and measure, to perfect this their conjoint production. And yet, after all, many traces of inherent imperfection are visible therein. It is only in the highest creations of artistic genius, manifesting itself either in poetry or some other form of language, and then only in the brightest and happiest moments of inspiration, that we meet with the perfect harmony of a complete and united consciousness, in which all its faculties work together in combined and living action.

In language, all the four principal powers have a nearly equal part and share. The grammatical structure, the rules for the changes and declensions of words, and their syntax, are furnished by the reason. From the fancy, on the other hand, is derived whatever is figurative; and how very far does not this reach, extending as it does into the primary and natural signification of words, which often no longer exists, or at least is rarely traceable? Lastly, the clear and distinct arrangement of the parts, the nicely-finished and beautiful shape of the whole of any composition, whether poetical or rhetorical, civil or scientific, are the contributions of the understanding. And so, also, whatever is truly characteristic—whatever, in short, goes beyond the mere instinctive cry of animal nature, and the childlike, oft-times childish imitation of external sounds—in short, that deep and spiritual significance, that characteristic meaning which, in the original stem-syllable and radical words of some rich old language, invariably is regarded as a beauty, must be ascribed to the understanding, which so profoundly seizes and precisely designates whatever is peculiar, unless, perhaps, it is preferred to assign it to an immediate feeling, which wonderfully harmonizes with or responds to it. Moreover, the magic force of a commanding will, which carries all before it by its intrinsic energy, is at least noticeable in those few brilliant passages of highest inspiration or perfect poetic delineation, from whose clear and perspicuous language, the apparently ineffable, shining forth like an electric spark, kindles and influences every sensitive and kindred mind.

But before I go deeper into the question of the origin of language, and examine the correct idea of this all-embracing and wonderful faculty of speech, as man’s most remarkable and peculiar property, I would call your attention to the intimate connection subsisting between thought and speech, which is throughout reciprocal. For as speech must be regarded as a thinking, outwardly projected and manifested, so, too, thinking itself is but an inward speaking and a never-ending dialogue with one’s self.

Judging, from all appearances, the consciousness of animals, so far as we are justified in ascribing it to them, is perfectly simple, but sadly defective and limited. But even here, however, the several melodious courses of irrational and seemingly unconscious sounds appear like so many echoes of a better foretime—lost traces of ancient memory, and which, together with the moving and mournful cry of deep, painful longing, seem to make tolerably clear to us the notion of the creature waiting and groaning for its emancipation. Highly simple, too, but in quite a different respect, is the consciousness or thought of the free spirits in their pure activity, such as we may and ought to represent it to ourselves—like the ray of light which in its rapid descent penetrates all space. But marvelously intricate, on the other hand, and highly complicated, is the so manifoldly rich, and, at the same time, so versatile and changeable consciousness of man. Such, at least, is the impression which a serious and searching glance into the unfathomable depths of our inward man enforces upon us. And, indeed, just as in the triple operation of the consciousness, when restored to the full perfection of life, we may trace a certain faint signature of man’s pristine likeness to the Creator, so also a slight vestige of the same kind is, we might fancy, discoverable in its unfathomable depth, which, however, now reveals itself in quite a different form from its original nature, and appears to be converted into its opposite. How often does the thought that seeks to penetrate the mysteries of nature—the hidden thinker within man—believe that he has completely solved the riddle of existence, and is able to explain and rightly interpret the many-meaning but obscure words of the sphinx within us! And even then, when he most flatters himself with his own ingenuity, this miserable Œdipus of his own destiny is stricken with even more fatal and incurable blindness than the old Theban, and can not discern the abyss of error into which his whole life has been hurrying, and into which it is at last plunged headlong and precipitated. Ever laboring to seize the changing Proteus of its own self, our Ego may, perhaps, often arrive at a rare amazement at the enigma of existence, and also is even seized many a time with a light terror. Never, however, by itself, let it think and seek as it may, will it be able, without some other guide, to find the object of its longing, and, in its tragic blindness, to discover the clue of the labyrinthic mazes of its own thoughts, and at last to arrive at harmony with itself.