PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE. (continued 7)

We can not, perhaps, estimate too highly or admire too much this great master of human subtilty, whether for his intellectual powers and extent of learning, or even as a writer. Still we must not forget that in his system were contained the germ and evident tendency to the two chief forms of philosophical error—naturalism on the one side, and rationalism on the other. And so we find that in the later times of the following centuries, each of these false systems, according as the occasion favored the one or the other, were drawn out from the Aristotelian doctrine, to receive a further and a distincter development. In his doctrine on the Godhead, he can least of all stand a severe and rigorous criticism. And in many points, as, for instance, in his notion of the absolute self-sufficiency of the reason, he approximates but too closely to the idealistic view which we have already designated as the transition to scientific atheism.

It was only in a very remote and distant age that Aristotle attained to a very great importance and authority. In his own day he did but form a very inconsiderable school, which exercised far less influence on public life than two other sects, in whose history the development of Grecian philosophy finds its close.

The system of the Stoics, with its stern and, consequently, impracticable theory of morals, its doctrine of absolute necessity and blind fatalism, announces itself at once as identical with an austere rationalism. At the same time, under the teaching of the Epicureans, a soft and effeminate naturalism became almost universally prevalent. And while, in another and newer form, it gradually assumed the place of the old mythical heathenism, which daily fell more and more into neglect and disrepute, it still retained the old heathen sentiment, and a careless and undisturbed indifference in inactive bliss and self-enjoyment, as it was even ascribed and imputed to the gods, was introduced into life, and extolled as the true wisdom. Thus, then, while on the one hand the foundation was laid for that insensibility with which the wide-spreading and growing corruption and the approach of the general ruin were contemplated, so, on the other hand, the apathy of the Stoics was not exactly the right kind of sentiment to furnish a check or counteractive to this sybaritic indifference.

As concerns the relations of public life, the social community, and the state, the Stoical doctrine appears, no doubt, in a worthier and a better light. On this account it numbered among its adherents almost all the great statesmen that lived from the last times of the Republic down to the later centuries of the Empire. Considered, however, in themselves, and scientifically regarded, both systems must be looked upon simply as the last chemical decomposing process, or the initiatory putrifying state of all higher science and philosophical reflection among the Greeks. On the whole, then, we conclude that Grecian science and philosophy have exercised no influence at all on life, or at least, either a very inadequate, or such as has proved radically baneful and pernicious.

But now, in the very center of man’s history—in the transition-point between the ancient and the modern world—science and life were again at unison, as at the beginning. And this was effected by the appearance of a new science in another form. For most assuredly we shall not err in giving this name to a new living and spiritual power, which, totally changing and giving an entirely new direction to the arbitrary views, sentiments, and principles of public and private life, and also to the modes of thinking prevalent in the age and in the world, was strong enough to triumph, not only over heathenism itself, but also over the science and philosophy of its most enlightened nations. Now this new mode of thinking, which came forward in the full certainty of the most undoubting faith and the highest internal illumination, had, so far as it is right and allowable to call it a science, a very different form and scope from all that has previously and usually been so called. For it issued out of the very depths of life, and received from love—a divine love, that is—its first diffusion and establishment. Consequently, it was a thoroughly living science, or, as being perfectly clear and certain in itself, a new scientific life, which, moreover, proceeded from this its first starting-point, was able to penetrate into all the other forms of public life and of the anterior systems of science, and by adopting or remodeling them, give to itself therein a further and more universal development.

But here, also, the divine impulse from above encountered the usual partial or entire resistance from below. Accordingly, this new living wisdom, which, in its essence, is one with life, and which, therefore, the more it is developed only unfolds this unity the more universally and the more immutably, was not, at the first, universally adopted, or did not become every where predominant. Moreover, even where it was received, and its authority acknowledged, its reception was often little more than external. It was not admitted as a living principle into all the depths of the soul, or impressed on all the habits and tendencies of the mind [geist]. And even where, in some degree at least, it was adopted in the inner man with full and sincere love, it was often nothing more than an undeveloped germ of the future and of a higher life. Isolated by itself, and standing apart, it remained shut up within the inmost bosom, without at the same time penetrating, reanimating, and giving a new life and shape to all the other life-elements of the consciousness and the productions of human science.

Thus, then, it was only too possible for error to find its entrance even here also. And it is remarkable that both its principal forms, such as in varying shapes the history of philosophy is constantly presenting to us in the different epochs of its progress, here again most distinctly present themselves with all the features of their intellectual physiognomy plainly marked, and with the still more obvious contrast of their intrinsic diversity. A philosophy of nature more or less visionary and fanciful was the common basis of the various Gnostic sects. With their long series of imaginary emanations from the Deity, resembling in no slight degree the old heathen genealogies of the gods, they would, had they triumphed, have converted Christianity into a similar mythology, though of a more philosophical character. In the Arians, on the contrary, and other kindred sects before and after them, we recognize rather the spirit of rationalism, which, dwelling on some point of life, or theory, with a show of rigor and accuracy, while, apparently, it disputes only about words, is, in fact, undermining the foundation of the most essential ideas.

All these parties, however, as they originated, so they also disappeared, within the first five or eight centuries of our era. It was, therefore, impossible for their pernicious influence to gain a deep hold of life. At least it was neither universal nor permanent. Yet by them the ardor of a first love was cooled. And sad, indeed, has been the loss as regards the fullness of living energy, and even in respect of profounder wisdom.

The history of the middle ages again presents a rare and singular phenomenon. One great mind and writer of antiquity, whose influence in his own day was far from extensive, became at this date, in a most remarkable manner, the problem and center of scientific inquiry. For several centuries the human mind was laboriously engaged in disputing about the philosophy of Aristotle. And although men did not understand it—not, at least, its deeper meaning, for they lacked the first and most essential qualifications, and also the requisite means for such a purpose—this apparently aimless disputation, and this unsolved problem, was, nevertheless, not without great and manifold influence on their own and the following ages. It has had a permanent effect on the whole frame of man’s life and being.

Of the two wholly different aspects which, as we have already so often remarked, the philosophy of Aristotle presents, it was probably not its fruits of rationalism (for, at this period, such were generally regarded as forbidden) that throughout the great part of the then civilized world excited so incredible a fondness for this all-absorbing and all-understanding system. Its attraction lay rather in some great and mysterious knowledge of nature. And the desire for these intellectual treasures was not a little heightened by the fact, that, in general, they were inaccessible.

In the little intercourse subsisting, at this period, between distant nations and lands, and the almost total separation of the East from the West, it was only through the Arabic versions, or Latin translations molded again upon these, that any knowledge of this philosophy could be drawn. This must have led, it is obvious, to a wide deviation from the true sense and critical spirit of the author. Its original aim must have been generally missed. For, however highly we may be disposed to estimate the intellectual merits of the Arabians, as writers of their native history, or in poetry, or in any other science, they are notoriously deficient in the true critical spirit. Their total and universal want, in this respect, is especially evident when they are compared with the Greeks, among whom this critical acuteness, whether false or true, sprung up and reached its greatest height.

Strange, no doubt, and singular is it at first sight, to view this old master of philosophical thought and science, who, on the whole, is so perfectly heathen, suddenly received among the medieval theologians, and taking, as it were, his seat, and giving his voice among them. Still, if men of great mental powers and authority sought to make themselves masters of the whole matter—both of the much-disputed works of this writer, this Aristotle, so strangely disguised in his new motley dress of Arabic Latin, and also of the voluminous labors bestowed upon him—we must look upon this procedure as analogous to that of the thoughtful physician, who, in the midst of a wide-spread pestilence and inevitable contagion, prefers to inoculate it himself, in order the more safely to treat and to cure it. In short, as the case really stands, we must look on these illustrious men in two distinct lights. On the one hand we must see in them the Church’s venerable teachers, and the sagacious and discriminating theologians of the day; on the other, the scholastic interpreters of Aristotle, who had now become a necessary evil for the Christian middle ages.

This, however, and whatever else was the matter and object of such subtile disputes, was too soon forgotten. In these scholastic contests, after the fashion of the day, the combatants, horse and man, were armed cap-a-piè, incased and disguised in logical coats of mail, composed of countless rings of thought and chains of ideas. With this heavy panoply, the great object was to heave their antagonist out of the saddle. Often they recoiled from the shock without advantage on either side—so equally matched were they in their good lances and the weight of their armor—and often they swerved from the charge. Mostly, however, both of the philosophical knights found themselves, at the end of the strife, at their old station in the lists, or driven back, perhaps, to their original entry. This scholastic philosophy, in the form it now took, of a highly elaborate art of logical tourney in the philosophical schools, was, undoubtedly, an abiding evil in the age that immediately followed, and furnished an important element to the party disputes of later, and to the rationalism of these latest times.

The overthrow of the Grecian empire and the discovery of the new world, suddenly and at once introduced into Western Europe vast and varied treasures of historical, physical, and philosophical knowledge. In this brilliant epoch of the fifteenth century, a new world of thought was, as it were, laid open. A new era of science would have been founded, and a veritable reformation of the whole Christian life must have ensued, had not the moral corruption and the political disorders of the period been gross beyond description. But for all this, how much is there to admire in the Platonic writers of the fifteenth century, among whom Germany, after Italy, produced the most famous and the greatest number? When we take up, even now, any one of their works, and contemplate therein their comprehensive liberal pursuit of science, their mild, antique spirit, their noble form, and their quick recognition of the beautiful, we can not turn from them without regret to that new state of barbarism into which, during the sixteenth and part also of the seventeenth century, science was plunged by the rampant spirit of party and controversy.

At last, however, peace and quiet returned again to Christian lands and states, and slowly, and by degrees, to the minds also of men. And now was it, in the eighteenth century, and especially toward the middle of it, that out of this apparent and superficial peace, a new science, or a new light, or at least a new diffusion of it, seemed ready to arise. Simply regarded in a scientific point of view, this philosophical endeavor of the eighteenth century, and the most memorable of the systems to which it gave rise, occupied our attention in the very opening of these Lectures. Here the immediate object of our consideration is not this new science itself, whether true or false, but rather the influence on the age, and on life in general, of this modern mode of thinking, as generally diffused and prevalent.

Much, undoubtedly, has been discovered or newly learned in the natural sciences and in the domain of history; many too have been the bold ventures, at least, and novel essays in philosophy. This new wisdom, moreover, was taught and disseminated far more universally than ever before had been the case; while even the agreeable feeling produced by the moderation of the intellectual spirit now prevalent, greatly promoted its wide and rapid diffusion. But at a later period this enlightenment, so rapidly and so widely diffused, which, moreover, was taken only in a negative sense, was soon recognized to be unsatisfactory and superficial, while also the theory of popular liberty and independence which was grafted thereon, and claimed, or at least wished to be rational, bore the bitterest and worst of fruits.

In short, to speak most leniently of it, the whole was nothing less than the undigested scheme of an immature and imperfect knowledge, brought into the world before its time. Accordingly, its rash and precipitate course in the last age, whose history is unparalleled in the annals of the whole world, together with the fearful catastrophe which it has brought about, opened the eyes of men to the fearful abyss to which such a precipitate abuse of science had hurried them. And, in consequence, thinking men of the highest endowments and the richest intellectual gifts among different nations, have in many ways nobly devoted themselves to the work of restoration in sentiment, in thought, and in science.

But on the one hand, the first elements of the former destructive principle appear to be still existing, even though it be in less obvious and more pliable and disguised forms. On the other hand again, the corrected mode of thinking, and the better tone of sentiment and science, is for the most part confined merely to a more chastened outward form. Scarcely any where as yet is it carried far enough back, up to the profoundest sources of spiritual life, up to the primal origin and veritable foundation of the divine and of the eternally good.

And yet this is exactly the problem of our age, and herein alone shall we find the solution of the great enigma of the times. For from this hasty review of the whole course of the intellectual development of humanity, from its beginning to its close, the result, for the sake of and with a view to which alone I ventured so cursorily and in such faint outline to sketch all the leading epochs of the history of philosophy, must at least be evident. As in the beginning, and in the center thereof, science and life lovingly co-operated together and were fully in unison; and as in the intermediate epochs and intervals among the Greeks in civilized antiquity, and in the middle ages among ourselves, they became more and more estranged, so at the end will they be at one again. And already, even in our own days, every thing is tending to bring about such a consummation. But who shall say whether it shall be in a good or an evil sense? Ere long, life shall either, under the influence of the true and good and divine knowledge, be again restored, permanently regulated, and receive a new shape and fresh vigor, or, by a false and delusive science, be completely destroyed, and involved in eternal ruin.

Having, in this hasty review, considered, under its historical aspect, the problem of the relation of science—the true and divine, as well as the false and delusive—to both private and public life, it now remains for us to examine and to answer this same question from the side of theory. Regarded from this point of view, it would appear that whenever science fails to exercise an influence on life, or when they withdraw and are estranged one from the other, the fact may be always accounted for and explained by accidental causes and purely local influences, such as have their origin in the several periods of the world’s history, or flow from certain imperfections on one side or the other. For, considered in itself, science in general is nothing but this unity of thought and life, and consequently its living operation and influence are involved in the very idea of a higher science, provided only it be true and properly regulated. Either, therefore, science is life elevated into a thought, and consequently transformed into a thinking, or else it is a thought carried into reality, that has passed and been transmuted into life, and therein fully attested and certified by life itself—consequently a thinking become life.

Now, according to this view, that science consists in the mutual approximation to, and the final attainment of, a perfect unity between thought and life, there are three degrees of it, according to that triple gradation and threefold principle which exists in the human consciousness. The first of these, then, is reflection. And this, understood in a somewhat profounder acceptation than ordinarily, is an internal feeling, hearing, or seeing of one’s own thinking. Consequently it is a perception similar to that of the senses, by means of which the unseen thought is in some degree projected and introduced into external reality. But this act of reflection is nothing more than a passive state of the soul in its internal observation of itself. So long as it remains confined to this narrow sphere, it perpetually revolves in the same orbit, and, properly speaking, produces no ulterior results of a knowledge fruitful and applicable to actual and outward life.

The second degree or moment of science is abstraction, by virtue of which, from the complete sum of all the criteria and characteristics of an object, or, rather, of a thought, some one is prominently set forth as the most essential, and for the sake of communication designated by a name. For all communication and language is based on this faculty of abstraction, which is itself an arbitrary act of the free will. But although by this naming, generalization, and communication, the internal thought is advanced a step farther into the external world and the living reality among and with others, still the reality of the thought is by no means satisfactorily established thereby. For this very liberty in the choice of name, of combination, and of general classification, opens a wide field for caprice. This is evident enough from the countless multitude of terminologies, so needlessly invented and so rapidly thrown into oblivion, which form so many remote and mutually unintelligible philosophical dialects, in the ever-repeated attempt to build methodically the Babel tower of philosophical system. For these designations of abstract thoughts, even when they are most felicitous, fail to win the concurrence of others, and do but open a door to endless dialectical disputation.

Thus, then, neither reflection, which is eternally revolving within the narrow orbit of our inward self, nor empty abstraction, though it strays at pleasure over the spacious realm of the possible, can lead us to the desired end of perfect certainty or veritable science. It is alone the practical carrying out into real life of a speculative thought, that can bring it to the conclusion of perfection of certainty, and to a complete and true science. Now I should prefer to designate this its highest grade by the notion and name of consequence. But by this term, I must be understood as meaning not merely a correct logical enchainment of ideas, but pre-eminently a faithfully-worked-out consequence or consistency of sentiment and life, i.e., a perseverance in good. At the same time, it must ever be remembered, that the evil principle, although it often makes a boast of possessing this quality, does so only in appearance, and never in this true sense. On the contrary, torn to pieces by conflicting passions in its inmost being, it is really in the highest degree inconsequent, as acting in direct opposition to its beginning and origin, which, like all other created beings, it took and received from God.

Truly consequent or consistent a man can not be except in the truth, i.e., in Him out of whom all truth, and from whom all existence is derived and flows—in other words, in God. Science, therefore, is an applied thinking, i.e., one that has passed into life, and thereby become real and certain; and it is only on the road of practice, by its actual carrying out or real manifestation, that it can attain to its highest degree, and that the truth of an idea or speculative thought can be satisfactorily attested.

The ideas, according to the original sense of the term, are even the self-existing thoughts of a higher life, as distinct both from the simple facts of the consciousness in the domain of reflection, and from the arbitrary forms of thought set up by empty abstraction. And though even here as elsewhere, a false, sickly, or a null and illusory life, may be substituted for that which is true, still this applies only to the form of the living idea, as contrasted with the sensuous semblance or the dead notion. For, that an idea is truly divine, can only be proved by this quality of consequence—by its divine influence and effect on life.

On the other hand, many philosophical thinkers have somewhat erroneously indicated the intrinsic certainty of philosophical thought by the name and under the form of an intellectual intuition, and thereby given occasion to manifold misconceptions. But if in all the fullness of the conception already advanced of the eternal truth, and of Him who is its sum and source, we were really able to be sentinent of and to feel the divine life—to hear and audibly to perceive the eternal Word and actually to see the holy Light, such a spiritual intuition of God’s glory and majesty would be far more appropriate for the future than for the present world. And even though we may and can admit it to be conceivable, as given from above, still a communication of it would be impossible, and, consequently, could not be available for the ordinary purpose of giving a philosophical foundation to any human system. Under this form, then, of a so-called intellectual intuition, if it be really such, and not rather a mere form of abstract thought under another and an assumed name, speculative science would consequently assume the character of a questionable vision, and a possible mental delusion. For a full internal satisfaction and certainty—so far at least as these are attainable by man—even in the case that they are the sign and the proof that this intuition, or perception of the divine light actually took place, can only be furnished by that quality of consequence already described as belonging to every thought and cognition which is founded in God. And to this character of consequence or consistency, the condition of agreement with every other idea or revelation already acknowledged to be divine, belongs naturally as the irrefragable law of judgment and of life.

That full and correct conception of eternal truth which has been developed by us in the ninth Lecture as the living idea of the Supreme Being is unquestionably the fundamental speculative notion and the internal spiritual basis on which every other higher science, that has any pretensions to the qualities of permanence and consequence which belong to right-thinking and to immutable truth, is subsequently raised, or, in other words, it is the source from which it abidingly flows. In the three subsequent Lectures, however, the subject has been mostly scientific, speculative, and metaphysical, though throughout accompanied with historical illustrations drawn from the development of the human mind. And here, accordingly, a reference to the science or discipline of logic is every where supposed.

Now, in the form in which this science or discipline has come down to us from the Greeks, there is much that is rather an accident than a part of its essence, and whose presence must be accounted for by some special and local necessity. With no people before or since has rhetoric enjoyed so commanding an influence as with the Greeks, and with none also has the sophistic art produced such great and such pernicious effects. Accordingly, they found it necessary to devote to the analysis of all its arts, delusions, and tortuous windings, and also to the development of the dialectical means for their detection and refutation, a disproportionate degree of attention, which is neither necessary for us nor practically useful.

The Hindoos, likewise, have from the most ancient times possessed a scientific system of logic. Indeed it has even been said, that Aristotle, having received from Alexander the Great some of their logical treatises, borrowed from them his own system, or, at least, molded it after them. But from the reasons just adduced, I am disposed to think that, in all probability, the Hindoo logic was much simpler than the Grecian, where the simple end of truth, and the great desideratum of a correct standard thereof, was lost sight of amid an overminute analysis, and the mazes of an endless subdivision of notions.

In the routine of our school education logic might, perhaps, be made a highly profitable study if only it were combined with and made to bear upon the history of the gradual development of human thought, and especially the theory of language. And then, since thought and speech are so intimately allied to and dependent on each other, it would be advisable to go a step farther, and extend our logical studies to the theory of imagination, symbolical language and its fundamental rules.

In a scientific education, too, a logic of the memory (if we may be allowed the expression) would in all probability be highly useful. For an established law and disposition of our thoughts would greatly facilitate the exercise of memory, and as furnishing rules for the practice, or generally as an exercise of that faculty, would form an excellent basis for scientific education. For the conduct of life, indeed, there is nothing so important or so desirable as a right logic of the conscience, which should detect all the internal delusions of egoism and the still more subtile sophistry of selfishness in every point where the question lies between the righteous truth and a latent falsehood. And this is intimately connected with, or at least leads directly to, the notion of the sound reason which requires before all things a conscientious susceptibility of the truth.

But a logic applicable to this higher science must be understood in a far more comprehensive sense than is ordinarily done. And this is even what we have here attempted to furnish. Logic in general is conversant about three objects: the notion, the judgment, and the conclusion. But it ought also to possess a general fundamental rule and regulative standard of truth, so far as this is attainable. But inasmuch as in this domain the eternal is simply one, so also for this higher science one notion properly is sufficient; as also one judgment which comprises all others, and one conclusion which completes the whole, is sufficient. The act of understanding has been explained to be the completion of the notion; and the full and complete apprehension of the eternal truth, or of Him who is the sum of all verities, was the subject-matter of our ninth treatise. The act of discerning was explained to be the completion of the judgment; and this perfect judgment, which decides and distinguishes between truth and error, was the theme of our tenth disquisition. Science, however, is the perfection of all thinking, and in its actual operation, as applied to life, and in itself carried to a conclusion, is one with it. Now this was the end to which the present discussion and development was intended to lead; while the further prosecution of it and its reference to the several spheres and domains of existence must be reserved to the following discourses.

LECTURE XII. OF THE SYMBOLICAL NATURE AND CONSTITUTION OF LIFE WITH REFERENCE TO ART AND THE MORAL RELATIONS OF MAN.

HOW difficult it generally is for man to express his internal conceptions, to bring out the indwelling idea and to realize its perfect external manifestation, is shown, for example, among other instances, by the fine arts, or the art of the beautiful. For this reason the theory of the latter, the so-called æsthetics (which, however, might far more correctly be termed symbolism), forms the natural pendant and accompaniment to logic, if the latter, instead of being limited, as is usual, to the mere art of distinguishing the different kinds of notions, is understood in a far higher sense, and referred to eternal, and, consequently, divine truth, and to its intrinsic and equally divine standard. For when the question no longer involves a purely material or simply subjective verity, but that which is more exalted and heavenly, then beauty (that, namely, about which art is conversant, and which, far surpassing all that is merely human, pretends and really ought to be divine and supernatural) forms the other and symbolical aspect of one and the same eternal truth. And indeed it is neither separable from it nor opposed to it, so long as art maintains its high standing and employs the sensual charm which it requires for the lively expression of vitality, and its outward manifestation, only as a symbol and for the sake of that higher significance which she herself lends to it, and does not seek nor admire it for its own sake, nor sees therein the fulfillment of its own true end and aim.

But by far the greater number of the productions of art are only repetitions or copies of some previous realization. And I use this term, not in its usual depreciatory sense, but rather in one that is applicable to what are truly artistic productions but still only successful formations at second-hand. Extremely rare, indeed, are the original expressions or impressions of an indwelling, unborrowed idea And even among these very many are nothing more than the first faint outline and commencement, which only at a subsequent epoch of art, and after long and repeated essays, attains to complete perfection and a really successful and veritable outward exhibition of the indwelling idea. For we must ever consider as an idea that inward object which art in its external manifestations strives to realize, and which in its creations ought to stand out, as it were, bodily before us.

Even in music (as the expression of the emotions of the soul in their flow and change, and in the struggle with inharmonious discords, till at last they finally dissolve in harmony) it is not so much the immediate feeling—for this would be no more artistic than the mere cry of passion—as rather the idea of it that the artist has in his mind, and that forms the subject of his representations. The musician strives to represent the whole idea—the beautiful and the marvelous in the whole progress of its development. Following the inmost life-pulse in its alternate rising and falling, he labors to give its unexpected transitions up to their sudden harmony or its repetitions of still increasing pitch up to a full and soothing close, or (if this is designedly to be left unattained) up to the abrupt and painful breaking off or gradual dying away and cessation of the plaintive note or the tone of ardent longing.

And the same is the case with sculpture. But here we would premise the remark, that the principle with which we set out, of the triple nature and division of man’s being, is confirmed by the existence of a corresponding order and diversity in the fine arts. Among the arts, accordingly, whose object is the manifestation of the beautiful, music is pre-eminently the art for the soul, while sculpture is for the most part corporeal.

Now, in sculpture it is not any actual figure or the body itself that the artist has in view. It is the general idea thereof that constitutes the subject-matter of his representations. He seeks to portray its most perfect structure, its full organic development, its exquisite correctness of symmetry and sublime beauty of form. And to all this even the expression of character and passion is in a certain degree subordinate. And exactly because the external medium which it employs, because the material mass on which its internal conceptions are to be stamped, or, rather, out of which they are to be worked, is the inanimate stone and cold marble, therefore does true sculpture aim at a higher excellence than the uniformity and death-like repose which characterize the Egyptian statues of the gods. It seeks rather to triumph by copying with the most marvelous truth and fidelity the living frame in its most rapid movements, and life in its most violent struggles, and by seizing its fleeting graces to fix them forever in its own imperishable creations.

In truth, the imitation of actual reality, however difficult and in itself worthy of admiration it may be, does not constitute the aim or object, or generally the principle of sculpture, any more than of any other art. A remarkable proof of this is afforded by the fact that color, with all its charms, is excluded from the plastic art and its embodied manifestations as too meretricious and too closely allied to reality. For by such an expedient, not less than by the use of ingenious mechanism to give motion to the limbs, the artistic ideal, or the images of the gods, would have degenerated into the puppets of children.

Reality, therefore, with its actual shapes and the delusive imitation and servile copying of them, is in nowise the proper or immediate object of the plastic art. Even beauty of form is not always, not at least solely and exclusively its aim; it is only so accidentally and relatively, as a condition of the expression of character, of external states, and of the total significance. Always and universally it is a thought, the idea of some subject or form as the inner sense and significance thereof, that constitutes the essence of a work of art, and with which art in general is concerned. In other words, art is symbolical. And this may be predicated with equal truth of every higher art, as well as of sculpture, whatever may be the medium of its manifestations, whether a statue, or tone as in music, or words as in poetry. It is exactly this that constitutes the difference between high art and every other which, however closely allied to it in appearance, has some ulterior and practical object, and which therefore can not be symbolical.

Of this kind, for instance, is the difference between rhetoric (which most assuredly is an art, or at least was exclusively treated as such by the Greeks) and poetry. And it is of the utmost importance to keep this distinction constantly in view. For exactly in the same degree that it is neglected is the proper character and true excellency of the higher art of the beautiful lost sight of. And a right estimate of the other arts which have an ulterior and practical object would also be endangered. An orator who with the greatest command of practical and imaginative language is nevertheless devoid of convincing logical power to sway the minds of men by his arguments, and to bend them irresistibly to his purpose, would exercise but little influence; while no heavier censure can be passed on one who sets up for a poet, than to affirm of him, that he possesses and understands nothing but the rhetoric of passion, without—though such further qualification is evidently superfluous—true poetry.

Of the fine arts, therefore, which, employing a material medium for their representations, possess an ideal and symbolical significance, music is the art of the soul, and sculpture is that of corporeal form, and of the manifestation of the true idea of organic beauty. But among the three sister arts, painting is the true spiritual one. As the light, with its ceaseless variety of tints and hues, is the most spiritual element of nature, and as the eye is the most spiritual of man’s senses, so painting, as concerned about these, is the most spiritual of the arts, and the one with which the symbolical spirit readily associates itself. Painting directs itself wholly to the eye, whereas sculpture appeals indeed to the eye, but only as the necessary medium for satisfying the corporeal sense and feeling.

But painting, in its manifestations, does not confine itself to abstract beauty (if we may so say) or the perfect structure and symmetry of form. It embraces all the eye can reach in the visible phenomena of the world, with all its wonderful play of light and shade and magical splendor of coloring, where not only the whole, but the several parts—in a word, all that in many and various ways is charming to the senses, attractive to the eye with ever new wonders, and all that to the mind or spirit is full of deep spiritual and symbolical significance. And for this reason the wonderful art of painting is even the most appropriate, shall I say to exhibit, or rather to suggest, the high mysteries of divine love in religion and revelation. No wonder, then, if, in modern Christendom, music and painting, the art or symbolism of soul and spirit, have been chiefly cultivated, and attained their highest development and perfection, whereas the art of the perfect development of organic form and corporeal and sensual beauty, reached its height of excellence in the sculpture of classical antiquity, which in the same way and degree will never again be paralleled, or at least will never be surpassed.

It appears sufficient if we assume that there are only three symbolical arts for the higher manifestation of the beautiful. For architecture, although in various ways bound and modified by the conditions of some ulterior design, is, nevertheless, in its principal features closely related to sculpture, and stands on the same line with it. For beauty of structure, correctness of proportion, and grace of symmetry, which form the fundamental laws of the plastic art, constitute also the ideal of architecture. Accordingly, among the Greeks and Romans, where the latter attained to its highest and richest cultivation, its principles, relations, and forms approximate to those of organic figure, to which they are not indeed outwardly in their structure, but in a certain degree and according to their internal constitution, similar and correspondent, or at least related.

Egyptian architecture, with its predominantly mathematical character, and the tree-like Gothic aspiring to heaven, with its slender shafts and floral decorations, form the two extremes of this organic character which belongs to architecture, and which constitutes it one and the same art with sculpture. For the structures of the former environ and surround the creations of the latter. And it is only consistent that that which supplies the legitimate sphere and the natural medium for the other properly exhibitive art of sculpture and its statues of the gods, should even possess or acquire a similarity of character with it. As to the Egyptian and Gothic architectures, the remark readily suggests itself that the symbolical character displays itself predominantly in them: purity of form, however, is the prevalent feature of the antique (or Grecian), but even here in its proportions the symbolical principle may be traced, although it is more recondite, not to say concealed.

Even poetry is no fourth art alongside of the other three. It does not stand on the same line with and form, as it were, the complement of their number. It is rather the universal symbolical art which comprises and combines in different mediums all those other exhibitive arts of the beautiful. In its rhythm and other metrical aids it possesses all the charms of a music in words; in its figurative diction it maintains an endless succession of shifting pictures in the vivid coloring of diversified illustration; while in its entire structure (which must be neither purely historical, nor logical, or even rhetorical) it strives to attain, by a beautiful organic development and disposition of its parts, to an arrangement of the whole both architecturally great and correct.

Poetry owes in every instance its first creative beginning to some great and singular ray of light from symbolical tradition, which, at the same time, illuminates the noble and memorable past, and points forward to the dark and mystical future. For it would be difficult to produce one among the great epic poems of antiquity that does not contain this poetico-prophetic element, and does not touch upon the profound mysteries of both worlds. The next and middle step is occupied by the poetry of sentiment and feeling—that music of the soul or poesy of song in which the calm deep longings and the wild tearing passions of the moment, once plunged and glorified in that immortal element, become eternal. But the height of perfection in the organic development of poetry is marked by the drama. This third and highest form of poetical art has for its subject-matter the whole struggle of human life, which in its vivid representations it aims to realize, and, as it were, to bring bodily before our eyes.

There exists an obvious analogy between the several constituents, as well as the different species or kinds of poetry and the three material arts of the beautiful. As the latter are symbolical throughout in the subject no less than in the manner and design of their manifestations, so also, but in a far higher degree, is poetry, as the art which embraces all the three in its own sphere. And this was the end to which I wished to arrive, inasmuch as the symbolical significance of the whole of life is the very point which at present claims our attention. For it bears intimately on the conclusion which I attempted to establish in my last Lecture. It was there my endeavor to prove that the supreme science, which is essentially identical with a divine faith, may be actually applied to life, be really brought in unison with it, and become transformed into a living and real existence. But this can only be accomplished by a symbolical process, or in other words, the symbolical signification of life is either itself the basis, or else an indispensable condition of, and inevitable transition-point toward, such a union and its accomplishment.

But in the arts which portray the beautiful, this symbolical significance and property is most distinctly prominent; here it is most easily understood and most universally recognized. On this account I have chosen this subject, as forming the natural transition and connecting link between the previous and the following Lectures. No doubt the æsthetical portion of man’s constitution and life is in itself sufficiently remarkable and attractive, and rich and important enough in its effects and consequences, to vindicate for itself such an episode, and to claim for it a place in philosophical speculation. For it shows that that fundamental law of psychological science and triple principle of division of the human consciousness into spirit, soul, and sense, admits also of application in this domain also, and may serve to confirm the whole theory and way of thinking. The further prosecution, however, of this elementary view or sketch of art would carry me beyond my present limits. For the aim of that philosophy of which I am attempting to give an exposition is directed to life itself—as well the inner life of the individual as the public life (and in the present place, also, its symbolical relation or signification)—which is so inseparably and intimately connected with the investigation into the divine foundation of life and the divine direction which ought to be imparted to it.

It can easily be shown that education as well as art is essentially symbolical. Such, indeed, must be the character of the education, whether public or private, of the whole rising generation, unless it is to degenerate into an ordinary mechanical system. And it is even in this quality principally that we are disposed to place the distinction between an unspiritual education, which, even though in the sternness of its morality it may defy censure, yet eventually proves barren and mortal, and one more solid and more conformable to human nature, which, less pretending in the outset, is even the more lasting in its effects.

The ready susceptibility of the youthful mind for every thing symbolical that lies within its reach, and its vivid perception of its meaning, might be clearly enough shown by instancing some of the ordinary amusements of boyhood and youth. How commonly, in these years, are the various occupations, pursuits, and circumstances of real and, to them, still future life, childishly, perhaps, but still ingeniously imitated, or, rather, anticipated! And how lasting an influence does this frequently make on their little society! What various but lasting traces does it often leave on their minds, more perhaps than many hours of study, especially if in the latter the usual system of overloading the young mind defeats its own end. Play, indeed, must not become the mere pastime of idleness, for it is only by its alternation with labor and the sternness of discipline that it continues to be a recreation and a pleasure.

And, indeed, the earnestness, the labor, and the sterner part in this whole business and matter of education, as mixed and composed of two opposite elements, of the serious and the sportive, is highly capable of receiving so spiritual a reference and vital a significance. And if all education be nothing else than a preparation for the future, and the state of this preparation, then it must be self-evident that too many or enough of such vivid references and spiritual allusions to a future life, either generally or to any particular phase of it that may chiefly be had in view, can not be introduced into education and its serious and sportive elements and pursuits. For it is only by this method that the susceptibilities of youth and the youthful fancy can be vividly excited and thoroughly impressed with the fundamental design and significance of the whole of life—a result which no mere dry definition of the future state, or generally of any “destination of man” on the dusty road of logic, will ever attain to.

It is nowise singular if this symbolical property and disposition of human nature announces itself as distinctly in the earliest development and in the most perfect of the productions of artistic genius, whether we take into consideration the whole existing state of mankind, or his original and essential constitution relatively to the world and to God. We have already remarked, on more than one occasion, that man, as soon as he was deprived of those higher faculties which he had abused to his ruin, fell thereby more entirely than would seem originally to have been the case, under the dominion of figurative fancy, and that, consequently, his whole nature and consciousness became greatly changed from what it was at the beginning. If man did at the very first possess the faculty and the power to communicate his thoughts to others inwardly by a mere operation of his will, and without having recourse to the external medium of words, he no longer enjoys this privilege; and if any wonderful phenomena in any way resembling thereto be now found, they only form so many remarkable exceptions, instead of making the rule of human life and consciousness as they now are. As at present constituted, man feels that his state is pre-eminently symbolical: he sees in symbolism a necessary requirement for his earthly pursuits—a substitute for those immediate powers of cogitation which he has lost. And all this is true, independently of any use he may freely choose to make of symbols for the higher purposes of spiritual life.

Man, at the beginning, was placed on this earth as its first-born son, in the midst of the telluric universe, or, in other words, in the center of a planetary world akin to and similar to his own. Now, whatever may be the case, or whatever it may be allowable to think of any other of the starry spheres—though in the invisible world of spirits all perhaps is more immediately full of and instinct with essence, and is not veiled in material emblems, this is not the case with this earth. Terrestial nature, in all its organic productions and warring elements of life, is throughout symbolical. Man, therefore, viewed from this position of his earthly habitation, is surrounded by a symbolical world of sensuous emblems. And if we can, or, rather, if we will, believe the grand intimation with which revelation opens, the first and highest destination of man is even symbolical—to be the Divine image.

If, now, all the natural wants and properties of man are symbolical—if such be his present state in the midst of creation—his whole position in the mundane system, and his high and heavenly destination, can we, or, rather, ought we, to wonder if even religion presents itself for the most part clothed in a symbolical garb? For this is the case, not merely with that which was the wild upgrowth of a poetical and purely imaginative heathenism, but also the old, original, and pure religion of nature—as the first love devoting itself for sacrifice—the second revelation of God. And so we find it to have been in the old world, or, as it is otherwise called, the old covenant. Here the first twilight of faith was yet studded with all the starry splendor of the whole symbolical creation, as it were with the brilliant diadem of nature’s most glorious images. And even the new era of the ascending and brightening dawn still bears on its front the glittering morning-star of art.

But now, if still retaining the same figure, or, rather, borrowing from it a contrast, we proceed to designate art in and by itself, we may justly compare it to the moon, which illumines with its vague but marvelous half-light the domain of night and the dark realms of creative fancy. Even here it is but a borrowed splendor from the true sun, a reflection from another and a higher luminary, that lights up the darkness. And while all the wonderful starry types of the spiritual world, which retire in the full day, come out in this magical twilight, so also deceptive phantoms, airy forms of gigantic magnitude, may mingle with the hovering and misty troop of shadows to which the earth-born vapors alone give birth and shape. And yet, notwithstanding this earthly intermixture, the art of the beautiful, whenever it retains its true nature, is in its essence directed to the divine. Consequently it not only lends an external charm to religion, but in its origin, in all times and peoples, it was intimately related to it, and bound to it by the strictest ties of affinity and association. And this is not the less true, even though to the eye of a severe criticism most of its productions, in the ages of its decline, may appear utterly remote from its first source and aim, and perfectly vain, worthless, and sensual.

The divine origin of art is easily proved by its history every where, and indeed is so manifest that it can not well be doubted. High art, indeed, can not and never will surrender its claim to a divine power and sanctity: it must insist upon the recognition of this its high sanction. If we could conceive an age or country where religion should entirely cease and be forgotten—where not only all positive faith and revelation, but even the universal belief in a Divinity above them, should die away and perish among men—the light of all higher and heaven-directed thoughts and aims should become extinct—that echo of eternity and of eternal love which the inmost feelings of the human soul spontaneously gives back, should be hushed forever—then and there at the self-same moment would all high art be withdrawn and disappear.

In our own age the state of things is the direct contrary to that which we have been supposing. While from the universal prevalence of freethinking in politics—a natural consequence of the reign of religious skepticism—the whole of life, and especially public life, has ceased to be regarded and understood in its symbolical character and dignity; while the little of religious sentiment that still survives is more or less distracted and secularized by sectarian controversy, and scarcely one inviolable sanctuary is left for a simple and undoubting faith to shelter in—art and the beautiful are for a certain portion of the educated classes the only fresh oasis of divinity amid the surrounding desert of worldliness. It is the last treasure left to them, and, indeed, prized by them as such, and regarded as the true palladium of a higher intrinsic life; but this, in its isolated state and by itself, it never can be.

In this respect the present age may be likened to a noble house, fallen from its primitive wealth and magnificence into decay and ruin. Its revenues dissipated by misfortunes, mismanagement and extravagance; its mansion and domains mortgaged or encumbered with debt, nothing remains to it but the family jewels. These time-honored heirlooms of better days are all that it still retains of its former opulence. And even in these many a false stone has been introduced among the old genuine diamonds; much spurious metal has been substituted for the sterling gold of antiquity. Apparently, however, the whole are still preserved as the last relic of a former splendor, and of a wealth which once seemed inexhaustible. In the same way the present generation supports its inner and higher life on the mere external treasures of art, while the great capital of ancient faith, to which among other excellent fruits that ornament of beauty owed its existence, has by the great majority been long squandered on the “spirit of the age.”

But the symbolical dress that religion every where assumes constitutes but one half of its external form. The other consists in the vital and intrinsic union of all the members and professors of the common faith. Religion can not by any means be isolated and solitary. It is impossible to think of it as existing only for the individual. In a word, there is no such thing as religion in a proper sense without a community. Two or three must at least be united in a common faith, that its power and efficacy may be visible among them. And this association is one vital throughout—an inmost bond binding souls together by a spiritual attraction, and, as it were, enchainment of the several members.

As the electrical shock traverses instantaneously the entire chain of the connected links, and the spark which enters at one extremity flashes the next moment at the other—as a single loadstone will by contact convert any number of needles into magnets, and elevate them into a new and higher relation to the whole globe—so is it also in religion. A living communication from the first origin runs through the whole community. As in the voltaic pile, composed of alternate layers of two different metals, one chemical element of the telluric energy or of the vital principle of the air or atmosphere is emitted or set free on one side and the other on the opposite; so is it here also in the spiritual chain of faith and in its living reciprocal action of the different members of this soul-chain—between those who are active ministers and conductors, or instruments by which it works, and the others, who in a somewhat passive relation only imbibe the invisible life. By the one the divine blessing of sanctification and holiness is set in action and brought to light—developed and confirmed; while by the others grace is received as the effectual power and gift of salvation.

One remark, however, seems particularly called for in this place. It appears, from what has been already said, that even revelation and the true religion itself invariably puts on and is invested with that symbolical garb which is so consonant and agreeable to the state and nature of humanity. This being the case, it becomes extremely difficult to form a general standard by which we may unfalteringly determine what symbols are not essential, as only serving for the external garb of religion and an intelligible vehicle of its communications. For this, it is evident, must be governed by the diversity of individual wants and peculiarities, and must consequently assume a variable and personal character. If, however, a symbol proceeds immediately from God, then it must necessarily be essential. It is not only a type, but an actual substance. To suppose otherwise would be even almost parallel to presuming to regard the eternal Logos, who is the source of light and life, of all knowledge and of all being, as a word merely, without innate energy and substance.

Most natural, therefore, is it (that is to say, most consistent with the nature of the thing, which however in itself is supernatural, incomprehensible, and surpasses all conception), that the highest symbol of the faith, that which forms the principle of communion and the living center of unity of all Christendom, should have such a character as to be at once a symbol and also the veritable reality of the thing itself. For inasmuch as on the altar of this religion of divine love, since the one oblation has long ago been perfected, no other fire shall again be kindled but the flame of prayer and of a will directed to and in unison with God; therefore, the act by means of which that communion of souls which constitutes the essence of all religion, is maintained and carried on, consists simply in this, that the essential substance of the divine power and of God’s love to man is given and received as the wonderful seal of union with Him.[52]

As to the altar itself, how rich or how simple its ornaments ought to be, is a question which I have already remarked, does not easily admit of any general solution. If, however, we should attempt to think of Christianity without an altar, or desire and attempt to establish such a scheme—what indeed among the vast variety of human conceits and religious theories has only occurred to a very limited number, and never has and never will exercise any lasting and decided influence—a Christianity thus divested of symbols and mysteries would be degraded into a mere philosophical view and opinion—or at the very best, a school of the kind—any thing, in short, rather than religion. Even the study of the Bible, if in spite of so sad a state of things it should still survive, would sink into a mere matter of erudition, on a level with any other favorite pursuit of antiquarian lore and research. And if, on the other hand, rising perhaps somewhat higher than a mere philosophical opinion or the favorite pursuits of erudition, a religious community, having no altar at all, should pretend to rest entirely on prayer and spiritual teaching or preaching, such a scheme must presuppose an immediate inspiration, communicable to all and continuous throughout time. But such an hypothesis invariably proves the easy and natural transition to the most frightful fanaticism, of whose pernicious and evil effects those only who are acquainted with the domestic history of Mohammedism, among whose modern and ancient sects this idea is rampant, can form a clear and adequate conception.

In religion, therefore, and that entire union of the inner man and soul with God which it demands, or at least hopes and desires to bring about as essential and necessary, and which the higher philosophy of antiquity, no less than revealed religion, strove and longed to attain, there lies a something inconceivably sublime and beautiful. Nay, we might almost call it an impossible result, similar in some degree to that which is involved in the higher and more intricate of algebraic equations for which there is no solution, or which, at least, appear to have none till it is actually discovered. Now this finite, changeable, and in all respects incomplete and in no one point satisfactorily, or at least not perfectly defined (a) of our own individual self, with which we are wont to commence the whole of our thought and life, is to be brought into communion with, or, in other words, to be equaled to the wholly incomprehensible (x) of the incommunicable Godhead. How is this possible? By what means is it to be accomplished?

Properly, indeed, our Ego is no such (a), and can not be defined as such in the wonderful algebraic equation of our inmost life and highest pursuit. For nowhere does man feel himself to be a first; all things prove him to be secondary and derivative, wherever it may be that he is to take or seek his beginning. And not only does the alphabet of our life carry us beyond itself and toward its end in this incomprehensible (x), but it is also defective at its commencement, and wants a beginning and the first (a), which ought to form its very opening. And even the (b) (could this satisfy us) is nowhere distinctly and clearly to be found such as it is in and by itself, or such even as it was originally. It is invariably mixed and involved with something else equally unknown. We have, therefore, in this equation of our life, to do with two wholly unknown magnitudes—with the incomprehensible (x), and with the (y). For by the latter sign we will at present designate that which every where meets and opposes us. For the fact of such an inborn and connatural obstacle every one will admit, even though he may refuse to explain it by the evil principle and may be unwilling to receive the explanation which revelation gives of it.

How, now, is this our (b) to be carried back to its original (a)? How is it to be set free from this evil (y), and brought into union with the highest (x)? The answer and solution to this apparently insoluble equation can only be obtained by one method. In attempting it, we must keep steadily in view the principle so recently advanced, that the essence of religion consists in the effectual communication of a higher and living power, which, emanating from the first and original point, traverses the whole spiritual chain to its farthest link. But, in order to illustrate completely this principle, and the idea which arises from it, of a satisfactory solution of this problem, I will indulge myself in a brief but episodical explanation of the Egyptian hieroglyphics, as furnishing the most suitable example for my purpose. For, inasmuch as the symbolical nature and constitution of the human, and, indeed, of all mortal existence, was the main subject which opened, and has occupied our present consideration, it may be regarded as the natural complement and keystone to the whole discussion, if, in addition to what has preceded, we go on briefly to examine how and in what sense the oldest writing and earliest method employed by men for the communication of their ideas was symbolical.

Of the languages of Western Asia, at least, and of the alphabets derived therefrom, the Hebrew, viz., the Phœnician and the Greek, it may without hesitation be asserted, that they were derived from hieroglyphics, and are, without exception, of hieroglyphic origin. This can not be asserted as decidedly of the Indian alphabet, which differs so totally from all those previously mentioned. Still I shall not allow myself, simply on this account, to come over hastily to any conclusion as to the comparative antiquity of the Hindoo and the Egyptian modes of writing.

Now, according to all that we know of the hieroglyphical mode of indicating objects, it rests on a very simple principle. The discovery which was in so remarkable a manner reserved to our own age, is not indeed complete, and leaves much still to be explained. The fundamental principle, nevertheless, is well established. From this it appears that the hieroglyphic system of Egypt, although entirely symbolical, contains, notwithstanding, the germ of alphabetical writing. As the principle of hieroglyphical writing is equally applicable to modern languages as to the Egyptian, a German word will serve us as well for an example, and for the purposes of our illustration, as any other. Preliminary, however, it is necessary to observe, that in this mode of notation the leading characters and essential elements of the radical sound are alone indicated; such vowels and consonants as are quiescent, or servile, are omitted, and being without any special signs are left to be mentally supplied.

To take, then, a German word for our example. The word Leben (life) would be signified by its three principal characters. Now, the first letter would be indicated by Licht (a flaming light), because this word also begins with L, Baum (a tree) would stand for B, while N would be represented by any kind of Nass (fluid), by a rapid waterfall, for instance, or by a waving line, as a type of its moving and undulating surface. A light, then, a tree, and an undulating surface, will, by means of the initial letters of our German terms for them (Licht, Baum, Nass), stand for the word Leben, i.e., life.

Now, from this example, which I have purposely chosen, it will appear that this hieroglyphical mode of notation and writing, while it was fundamentally alphabetical, had, nevertheless, at the same time, a symbolical significance. For a light, or light-giving flame, the tree with its growth, as well as the flowing stream with its waves or ripples, aptly express and typify the intrinsic character of life, with its several characteristics and elements. And it is even this addition of symbolical coloring and signification which in the otherwise equivocal, and, consequently, inconvenient, representation of objects by an hieroglyphical alphabet, constitutes the peculiar difficulty, but, at the same time the mental attraction of this kind of writing.

This mode of hieroglyphical representation is not, however, the most difficult to be understood. Another, so far as it has as yet been found out, and as progress has been made toward deciphering it, appears to be far more abstruse and enigmatical. For to understand or to interpret the latter in any degree, it is almost indispensable to know beforehand what is the object indicated or intended. In this mode of hieroglyphical notation the image of an object is made to stand for any other whose name begins with the same letter, as the word does that designates the former. Thus, to employ the same instance as before, the picture of a flaming light would by itself stand for the word and idea of life. This is, if we may so say, a bold play with algebraic equations, between enigmatical emblems, which are at most but imperfectly indicated, and which nothing but the intelligence of one well versed in the system can ever hope to comprehend. Any other, even with the greatest pains, will scarcely be able to decipher it with any degree of certainty. And this leads me back again to our former and still unsolved equation, involving the riddle of human life, and which this simile of the hieroglyphics was intended to help us to solve.

The hieroglyphical mode of writing is, according to the explanation we have given of it, a symbolical representation by means of the initial letters of words. In it and through it even that which is the most ordinary and common assumes a mystical character, and passes into this wonderful, imaginative, and emblematical sphere. Now the solution of this general problem lies even in this: that this (x)—this incomprehensible (x)—as the eternal Logos of the incommensurable Godhead, became also (a) (that is to say, took on Him a human life and nature), and is even now fully and really such. For thus the beginning and the initial letter of the whole alphabet of human existence, which was so long wanting, although from the very first it was implied in and was the foundation of the (b), was given anew to it by God. And now this (b), and every other of the following letters, can attach themselves in due order and connection, be united with it and even be equated to it, and being thus equalized, inasmuch as x=a, it also becomes capable of apprehending the otherwise unattainable (x). And at the same time it can be entirely set free, at once and forever, from the restlessly opposing and destructive (-y); since this (y), as opposed to the (x), is merely a negative quantity, and as such vanishes.

But however we may attempt by means of this or any other scientific or figurative illustrations to apprehend or to express the ineffable, the fact, and above all, a living faith in that great verity, that the divine (x) has become a human (a)—that the eternal Logos actually and really took upon Him the nature of man, and still retains it, is the point from which a new and higher life commences. It is the ring which holds together the whole human family—the first link in the chain of spiritual life, to which all must be referred and from which all is to proceed.

Thus, then, beginning with the emblematical representations of the fine arts, and developing the idea through several other spheres of its manifestation, I have carried the symbolical significance of human life up to the highest hieroglyphic of all existence. And as in the three previous Lectures I have considered the eternal Word, simply and principally in a scientific point of view, as the fundamental law of truth, it now remains for me to exhibit it as the word which shall solve all difficulties in the problem of human existence, and shall prove an unerring guide in the conflict of life and in all its most important relations and perplexities. And to this subject the three last and concluding Lectures will be devoted. And in these we shall consider all this in its reference to the external and public life of man in society and the state. For not only does it hold true of the higher pursuits and inmost being of individuals, but it has also a universal application; for this highest of all hieroglyphics, which is the beginning of a new life, forms also the foundation of the state in its sacred character.

And because the application of Christian truth and of the fundamental idea of Christianity is in general so greatly mistaken, I have thought it necessary to remount somewhat higher in my investigations, to draw from a deeper source, and to connect them with a higher principle, in order to arrive more steadily and more certainly at the result which I had in view. And this result may be thus summed up: The Christian state is nothing less than symbolical, and even thereby historically sanctified—whereas the mere polity of nature or that of reason, which, however artistical and consummate in its constitution, remains all the while false and unsanctified, is either purely dynamical or else absolute.

In human life and society there are three species of power, which possess a symbolical significance and a sacred character as resting on a divine foundation. And these are parental authority, the spiritual or priestly power, and the kingly or whatever may be the supreme authority in the state. The affectionate care and anxiety of an earthly parent possesses but a faint analogy to the goodness and providence of the omniscient and eternal Father of all, and is scarcely more than a type of it. Moreover, the parental authority and a father’s rights over his children, founded on his relation as the loving and affectionate author of their being, admits not of being set forth and comprised in any exact and positive formularies. And even if the social community occasionally steps in to determine by legislation the limits, and in certain points gives its sanction to the domestic rights and authority of a father, as founded on love and feeling, this is only done, nevertheless, with a view to guard against and to remedy the possible abuse of so natural a right and relation. When, however, as was the principle of the old Roman law, power over the life and death of his offspring is conceded to the father, we feel at once that this is an undue extension of the paternal authority, and that the provinces of the three different powers are not kept duly distinct and separate. A parent who should avail himself of such a privilege would but prove himself devoid of the ordinary feelings of nature. On the other hand, by a natural sentiment, common to the savage and barbarian, as well as to the most refined and civilized nations, respect for and reverence of parents is held to be something more than an ordinary and conventional duty and obligation. It is universally regarded in the light of a duty in every sense sacred and holy. And the divine moral law of the Old Testament completely agrees with the universal feeling of man’s nature in this ascription to it of holiness. But, on the other hand, the rights of the Christian limit the parent’s authority on the side of the spiritual domain, wherever it would trench upon the freedom of belief and liberty of conscience. Special circumstances, again, such as the dotage of old age, mental weakness, faults of character, or offenses against society, may, in certain cases, tend greatly to limit and control, or otherwise modify, the parental dignity and authority. But still, in the very worst case, the most respectful behavior and the tenderest delicacy, on all points connected with this relationship, remains forever an immutable law of duty to the child, which, as it is deeply founded in the moral sense of man, makes itself heard throughout the whole habitable world. The mutual tie of parental love and filial duty has, it is plain, its foundations deep in nature itself, and out of it proceeds the sanctity of the very notion of domestic life, and of all its relations, as well as of the peculiar authority of a father and a parent.

As for the spiritual and priestly power: wherever religion recognizes the priest in his true character—i.e., not simply as the preacher and promulgator, but also as the living channel for dispensing and communicating the divine grace, he is, in so far as his office is concerned, and in the discharge of his sacerdotal functions, a vicegerent of God—not so much, perhaps, of the everlasting Father, the Creator and Lawgiver of nature, as of the Son who came down into the world to ransom and redeem the human race. The priestly or spiritual power, therefore, has a divine foundation on which it ultimately rests. But inasmuch as that bond of communion which unites our souls with God must be sought and attained by faith and in the spirit of faith, so this authority, however holy in itself, is, nevertheless, by its very nature, confined to the province of spirituals.

The judicial function, also, where it is recognized as dogmatic, is at least subordinate to that other character whose office it is to carry out the work of redemption, to dispense the divine grace, and to bless. For an arbitrary judicial power, where internal caprice is the rule of judgment, and where the execution of its decrees depends on the individual, does not in strict truth deserve this appellation. With as much reason might the anointed head of the state claim, by virtue of this consecrating and anointing, to exercise the functions of the spiritual office.

Further, we may observe, all these sacred offices possess a certain analogy and affinity one with the other. This fact, however, does not in any way militate against the essential and necessary duty of preserving a precise and accurate separation of their several functions. The privacy of home, the family circle, and the relations of domestic life, are by the laws of most nations regarded as a sanctuary which the external power of the state ought not lightly and without grave necessity to violate or profane. On the other hand, in ordinary language paternal titles are ascribed to the other two powers. But as regards spiritual personages, this is a mere mark of respect, while, as applied to the head of the state, it serves to indicate a special character of goodness and clemency in the government. It is not by any means applicable generally to the functions of government as marking its specific nature and essence. For it may not be, nay, perhaps, we should rather say it can not in all cases be simply and purely paternal.

Strict impartiality, for instance, is a primary requisition in the judge, but is it possible, nay, would it properly be just, to require this in every case of a father? The judicial character, however, is the predominant element of political government, and the supreme judicial function is its essential aspect, with which all the other distinctive characteristics or exclusive prerogatives of sovereign power are most intimately connected. And on this account, while the paternal authority rests primarily on that tie of souls which consists in the reciprocal affection of parents and children, and while the priestly power is limited to the sacerdotal and spiritual domain, the supreme judicial and sovereign power in the state, which is responsible to God alone, as the highest and paramount of these three sacred and venerated powers, embraces the complete whole, if I may so say, the bodily reality of man’s public life. And in this sphere of historical reality it will be my endeavor to trace the further development of these three ideas as they manifest themselves in the busy conflict of life and the age. And to this subject I propose to devote the three following Lectures.

In concluding our present disquisition I will only add one remark. All these three powers, as founded on nature, on divine revelation, and on historical rights, are alike holy and sacred. The good, that is to say, the prudent and affectionate father, the pious priest, and the righteous king, are each and all, though in different ways and degrees, and with different powers and rights, visible and acting vicegerents on earth of the invisible God. The last, in truth, is not merely the representative but the unlimited dispenser of divine justice. And this divine foundation of these powers, which claim and present an inviolable character of sanctity, forms the practical part of that symbolical signification of life which in its highest phase has formed the theme of the present Lecture.

LECTURE XIII. OF THE SPIRIT OF TRUTH AND LIFE IN ITS APPLICATION TO POLITICS, OR OF THE CHRISTIAN CONSTITUTION OF THE STATE AND THE CHRISTIAN IDEA OF JURISPRUDENCE.

THE Asiatic custom of deifying their earthly rulers by addressing them as King of Kings, Lord or Spanner [Umspanner] of Creation, the Effulgence of the Deity, and the like, have ever been and very naturally most repugnant to the moral sense of Christian Europe. The Christian notion and axiom, that all power is of God, is founded on a very definite idea and well-considered principle. And this principle is nothing less than this, that the supreme head of the state has to dispense the divine justice. And while this constitutes the peculiar dignity of his office, he is, in the exercise of this his highest function and authority, responsible to God alone. If, however, we should any where meet, either in the present times or the history of the past, with a state in which, by the principle of its constitutions, the nominal possessor of supreme authority and the executive is responsible to another body, then is the latter in fact the sovereign power, and not the former, which really is subordinate to the other. The Spartan constitution will serve to illustrate my meaning. Here, to judge by that strict definition of the sovereign authority and its peculiar character and distinctive criteria, it evidently lay in the Ephori rather than in the possessors of supreme executive power, who were called kings, and whose office was hereditary. The very fact that two kings reigned conjointly is of itself subversive of the very notion of sovereign power. But still more fatally was this undermined by their responsibility in certain cases to the censorship of the other Spartan magistracy. To the other ancient republics, whose constitution was based naturally enough on a very artificial division of powers, and the maintenance of a certain antagonism and accurate balance between them, our notion of a supreme and sovereign political authority is scarcely applicable. It is found far more fully expressed in a special character of inviolable sanctity and dignity attaching to certain judicial functions and magistracies, such as that of the Areopagus in Athens and of the censorship at Rome in the days of the Republic, than to the transitory tenure of the executive power, over which those judicial authorities possessed and exercised in certain cases a control.

The proper and de facto, or personal division of power, is essentially a republican principle. In notion, however, or in idea, it is perfectly legitimate to make a distinction between the several functions and elements of the whole sovereign authority. Now, in such a case, the judicial power—the supreme judicial power we would emphatically say—is pre-eminently the characteristic sign and specific distinction of sovereignty, from which all its other prerogatives and properties are originally derived or flow from it as its necessary and natural consequences. The noble prerogative of pardon and mercy, for instance, is, as it were, the natural attribute of the supreme judicial power.

With respect to legislation, however, and the legislative authority, an important co-ordinate power may, according to the existing constitution of a particular state, be vested in the other correlative members of the body politic. The preliminary deliberation, the first sketch or the initiation of a law, may not, perhaps, proceed in every case from the supreme head of the community. In other states, again, the law must emanate from the free choice and individual will of the monarch, or at least the introduction of it, since he can not of himself alone make and carry out the whole. This is a point, consequently, on which it is extremely difficult to draw the boundary line, which must in no case be transgressed or deviated from—in so far, that is, and so long as there is no question about any thing more than a simple co-operation or co-ordinate deliberation upon the proposed laws. But still in every case the final sanction, by which a law becomes properly the law, or by which it is annulled or repealed, must be reserved to the royal prerogative, otherwise the monarch ceases at once to be supreme.

Even the prerogative of proclaiming war and of concluding peace is, if perhaps we may be allowed so to say, a judicial function on a large scale, and applied to the external relations of states. It is, in short, nothing less than a judicial act. And in this light it will appear to every one who does not regard it as a mere act of arbitrary caprice. This, however, it never ought to be. For it is, as it were, a verdict on the existing relations of right and wrong between two neighboring states. But in as much as both parties, in point of right and law, are in so far equal, that they refuse to recognize in common any higher judge, an absolute state of violence necessarily ensues, a struggle of power follows, until at last, in the change of circumstances, the relations of justice are restored by mutual consent. The party that first proclaims war becomes, in this process of trial by battle, the judge of its own cause. And if by the fearful issue of the combat it is taught to see its own injustice, then must it either make due concessions, or, at very best, by calling in the mediation of a third and neutral state, it must constitute it the judge by whose decision it is ready and willing to abide.

The usual insignia of the kingly dignity, the scepter and the throne, are only the signs of judicial power, as it were, promoted one degree higher, and can be historically traced up to the judge’s bench and staff. The crown alone remains as the peculiar and exclusive symbol of the highest earthly dignity. And rightly is it called a splendid burden. For while it exalts him who is called to wear it above all earthly dependence and responsibility, and exempts him from all the ordinary relations of human life, the heavy weight of this splendid ornament reminds the wearer of the grave reckoning and the strict account he will have to render to God, as the Supreme Judge of all—who is the source and sum of all justice and righteousness. For this serious and solemn responsibility is received from God, together and at the very same time with the crown.

Quite different in signification was the symbolical ensign of the old emperors in the middle ages—a sword pointing to the four winds or cardinal points of heaven. It alluded to the peculiar idea and the peculiar constitution of that dignity. For in this respect it was not simply a distinction of power, of rank, or of title, between the imperial and the kingly dignities. It involved a total and essential difference between the ideas and objects of these sacred and anointed potentates—between the elective emperor and the hereditary king, duke, or prince, although it was from these alone that the former could be duly and regularly elected. For the emperor was looked upon as armed with the sword of all Christendom to be the defender of the whole system of European states. Accordingly, as the representative of the union of several states, he bore this ensign of his imperial office.

To this ancient idea of a Christian empire we shall again have occasion to revert in the further examination of the idea of a political state and its Christian community. We shall meet with it once more in that section of our inquiry which will be occupied with the ruling principle of right and polity in a system of states as a body, and also in the mutual relations of its several members. In this section we shall also show that this principle must be either absolute, that is, one where one or more of the several members of the union exercises a superior and preponderating influence, or one artificially constituted and dynamical, i.e., a system of the so-called balance of power. And here will naturally arise the question whether, for such a confederacy of moral and civilized societies and nations, a less imperfect and higher, but common principle of Christian justice might not be found and established? For any system of mutual confederation, whether absolute or founded on the artificial relations of the strength of its respective members, is in any case defective and imperfect, whatever may be the ground of union, whether founded on the internal constitution of the states, or derived from the physical consideration of their geographical position and neighborhood.

According, then, to that divine principle and Christian foundation of the state which I have attempted to derive from the symbolical signification of life and the symbolical destiny of man in his relation to God, the highest authority of the state—the king, or generally the monarch, as well as the spiritual functionary, or the priest—are the vicegerents of a highest and divine power, whom they represent on earth. The only difference between them is, that the latter has chiefly to represent and to set forth God as teaching men, but at the same time as warning and commanding them in this revelation of His will, and as promising and as livingly dispensing to them His grace, while the former is the representative of the Omnipotent Lawgiver and Judge, who governs the world with justice, and will by no means clear the guilty. According, therefore, to the true Christian notion of these two powers, both of them—the civil no less than the spiritual—possess a representative character, which, however, deviates very widely from the ordinary notion of the representation and a representative constitution, or, rather, forms a decided contrast to them.

And what contrast can, in fact, be more decided than that which such a representative power and dignity as belongs to the ministering of the divine grace to the soul and spirit, or the dispensing of divine justice to the whole earthly life, forms with that thing of horrible memory,[53] which has been called a representation of the people, or the systems which have been similarly designated? But even if it could be satisfactorily proved that a people, like the invisible essence of the Deity, could be represented, it is open to very grave doubt whether this is really possible in the method usually adopted. According to the principle of this kind of popular representation, where the whole adult population are entitled individually to vote, the election becomes, as it were, a lottery, and even the political winners thus determined, or the ballotted members, become so many influential units in one branch of the legislative body and for a limited period. In respect, however, to the principles and sentiments, the predominant character and spirit of a people, those who are thus chosen are the representatives not so much of the whole nation as of the reigning passion of the moment, or the spirit of the times in its restless agitation. For when thus resolved into its constituent atoms and numbered off in succession, a nation is reduced to an elementary mass. But like all that is thus elementary, when thus decomposed, and fermenting in its process of dissolution, it assumes a destructive tendency and turn. At least it ceases to form an organic whole, an individual. It is only when a state or a nation historically lives on, further develops and vitally maintains itself in its organic members, i.e., in its several estates or essential corporations, that it can be said to form a living whole, and to be, as it were, one great individual.

It is only in this sense that there can be true representatives of a people, who, if the expression is allowable, are its true historical men. It is in them that the spirit and character, the general leaning tendency, the peculiar style of feeling, sentiment, and thought of a nation, in any definite period or periods, finds its most decided and loudest expression. Rarely, however, is this attained in a system of elective deputies or representatives, which is liable to many passing and accidental influences, and, indeed, in and by itself has no connection with it. Scipio and Cato would be representatives of the Roman character and spirit, even if they had never been invested with public authority and had lived their whole lives in exile. And in the same manner purely intellectual natures may often stand for such historical characters and representatives. Horace and Tacitus most assuredly occupy the same relation to their respective ages as the two former did to theirs, and this, in truth, quite independently of any subordinate rank or political dignity and influence which either the one or the other possessed in peace or war. Cicero, indeed, would have been all this in an equal degree, and, perhaps, still more so, if, keeping entirely aloof from the civil contentions of his day, for which he was little suited, he had devoted himself to the acquisition of a purely intellectual and literary influence.

However, it is not every famous author or every brilliant political speaker that can in this sense be justly regarded as historical characters. Besides that energy of talent which creates an epoch, and which is, indeed, the primary and essential condition, certain other properties of character are required, certain sentiments and principles vividly carried out and realized in life and action. But this is a combination which is rarely found. A peculiar sphere of practical influence does not form an immediate, nor, indeed, a necessary qualification of such a character. Still it is evident that a writer who truly merits such an appellation must be something more than a mere man of letters or an artist. The effects he produces on the minds of men must be both truly national and historical. Such alone are truly and properly the historical representatives of a people—the men of their nation.

As for those other elective representatives already mentioned, it is only when they belong to a particular estate and corporation, and represent it, that they can promote the permanent interests of this organically constituted whole. For it is out of such organic members that the national existence gains its true, i.e., its historical development. But this is impossible whenever they are chosen by the individual votes of the entire population. Such a splitting of the whole political body, as it were, into its constituent atoms, is either in itself an elementary decomposition or must eventually lead to it. Even a republican constitution, if it be well and wisely ordered, will be based principally on corporations or organic division of estates, rather than on any principle of numerical majority and equality, which, taken as a general element, invariably proves, as history testifies, sooner or later, a positive source of anarchy.

Not only would it be an exaggeration, but even a gross error, were we to regard the republican polity as excluded from the Christian principle, that all sovereignty is of God, or as irreconcilable with it and even as directly contradicting its spirit. On the contrary, the duty of obedience and the actual dependence on the existing and de facto head of the state, is not less binding on all who, through the accident of birth or their own free choice and voluntary obligation, belong to such a community, than on the subjects of an hereditary monarchy. The utmost that can be safely asserted is, that the Christian state principally inclines to the latter form of polity, without, however, formally rejecting, or unconditionally excluding the former. Historical experience has shown this, and the whole of modern history will furnish abundant testimony to its truth. When the responsibility of the supreme political authority is in an endless circle shifted from point to point of a mere human sphere, then the sacred character of the divine foundation of the state exhibits itself with least distinctness. It is more immediately manifest in an hereditary monarchy, where, by a single point, as the first link which holds together the whole community, this responsibility is attached immediately to God and the divine justice, before whose tribunal it has alone to answer. And this more immediate manifestation forms the ground of that preponderating tendency and preference of the monarchical constitution by the Christian principle.