In the last age (if it be not also in the present), the notion of faith was taken in a very different sense, and the phraseology arising from that view is, in part, at least, still prevalent. On this account a few explanatory words are necessary for the sake of caution and distinction. The following is the historical occasion or scientific origin of this other notion of faith. At a late period of so-called enlightenment, in the midst of which, however, many grave misconceptions prevailed, reason was set up as the sole authority. As the highest and greatest of man’s endowments, it was almost deified, whatever did not appear at once and easily explicableby reason, being forthwith and indiscriminately pronounced a prejudice, and, as such, to be got rid of with all diligence. In this state of things, modern German philosophy commenced its career with attempting to show that this sovereign reason, which had set itself forth as the first and highest in man, is extremely defective, and comes far short of the requisitions both of science and life. The position was honestly and earnestly maintained, and the proof worked out with tolerable completeness. Subsequently, however, its validity has been questioned, or only admitted under many limitations and qualifications. But even this modified praise can not be bestowed on the scientific remedy with which men hoped to supply the defects of reason, and to cure the old and universal evils of rationalism. For, in fact, the method by which they sought to get rid of this great and manifest deficiency was simply by suddenly opening an unlimited credit for the reason, which going beyond all actual need, and based either on arbitrary assumption, or a confiding generosity, should be sufficient for all emergencies. But this expedient, in the existing state and panic of the rational market, could not remove the evil; it only exaggerated it. In a word, it was the same old reason which (its claim to supersensible honors having been rejected) had been just thrust out of the temple of science by the front entrance, that, under the disguise of faith, was now being smuggled in by the postern. It was but a mere arbitrary substitute for reason that had assumed this new name. Now such a faith as this requires to be carefully distinguished from that living faith which springs from and is founded on love. For this purpose I have attempted to show, from the very outset, the great difference between the two.
Now, if occasionally I have felt myself called upon to set bounds to and to protest against the illimitable requirements and assumptions of reason in science, my remarks have been directed, not against reason itself, but chiefly against that absoluteness with which it pretends to reign paramount. In our German tongue—and since the comparative parallel of thought and language is a part of the general plan of our present exposition, this trifling but not insignificant philological remark will not here be inappropriate—in our vernacular tongue, the close limitation of the thing is furnished by the term itself. For as understanding [Verstand] comes from the verb to understand [verstehen], and impliesthe existence of an object which stands before the mind, to be penetrated and searched through by it, so reason [Vernunft] implies aVernehmen, a perception or apprehension, and is itself nothing else than the organ of spiritual perception, which is threefold: 1st, of a higher law and rule above us and given to us; 2d, of the inward voice of conscience and the pure self-consciousness within us; and, 3d, of other rational thought around and beside itself. Now it is only against that reason which is unwilling to perceive any thing, or, at least, any thing beside or above itself, that all my objections are directed. For when the reason refuses to acknowledge aught above itself, but absolutely rejects it, then will it estimate but little whatever is beside itself. At any rate it will never be eminently successful in its attempts to comprehend or understand it. In this case, it will continually make the greatest mistakes and blunders in its views and conceptions of that even which it really finds and perceives, or at least believes to discover within itself. Reason, in itself, and in its due limits, is, indeed, but one of man’s various fundamental powers; still, in the present state of his divided and discordant consciousness, it is a highly essential faculty. Like all the others, consequently, which severally do but present so many different aspects of man’s external and internal life, reason, when it oversteps its due limits, is liable to great, nay, the greatest of aberrations. But it might here be asked, are not the possible aberrations of fancy still more dangerous? We must answer, Without doubt they are; and this is the only answer we can give to the question put thus generally. But in the special reference to our own age, there is far greater and more frequent occasion to call attention at present to the evils produced by the errors of reason, than to warn men anxiously against the possible abuses of fancy. And this for the simple fact, that of all the powers of the human mind, which, when isolated, are, more or less, destructive in their action, reason has, in the later ages, and in our times, especially, been decidedly predominant. Consequently, we have on all sides before our eyes obvious and instructive examples of the mazes and abyss of error, fatal no less to science than to morals, into which reason not only falls herself, but hurries all that come within her influence, when, having once started from a false position, she has followed out this wrong tendency with full rigor of consequence. We see in it the cause of all the catastrophes of the age,and the fearful struggle of party. The dangers which might arise from the exclusive ascendency of fancy are, in our generation, less likely to be general, and they are less threatening, less urgent. And the explanation of this fact is equally simple. The occurrence of lofty and genius-gifted powers of imagination is extremely rare; and, at any rate, many instances are seldom met with at one and the same time. Here, therefore, it is often a false alarm; the threatening clouds quickly disperse, the blue heavens again shine forth, and the wide horizon of the all-spanning reason once more becomes bright, and even clearer than we had ever known it before. And if occasionally an overabundance of genius-gifted power does manifest itself in the domain of fancy, the general effect that results from it is, at most, a recognition of its excellence, which, however, only slowly and with difficulty gains possession of men’s minds. This feeling may, no doubt, sometimes amount to a profound admiration, whose language, sparkling with the exquisite ornaments and flowery tropes of exaggeration, may seem to border closely on a deification of its object; still this feeling, however great and universal it may appear, is very far from that height of enthusiasm which wholly engrosses and carries the mind along with it. Indeed, for the most part, it carefully avoids and keeps aloof from such a state.
In short, however much any particular age may admire or even worship great powers of genius or art, it is very rarely indeed, if ever, carried away by its partial and erroneous tendencies, or its arbitrary and quaint peculiarities. At least, the same party zeal is not to be witnessed here that divides both science and life between the rival systems of absolute reason. However, the consideration of the prejudicial effects of the despotic ascendency of the reason has, almost of necessity, brought before us the somewhat connected topic of the hinderances which art may occasion to the pursuit of the highest truth and certainty. We will, therefore, now examine the evils which arise whenever art, as the executive power in the region of fancy, usurps an undue authority over the rest of the consciousness, and when, in its judgment of things, taking an undue position in some merely poetical or artistic view, it assumes a reality that belongs not to it, and dreams of finding in itself the final cause and firm basis of all existence.
For the right exposition of that notion of faith, hope, and love, which we made the foundation of the knowledge of allhigher truth, it was, above all things, necessary that we should carefully and accurately discriminate between the true living faith which is grounded on and springs out of love, and that spurious faith which reason arbitrarily devises to cover its own weakness and deficiencies. In the same way it remains for us to point out the true end of hope, establishing the internal foundation of its idea, and making out, at the same time, its intimate relation to art, as it arises from its connection therewith and with time. Now, as all high hope stands in close union with man’s inmost character, and forms a principal element of his being, his whole life and activity being based on hope, so likewise in art—so faithful a mirror is it of human nature—man’s holiest hopes form the chief aim and the animating soul of its representations. A perfectly faithful, though artistically expressed, imitation of a love higher than any actual manifestation of the feeling (of whatever nature it be), may simply, of itself, constitute a work of art, and, indeed, is its natural object-matter. But still, isolated and by itself, it would furnish but a fragmentary feeling for the fancy, without a true beginning, and without end or aim, or proper conclusion. Faith is but, as it were, a straight line—the rule of sentiment for this life, of expectation for the other. But now, in the mind of man, above every actual love and every definite faith, there is asuperabundance—if we may so speak—of feelings, thoughtfully forecasting, ardently loving, and hoping, even beyond hope itself—of thoughts, dreaming, at least, of a higher truth than is to be met with on earth.
And this divine superabundance in the human soul, if I may be allowed this bold expression, is properly the sublime matter, the invisible object and spiritual essence of true art and poetry. Not that this inner soul, this vital breath of high art and poetry, must, even in the outward form, invariably express itself (as it does in music generally) as a feeling of longing. Neither must it in its definite direction to the future, always manifest itself externally in the form of hope; and, consequently, speak only in lyrical strains, as the music of enthusiasm. Such a limitation would, indeed, have a most monotonous effect. On the contrary, even in a highly-finished picture of some actual and present scene, this idea of hope, as the soul which animates the whole, may be present, and like an invisible thread of higher life, be interwoven in it. And this envelopment,or, rather, this veiled manifestation and indirect revelation of spirit, is often to be found, not only in creations which are permanently artistic, but also in those that are profoundly poetical and enthusiastic. Even the sorrowful remembrance of a by-gone foretime of infantine innocence, and of sublime grandeur, is properly nothing but a reflection of this divine hope, and, in a free and comprehensive sense, which thus combines poetry and art, may be even counted as a part of it. And if ancient art and ancient poetry especially, with their mournful back-glances at the olden majesty long past and gone, come over us with emotions something like those of eventide, when the last parting gleam of the brilliant sun is fast setting behind the distant hills, so in their opposite aspect, as hope, turning its bold, enthusiastic eye toward the future, they may smile upon us as the rosy dawn which runs before the rising sun of truth, and that new time which is to shine and glow in its beams—or as the first beautiful ray of enthusiastic promise. Such, in all probability, seems the position most suitable to art in our own days. Now, with respect to this peculiar position of art relatively to hope, and their intimate affinity, and their relation to the present age and to the two other elements of the harmonic scale of human life, viz., love and faith, the frequent and expressive sentiment of a poet whose intimate friendship it is my privilege to enjoy, will convey most forcibly the conclusion which I would wish to enforce upon your minds. Although his remark with regard to the harmony and union which ought to prevail between the true elements of higher feeling was addressed primarily to the present generation, it admits of application to every age. He asks—
“The age has neither faith nor love;How, then, for such should hope remain?”[72]
“The age has neither faith nor love;How, then, for such should hope remain?”[72]
“The age has neither faith nor love;How, then, for such should hope remain?”[72]
This voice first sounded forth in fateful days, when danger and alarm were so instant and threatening as almost to cut off and extinguish hope; but the storm so dark and menacing passed away. A new prospect has since opened upon us, and all is changed. As a just estimate of our own times, however, it appears to me, in its present unqualified form, too sweeping and severe. The age is not so entirely without hope as the poet here asserts. No doubt we have beensomewhat lukewarm, inconstant, and unsteady in this respect. Or, more correctly to express the real state of the case: in itself and in that faith in itself which, as it was overhastily embraced, was set up without limit or condition, and generally in all faith, from its highest degree down to that lowest grade of it which moves within the ordinary pursuits and relations of life, it has been somewhat confused and wandering; nay, at times it has proved somewhat forgetful, not only of the old and transitory, but also of what is modern, and even what was most recent and within its own experience. Accordingly, to the eye of the observer, it appears, on the whole, to be devoid of all ruling principle, and to be still in search of some regulative standard within itself. If, in this search after faith, some few have taken up too quickly, and rested satisfied with that arbitrary expedient and device of a faltering and meager reason, this was, no doubt, a symptom of a partially sickly state, but by no means such as to justify us in passing a sweeping sentence on the whole age, as totally unsound and diseased. For in all human affairs and relations, such a profound longing as this, when it is lasting, and generally whenever it does not proceed solely and entirely from some want or defect, invariably presupposes some natural disposition and capacity, though it may be one which is neither rightly cultivated, nor as yet expanded to full vigor and stability.
And as little, or rather still less, would it be just to deny to the age all love—if, at least, an enthusiasm which readily and cheerfully makes the greatest sacrifices be a part of love. Consequently, I can not concur with the opinion which will not concede to the age in which we live the least spark of hope. Even though many of its expectations—as being at least precipitate or wholly immaterial—as being founded, in short, on naught—have terminated in naught, and even in their desired fulfillment, must have ended in a nullity—still we dare not, therefore, throw aside all higher, holier, and diviner hope. For in this we feel every earthly expectation, so far as it is real and well-grounded, will receive its final accomplishment, being realized to a degree surpassing all that we had ever ventured to look for. And even if dark clouds are again gathering on the horizon, and if to many an observer, whose position in the political world affords him a wide and distant prospect of society, the dangers menacing our own generation seemstill more fearful and terrible even than those which have but scarcely passed away; still there is no need of despair. Rather, taught by past experience in like fearful circumstances, and recognizing in this lesson of experience a teaching higher than man’s, we will, even though our fears be fulfilled in the worst and most awful form, regard it all as probably forming, if not a necessary, yet certainly a most salutary crisis of transition to a higher state of divine hope. To this divine hope it is sufficient for me thus briefly to have alluded. For whatever I have at any time in my past life attempted—it may be feebly and inadequately—to give expression to, and all that it is my object to convey to my present respected auditory, and all that hereafter I shall have to say in this world, has had and will have no other end or object than to point to and to preach this sacred and eternal hope of a true, not merely earthly, but profoundly new era, and of a spiritual life advancing in it toward the perfection of majesty and glory. To gain a full assurance for such a hope, and to establish it to the best of my power firmly and immovably among the actuating motives of life, has ever been and will always be my first and dearest wish.
But still, though the poet’s distich, in its immediate reference to our own days, requires to be greatly qualified, I would, nevertheless, venture to apply it to art. At least, it admits of such an application; though in this case likewise it must undergo some restriction and limitation. As passed even on the present condition of art, the sentence is harsh, if not unjust. If, however, there ever was or should be a time of which, if not strictly and absolutely, yet generally and on the whole, it could with truth be asserted, that the existing condition of art “had neither faith nor love,” then might we go on confidently to add the inference, “How then should hope remain for it?”
I must once again repeat it: such a sentence, if applied to German art in our own days, would be both harsh and unmerited. If, however, art—which itself is nothing but the significant hieroglyphics, the deeply-moving and elevating song of eternal hope—should have for its basis, instead of a true and unwavering faith, one merely artificial and self-imposed, or at best, the unreal faith of feeling, fugitive and transitory, and unable to stand the fiery trial—if, too, love, instead of being deep-felt and profound, be but the cuckoo-note of a fashionable admiration, unthinkinglycaught up and repeated without nature; then the harsh sentence we have just quoted, together with its sad inference, finds a due application. At least, it is so far applicable as it is true that in this sad deficiency of living faith and earnest love, we can alone discover an explanation of what otherwise seems so strange in the history of art within the recent century. If, after many a truly noble beginning, the further development and result corresponded but little and most imperfectly with the expectations that had at first been excited—if, with truly great talents and rare endowments of genius, so much has fallen to the ground, like imperfect blossoms, without maturing any useful and lasting intellectual fruits—it was simply because art was deficient in this its firmest basis. And partly it was, also, because she mistook and was unable to take her proper position in the times, or even if she did understand, was too weak to retain it by an abiding feeling of love. For the true position of art must not be misunderstood, nor the natural order of things reversed, if it is truly to flourish, and the age itself is not to be deprived of, or checked and disturbed in, its true enjoyment of it. True art and poetry are the beautiful crown, the promising blossoms, yea, the very flowers of hope, on the nobly-grown tree of humanity, as it widely expands itself in rich and marvelous intellectual development. But it can not also be its root; and if any where it pretends or desires to be such, there assuredly some strange perversion must exist, or some profound and essential defect must have led to so singular a pretension.
We hear, no doubt, in horticulture, of inverted trees, whose heads being placed in the ground, strike root and grow, while the natural root freely develops itself into branches and leaves. The experiment so successful with plants can not be imitated in mental matters without fearful peril. Here the blossoming crown, if reversed, will not take root, and never bear real and genuine fruit. No! an absolutely æsthetic foundation is insufficient even for this life, and much more so, then, for the next. Of the origin of life and the world, a mere poetical view of things can give but a specious and cleverly-evasive account; but as good as none of that of hope, of which, in such a case, it must wholly have lost the clew. If, then, that which is at most but the bright morning tint of hope should seek to keep back the sun, or would set itself up for the true luminary,then—supposing it for a moment to be possible—it would itself soon lower into dark clouds, and instead of the longed-for splendor of the full and glorious daylight, a dull, gray sky would cover the whole earth. This intrinsic weakness often betrays itself in poetry (and frequently, also, in other spheres of human invention), by what at any rate appears to be an inflated display, which, instead of concealing, does but create a suspicion of a deep internal hollowness. What I allude to may take two forms. Sometimes it manifests itself in an excessive luxuriousness—often we might call it a very deluge—of the most unintelligible exaggerations of sacred feelings, such as I regret occasionally to observe in our modern school of poetry. At other times it comes forward in an equally lavish and boundless prodigality of wit and raillery; sometimes, too, a serious humor lurks in the wit, while a mocking parody makes sport with the very humor, or a still loftier tone of irony, from its height of spiritual exaltation, soars above both wit and humor, and the whole work itself—nay, above all besides, and even the very universe. It is in this one-sided preponderance, and in the absoluteness with which reason or fancy is allowed to take a decided but exclusive direction, that the first cause lies of that alienation already mentioned as subsisting between men of a purely æsthetical temperament and poetical nature, who on the one side judge of every thing by the rules of taste, and the men of practical reason on the other, whose only standard is utility. This estrangement is only too apparent in real and actual life, where in the degree which we have supposed, and by the methods ordinarily pursued, it is utterly irreconcilable. They stand, indeed, as fully estranged from each other, and as hostile, as two wholly different races. And in this light a well-knownsavant, at the close of the last century, seems really to have regarded them, since, on the whole face of the earth, he saw only two races—noble-minded, elegant, and tasteful Celts, and dull, ordinary, and stupid Mongols. Here, however, I must repeat my previous remark, that, in these days at least, by far the greater danger is to be apprehended from an absolute ascendency of reason. For the rationalizing system of thought which results from such one-sidedness, is not confined merely to the schools and their scientific theories, but it too often extends its pernicious consequences, and its fatal and debasing influence, over the whole range of public and social life. On the other hand, the slight aberrations oftaste, or (if they most be accounted such) the little extravagances of genius, may always be easily and promptly reduced within due limits, especially in an age like our own, so thoroughly pervaded with a correct feeling of art.
To give a solid basis to the whole of life, a firm internal conviction is necessary. It must be a deeper feeling than any that a mere aspiration, however beautiful, or any poetical visions of enthusiastic hope, or even that irony which exalts itself above both, can ever give. Now, for the attainment of this inward certainty and irrefragable science of life and truth, pure thought, though it does not form the only road, is, nevertheless, in every case a necessary agent, whose co-operation is indispensable. In the further prosecution, therefore, of our pursuit of the science of life, as deducible from the very notion of the consciousness, according to that theory of it which we have been developing, thought, in and by itself, must now, as we hinted in our first sketch, form the subject of a special inquiry. But here the principal thing to be guarded against is, the delusion that philosophy must aim at the rigor of mathematical certainty, and a mode of proof derived, on such an hypothesis, from that science, by a servile copying of its method; for, often as this has been attempted, it has never as yet led to a felicitous result. This misconception in the domain of science is something like to what it would be if in poetry, from an undue consideration of music, the mere play of tones—the rhyme and rhythm—which do indeed contribute to the ornateness of its figurative investiture, should be held to be the very essence of the art. Or, to take another illustration, it is much the same as if, with some of the more recent English poets, we should wish to make picturesquely descriptive poetry to be a peculiar species; whereas in truth it forms, or has a tendency to degenerate into, a mere faulty mannerism.
You will remember that I explained a notion to be a conception completely determined, both inwardly and outwardly (i.e., in extent and comprehension), according to the mathematical dimensions of number, measure, and weight. But this, perhaps, is the only mathematical formula that in the domain of philosophy is universally applicable. And even as such it only applies to the notion as a standard and fundamental idea by which we may judge of the correctness of its formation, and the completeness of its division into its several organic parts, or lower genera and species.It is no use further for the combination of the several notions into entire scientific periods and conclusions; for we may regard every complete system of science and speculative thought as some such perfect period and syllogism. But with regard to the notion and its object, it is unquestionably of the highest importance to determine whether it be absolutely simple or compound. If the latter, it may suggest many questions. If double, it may fall into an intrinsic contrariety, or be involved in a twofold want of harmony. If it numbers three constituents, we may have to inquire whether in its triple energy it enjoys a living unity of operation; or if possessed of four opposite directions, it may be involved in binary contrarieties and double discord; or, again, we might have to inquire whether the essential accession of some fifth element forms the living center to hold together and reunite the four which otherwise are divergent and apart; or whether the whole in triple couplets, or a double trine, forms a six; or whether seven arise from the union of a trine and quartain, either in the world of thought, or the realities of life and outward experience; and again, eight may be a double square in the one or the other relation; or yet once more, we may have to inquire whether in the still advancing inward reckoning and development of life, nine arise from a thrice repeated triple energy. And lastly, whether all these first elementary numbers are in various ways perfected and combined together in the decade.
Rightly understood, the Pythagorean theory of numbers—however unintelligible its single statements may appear, when detached from the general context—is perhaps as little devoid of foundation as the Platonic doctrine of anamnesis. The latter I have endeavored to justify, by explaining it in a better sense than it is ordinarily taken; the former, however, from a deficiency of original and genuine historical authorities, it is far more difficult to judge of correctly and impartially. In the first place, the Pythagoreans as a body stand very far indeed above the ordinary standard of the Grecian intellect and enlightenment; for Plato was but a single great mind, and stood almost alone even in the Socratic school.
The degradation of the female sex, though founded on the habits as well as political institutions of the rest of Greece, was decried by these earnest and deep-thinking men, who, in their reform, adopted quite an opposite sentiment.And if in their measures for its removal something seems still to be desiderated, and even something to be blamed, both defects arise chiefly from their having fallen into the other extreme of error, by proposing to give to woman a culture too decidedly masculine, and seeking to establish it as the rule of their new society. Women were concurrent and co-ordinate members of the governing body of the Pythagorean league, and an essential element of the splendid aristocracy of merit in this new model of life and society; which, however, as clashing too directly with the inveterate habits of their countrymen, soon provoked a revolution, and was entirely overthrown. It was, however, from this source that Plato, and also Socrates, chiefly derived their respect for highly-gifted women and their general view of the female sex; which in a degree, though very imperfectly, anticipated the purer Christian notion both of it and human nature, possessing on the whole a right but vague notion of the true dignity of both.
With respect to the theory of numbers in this ancient philosophy, and its true and simple sense, we have the following remarks to make. There is, we know, a certain chronological feeling by means of which the skillful physician strives, with acute and often happy conjecture, to determine the impending crisis of disease and its probable termination. There is also a similar tact which enables the experienced politician to measure the under-current of the rapid flow of mundane events—to feel the pulse of life as it beats in its thronging and quickly-passing incidents. In both cases, however, we feel that it is no infallibly certain and perfectly omniscient oracle—for none such is to be found in the whole range of the human mind. Neither is it any prophetical forecasting—not to speak of any pre-destined necessity. It must be regarded as a delicate and sensitive tact, which may deceive, but whose perceptions subsequent results most frequently prove to be correct. Now, of somewhat similar nature to this, there is a kind of immediate, searching, arithmetical glance into the internal and essential numerical relations of things in general, and also of all the objects of nature and phenomena of life, which does unquestionably form an essential element in every innate talent for scientific thinking. In some such simple sense as this we may understand the Pythagorean doctrine of intrinsic life-numbers in things and their manifold relations. Under such limitations we may adopt it, orat least allow its validity. And at any rate we must admit that it was an advance (or at least the first step thereto) in scientific thought, to be able, by this way of regarding things, to count, in the analysis of them or their notions, up to ten, or even to fifteen or more.
Thus, then, as regards the general notions (but only in regard to these), the mathematical view and method may be profitably applied to philosophy. In any case it is highly important, and indeed essential, for the correct formation of notions (and also for the complete division of them into their organic members, whatever may be the sphere to which they belong), that we should be able to determine the true inner number, both of them and their objects, since on this number the right quantity and weight of any one notion relatively to others, whether kindred or distinct, and especially to the whole, most intimately depends.
The combination, however, of single notions into propositions, or complete systems of science, can not, in philosophy at least, follow a mathematical or any similar principle. For philosophy, we have seen, is a science of a higher life, derived from an internal experience. It rests, therefore, on the triple basis, inasmuch as the latter is given from within, from above, and from without. Consequently, the great object here is, naturally, not, as it is in mathematical science, to link together, in apparently rigorous connection, the several phenomena of these higher data, or (if, as some will have it, there be only one) its single momenta, and manifoldly to concatenate them as so many pure schemes and formulæ. The essential point is rather to gain a pure apprehension of the imparted data of this higher life; and rightly understanding them, to clothe them correctly in words, and by giving these again in correct grammatical coherence, to express them clearly and forcibly. But this would imply that the method of thought in this self-cognition of life, thus expressed in words, is of a thoroughly grammatical nature; and then the higher logic—if we must so speak, and isolate and detach the latter, as an elementary science, from its connection with the living whole—the higher logic would consist simply of the rules for this inner language, and be nothing but a correct grammar of living thought. And, in truth, I for my part do believe that it ought so to be treated. And it is from this point of view, and according to the idea thus advanced of such a higher grammatical correctness of thinking, that I shall proceed,whenever any point connected with the form of thought and the right method of science comes into question, or requires to be noticed in passing. An instance will place clearly before our mind the different points of view taken by these two modes of judging and doctrinal methods. In compliance with a similitude which accurately enough corresponds to the truth, let us consider a system of philosophy as a whole period of higher thought, or as a perfect proposition of science. Now, in that estimate of a period of this kind which observes the usual requisitions of mathematical certainty and mode of thinking, it would be said: “This system is wonderful, and quite perfect, for all its positions are rigidly demonstrated.” But even supposing the system were thus rigorously demonstrative in all its parts, still the whole system might be radically false; for it might originally have started from an erroneous principle, or, being devoid of any truly real and abiding subject-matter, be based on some empty phantom of scientific imagination, or the unsubstantial absolute of the reason. But the same system or period of thought being judged from the opposite position of what I have called a higher grammatical method, will be thus spoken of: “It is all empty words, without worth or substance, for nothing in it is taken from actual life, and nothing of the kind has ever been felt in man’s experience.” When, however, the subject-matter is real, and furnished by the realities of the inner life, there, in the special details, much may be wanting, here and there a word may be missing, the structure of the periods of the whole system may not be perfectly distinct, and the general arrangement not sufficiently lucid: occasionally also a faulty and inadequate expression may be met with, and yet the whole work may, nevertheless, constitute a great advance on the road to higher knowledge, and furnish a valuable contribution to truth. With the exception of the case of the total inanity and perversity of view, our judgment must never be indiscriminate or rigorous. Scientific thought in general, and especially in philosophy, consists of notions, intuitions, and judgments, if only the latter term be taken, in its usual logical sense, to signify the combining together notions or intuitions. Now, of the true mathematical mode of proceeding with notions according to the pure and simple acceptation of the Pythagorean mystery of numbers, and, secondly, of what in its inmost essence is a grammatical method—their combination in methodical thought—wehave already spoken. As to the inward intuitions that we enjoy of that higher something which is in three ways imparted to us, the mathematical mode of procedure is plainly inapplicable to them. Even the grammatical one ceases to be fruitful here; at least it is unsatisfactory. Natural science, which is itself pre-eminently based on intuition, will perhaps most readily furnish a comparative illustration, calculated to throw light on and explain that perception of a higher something from which philosophy sets out. And this illustration will be best borrowed from those experiences in natural philosophy which appear to seize the fundamental phenomena of nature and her inmost life; even though the experiment itself set before our eyes these wonderful phenomena, and the secrets which are brought to light therein, in the greatly-diminished proportions of scientific abbreviation. Extremely trifling as the imitation of lightning by our electrical apparatus may appear, still that little spark has kindled a great and universal light in the domain of physical science. The magnetic needle, which at first sight was looked upon as an insignificant marvel of nature, taught man first of all to fix his position on this earth and to find it again after quitting it—and so, by leading him on to the discovery of the New World, founded thereby a great epoch in the history of the human mind. Not merely does it point to the terrestrial north-pole, but it also guides the thoughtful observer to the inmost center of nature, where, in this mystery of living attraction, the universal key of interpretation seems to lie hidden. And who would mock or despise the thoughtful naturalist who delights, by the prismatic analysis or division of the elementary colors of light, to produce or copy in miniature the rainbow which spans the heavens?
Now, in these first simple and elementary phenomena, external nature, as it were, spontaneously presents to us beautiful emblems for still higher phenomena belonging to another and internal region. They enable us metaphorically to express the divine phenomenon of truth, and its vivid apprehension and intrinsic adoption, till it becomes a fixed and imperishable knowledge, and to narrate intelligibly the intrinsic genesis of truth and true knowledge. For the following is, if we may so speak, the history of the growth of living science in the human mind, whenever the latter is capable of it, and is raised or raises itself to the height thereof.
The beginning is made by the first kindling spark of truth, which works like the electric shock—by the first ray of knowledge, which afterward gradually expands into the nourishing flame of love.
The second step of further progress is formed by the magnetic attraction of the soul, which from the first contact to the ultimate union, strives still to penetrate more profoundly, and more accurately to investigate the object of its love. In this remark, I proceed on the hypothesis (which hereafter will still oftener be spoken of) that no living cognition is possible or actual without a previous vital contact and union between the knowing and the known.
When, lastly, the moment of completion arrives, then the close of this pursuit of a highest knowledge will be made by that full expansion of divine light which often, like a heavenly token of peace and reconciliation, shines forth in the very midst of the clouds of discontent, and dissolves all doubts before it. But now philosophy, according to the original sense of the beautiful Greek word, does not by any means signify the highest wisdom, the everlasting truth itself, or the perfect science. It denotes rather the pure longing, the love of a genuine knowledge of divine truth, which spiritually conquers and triumphs over every difficulty in the way of its attainment This, then, implies that this science does and must set out from love as its basis. For the indication of this foundation of true knowledge, in its characteristic features at least, natural science has furnished us with the adequate symbols.
“FEELINGis every thing,” I would again repeat; in words only does there lie a possibility of misconception. When philosophy sets out from the false semblance of necessary thought, it must always have a similar result. It can not extricate itself from its own subtile web of scientific delusion. Abstract phrases,i.e., words deprived of their living significance (if ever they possessed any) and reduced to empty, lifeless formulæ, are easily found, or, rather, have long since been found, for this seeming knowledge, which as such does, in truth, remain ever identical with itself.[73]And if, from time to time, it changes its expressions and assumes quite a different terminology, this is only done for the sake of appearing new, whereas fundamentally it is still the old error which continues to be propagated in a changed form and dress. Sometimes, no doubt, it is done with an honest intention, under the persuasion that truth and science will, perhaps, in the new magical form be more easily seized and comprehended than was possible in the old one, whose unintelligible obscurity and intricacies were deeply felt, and which it is hoped are avoided in the somewhat altered arrangement of the ideas. But the unintelligible obscurity lies, not in the words and phrases or the terminology, however strange and barbarous the latter may sound. It arises entirely from a defective point of view, and the perversion of thought involved in the very theory of identity; and no phraseology or skill of composition, however unparalleled, will ever be able totally to remove it. Quite otherwise is it when philosophy sets out from the feeling of that which it desires, and which from the very first it has propounded and sought as its proper object. In this case the difficulty does not lie in the thing itself, or in the view on which it is based. For the latter, inasmuch as it results from life itself, and man’s inmost feelings and experiences, is as obvious and intelligible as the visible shape and phenomenon and as the pure consciousness of lifeitself. At least it is sufficiently clear for all the purposes of life, and sufficiently intelligible for the kindred feelings on which it rests. But in this, as in every other case of profound internal emotion, it is extremely difficult to find the very right word for it, the exact appropriate term which happily seizes and vividly expresses its essential character. Accordingly, in philosophy—so long, at least, as it proceeds from this fundamental principle of life and a living feeling—I think it best not to shackle our thoughts and notions by the fetters of a rigidly-fixed and unchangeable terminology. For such sciences as are distinctly limited to a particular sphere, this method may be profitable and salutary. Indeed, it may not only appear but actually be indispensable. But in the present case it would be inappropriate. We must seek, on the contrary, the greatest possible variety of expression, availing ourselves of all the riches of language in the copious diversity of scientific, and even of poetical and figurative diction, and not refusing to borrow the terms of society or any sphere of life. For our first endeavor must be to keep our exposition vivid throughout. Continually advancing with a living movement, we ought to avoid, above all things, that propensity to using stiff and dead formularies, which almost seems to be inborn and hereditary in rational science. For as the living philosophy is a higher and clearer consciousness, or self-conscious knowledge—a sort of second consciousness within the ordinary one—it requires for its indication and exposition, as it were, a language within language; only the latter can never be a system of lifeless formulæ, but must even be in the highest degree vivid and flexible. The philosophy of life may, in short, borrow its terms from every sphere, but principally from life itself; and even, the fugitive terms and evanescent forms of conversational language will often supply it with the happiest and most pertinent modes of expression. Such, too, it may occasionally borrow from all the subordinate sciences. Even the obsolete and cumbrous terminology—the barbarous school phrases of a recent German philosophy—might furnish many a valuable contribution to that rich copiousness of expression which is indispensable to the philosophy of life. An occasional phrase or term borrowed from this source, but differently applied, or employed in quite a new sense—and thereby for the time rendered intelligible, may often serve to express most happily and most pertinently what beforeseemed to be almost inexpressible and to elude all the powers of language.
But, above all things, we must remember that its exposition must not be a mere dead framework of fixed terms—a system of empty formularies. This is a point which appears to me to be most intimately connected and mixed up with the very essence and spirit of scientific truth. On this point my feelings are so strong, that if, in that attempt which for some years I have been making to give a new development of philosophy, I could consider it allowable to adopt the course which has so often been followed in German literature and its several school-systems, of detaching some single notion from its general connection, in order more rapidly to gain for it, like small coin, a wider circulation, even though by so doing its peculiar stamp of intrinsic truth is quickly abraded and lost—if, I say, I could bring myself to adopt such a course, I should confine myself to opposing, and using every means to counteract, this killing of the spirit by words which in and by themselves have no signification. If it were possible, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see all the old and customary terms rejected and dropped, and new and different ones found for the same theme.
The philosophy of life—one,i.e., which sets out in its speculations from life itself and the living consciousness—neither can nor desires to be all-comprehensive; not at least in the same sense that that philosophy does which proceeds from the assumption of a necessary connection of thought. It does not presumptuously suppose that it possesses the power of measuring the whole sum of all that is conceivable or possible, and of setting it down as an unalterable result forever. It does not arrogate to itself such omniscience. But in one sense the philosophy of life may justly be called an all-comprehensive science; and that is in so far as, keeping in contact with the center of life, and, consequently, of thought also, and of knowledge, it attempts to seize and rightly to apprehend them. And so long as it does not lose sight of this center, but is constantly returning to it, it may be allowed many liberties. Around this center it may revolve in circles, now narrower now wider, with the view of contemplating it more advantageously, so long as it does not rest too soon in any definite focus of thought. While it refuses to confine itself to any fixed form of language, it may, with unshackled choice, select from the wholerange of life and thought whatever expressions appear the most significant and happiest for indicating that fullness of feeling which is so difficult to give words to, and which indeed can never be adequately comprised in language. Nor in such a case will it ever be made an objection if, in the succession of its ideas and its manifoldly varied turnings, it avails itself of the same liberty, frequently coming back to the same starting-point, though always presenting it in some new light and relation. The test of the scientific correctness of a true method of thought, which must ever be living and vivid, is an internal one. It is independent of all such little and external matters, and it can even exist unimpaired alongside of many apparent irregularities. Here the case is nearly the same as with actual conversation. In both alike, when we would express ourselves on any grave point of feeling, and clothe it in such language as is likely to gain the concurrence of others, or, by making it clear, to enforce it upon the general conviction, we feel it perfectly allowable to follow whatever course may seem most convenient. At one time we preliminarily advance some question more or less remotely bearing upon it, or we take up a narrative or simile which will serve to introduce it. Or, it may be, by explanation we try to clear away some possible misconception, or, perhaps, to limit and determine some preconceived opinion on the matter, in the hope of removing or solving some apparent or troublesome difficulty. Some or all of these means we freely make use of in order that the desired result of our discourse may finally stand out clear and distinct before the mental eye of our auditors. I shall, therefore, I think, be justified if I follow the same course in these Lectures which it is my wish should leave on your minds the impression of an internal dialogue. In the seemingly rhapsodical flow of its thought I shall assume the same liberty. Far from abstaining from episodical matters, when they suggest themselves, I even think it essential often to introduce them; and by frequently recurring, under many a variation of expression, to the same leading idea, it will be my endeavor to place it in a still clearer light. By this course, in spite of its seeming tediousness, I shall be able ultimately, in a few simple ideas, to set the whole matter more distinctly and intelligibly before you. And, at the same time, I trust that the rules of internal language for the correct composition of the whole, the right arrangement of the words (if I may so call it), that internal grammaticalorder of living thought, of which I previously spoke, will be found to be duly observed, even though in the details many a term may appear imperfect and inadequate, and many a happier expression might have been found. The most vivid diction, even the best and most felicitous, falls always far short of feeling. “Feeling is every thing”—the full center of the inner life, the point from which philosophy sets out, and to which it invariably returns. We might call it, if such an every-day expression would not sound and strike us as strange, the quintessence of the consciousness. However, in its original sense (which, in truth, arose out of a very superficial and meager view of ancient philosophy), as used to denote the essential fifth over and above the four opposite poles of inward existence, or the four divergent directions of reality, which, like the mind, is also divided into quadruple dissension, the term quintessence is not inappropriate for this center of the consciousness. For feeling is, unquestionably, such a fifth, both in relation to the four great fundamental energies of the inner man, as the latter are manifested to us by experience, and also to the four faculties of the second order, which are composed of or derived from the former. But it is not only difficult to find an adequate expression for the full central feelings of the inner life, but especially to indicate accurately in words all the more delicate perceptions, with their shades of difference and distinction, which spring from it, and rigorously to keep them as distinct in the expression as they were in the actual emotion. Clearly, too, and accurately as the inner sense may distinguish between a genuine and a spurious manifestation of the higher feelings, it is not so very easy in language to keep them separate, or so precisely to characterize them as to exclude every false accompaniment, and to prevent the possibility of confounding the spurious and the genuine. How great, for instance, is the difference between the two kinds of irony which we meet with in the philosophical dialogue, either as introduced by the Socratic school, or as similarly employed in modern dialectic. The one kind, overflowing with skeptical shrewdness, makes illimitable doubt the end of its dialogical expositions, and is that acrid and biting irony which is based on universal negation. The other species, more amiable and benevolent, is intimately allied to a lofty enthusiasm for the divine and the true, being almost one with, or, at least, inseparable from it, since it arises from a sense of its ownincapacity to comprise in any form of words the plenitude of divinity, as the spirit discerns it in truth. And yet, notwithstanding such differences in the expressions and turns of the dialogue, they often border close upon and nearly resemble one another; whereas the inner purpose, the spirit, the design of the line of thought, is often thoroughly distinct in the two cases, and almost directly opposed. In the same way, true artistic genius and its mere imitation are even in their external manner and productions easily detected by the feeling. And yet we often find words fail us when we attempt characteristically to indicate their differences, and to pass a discriminating judgment upon them. So, too—to illustrate this topic by the instance of wit—a forced humor, with its wearying repetitions and mannerism, or the ceaseless straining and empty play of an artificial wit, is very different from the overflowing fullness of genuine poetical wit, in which the lively genius of a sportive fancy is every where welling forth, and a profound poetical enthusiasm shines through the coat of ever-shifting hues which its motley humor puts on. But still, even here it is extremely difficult to explain one’s self, and to distinguish the different impressions they make. Accordingly, in a general judgment upon them, many mistakes and misconceptions are both possible, and are frequently made.
Now, in the sphere of feeling, the mere counterfeit, in particular cases at least, is frequently in its language so deceptively similar to the true and genuine, that at last the judgment can find no other words suitable to itself than the simple ones, “I feel it to be true and profound,” or “I feel it to be spurious, intrinsically vain, a mere counterfeit, and a cheat.” Again: faith, hope, and love or charity—(those three states of the soul-springs of life—those inward organs of the moral sense—those decisive acts and diversified forms of manifestation of one common sentiment, directed to the good and the divine—or by what other terms they may be expressed)—this sisterhood of spiritual qualities often mentioned together, and, in fact, closely allied and united, are presented to us as forming a complete scheme and all-embracing and significant symbol of a higher life. When they are felt and regarded in this light, they do, indeed, become such for all higher thought and science, in so far as the latter ought to be living and to have their foundation in life. Too frequently, however, and that not merely in the poems of an æsthetical piety, but also in many a dullwork of edification, we see this triple symbol of a higher life degraded into the commonplace of a morbid fancy, which, in the gratification of an idle vanity, trifles with the best and holiest feelings of our nature. Even here, therefore, as elsewhere, a strict separation between the genuine and the spurious is very necessary, calling for and claiming all our watchfulness. But the counterfeiture lies not in the tone of solemn earnestness and depth of pathos with which men broach these subjects, or generally touch upon them; on the contrary, the affectation mostly announces itself in a certain external pomp of word and phrase. But now, if this symbol of an internal religious triplet contains at the same time (so to speak) the fundamental harmony of that higher life which is devoted to the good and directed to the divine, then must this apply not only to the inner but also to the outer life. In short, this scheme of the fundamental moral ideas must be again met with in the ordinary relations of actual life. In such a case it is clearly most agreeable to truth to speak of this internal and better life simply and unpretendingly in a perfectly natural manner, while a holy reverence for what is most exalted in humanity is best testified by an intrinsic delicacy in the mode of treating it, by the absence of all pedantry of sublimity, or affectation of a sentimental formality.
With an especial reference to the end of science, I have, in the case of these three elements of higher consciousness, attempted to distinguish, strictly and precisely, the true and genuine from the spurious, which often runs parallel to it, and the well-founded from that which rests on no right basis of reality. In the case of faith, we drew a distinction between that intrinsic living faith which is based on the feelings of personal experience and love, and that counterfeited imitation of it which is only externally assumed. In the case of hope, too, it has been my endeavor to show that, besides a narrow-minded, egoistic, and passionate and partisan hope, whose anticipations are seldom realized, but if so, only to their own punishment and disgrace, there is also a higher hope, which is both Godlike and divine. To this hope it is that art and poetry owe the magical charm by which they win upon us. But in actual life also it is the stay to which we must resolutely cling. For even though she be rightly named eternal, yet at certain particular moments and appointed historical epochs, after being long looked for in vain, she often appears in a far different shapefrom that which expectation had lent to her, and to our surprise stands forth unexpectedly in the full majesty and splendor of final consummation. All, then, that now remains to be done in this way is, in the case of love (since the earthly passion is for the most part only transitory, often confounded with the phantom of passion, and is, perhaps, totally blind), to point to a higher and better love, which is abiding and eternal, and, at the same time, endued both with sight and knowledge. For such alone can be of real value for the cognition of truth, and the right understanding of life. Such alone, in short, can contribute to the acquisition of that science of man, and especially of the inner man, which we are here in search of.
But now those three principles which constitute the grand harmony of that higher intelligent feeling which leads to science and also to religion, are at the same time, though in a less dignified relation, the impelling motives and ruling influences of actual life. For it is almost impossible to take one step forward in life without some feeling or other of trust and perfect faith in the general result. All our proceedings, in short, are based on some confident assumption or other, even though it is one which, perhaps we can not mathematically demonstrate, and which, when the moment for action is pressing upon us, we are unable perfectly to analyze. And hope, too, in some shape or form, is universally acknowledged to be the true moving impulse of our whole existence. So, also, love of some kind, true or false—it may be pure and lofty or mixed and sordid, if not altogether counterfeit—forms the very sum of life and of all enjoyment of it—ay, even life itself. An example or two, consequently, from the ordinary relations of actual life, will enable not so much to demonstrate, indeed, as rather to remind you of the difference which subsists even here between a trust and confidence that is merely reasoned out by logical inference—a faith externally assumed, and one that is the result of personal experience and confiding love. Thus reminding you of what in this life is manifest enough, I hope to set most distinctly before your eyes the difference which subsists also in the higher region of faith. Let us suppose the case of a friend dangerously ill or in a state of extreme suffering, and we are in search of a physician able to relieve and heal him. One is recommended to us of great reputation for extensive knowledge and of a judgment strengthened by long experience.We are told that he has effected remarkable cures, that he has never been known to lose a patient by neglect, or by mistaking his disease, and that withal he is very kind and extremely attentive. These, we are aware, are great recommendations: but he is a perfect stranger to us; we feel a kind of reserve and restraint toward him—as yet he has not our perfect confidence. How very different is the case when we ourselves have experienced all this—when we ourselves have witnessed his comprehensive view, the number and variety of his remedies, and the penetrating glance of genius in the moment of danger—when with grateful recollection we feel that we must ascribe to him either the preservation of some dear one’s life, or our own unhoped-for restoration to health and strength! Such is the difference between a reasoning faith on rational grounds and a personal faith based on our own experience and vivid conviction. And in truth this simile is not remote and far-fetched. It comes very close, indeed, to the matter itself, if only it be true that the soul is often diseased, and that religion presents to us no inexorable lawgiver of a rigid rule of reason, no stern judge of severe truth, but a wise physician touched with the feeling of our infirmities, and able to save to the uttermost.
Or let us take another case, which will go still more deeply and touch more nearly the very root of the social relations of life. An individual of high rank, as often happens, is about to enter into a lasting union with one of whom he personally knows little, if any thing. In regard to rank and fortune, of agreeableness of person and manner, as well as accomplishments, not to say mental endowments, he has the best and strongest assurances. But the character of youth is generally undeveloped. Not only may all that is morally beautiful, and every great and noble disposition, lie therein, but there may also be slumbering within it the violent elements of passion. It is only the full development of life and love that will expand the one or the other. The question, then, for one contemplating such a union is, can he have such a confidence in the character and sentiments as naturally ought to precede a union which is to last for life. She has received an excellent education—she enjoys a spotless reputation—her whole family stands high in the respect and esteem of men—its friendship and society are every where sought and valued, not merely for its rank and station, but also for its amiablequalities. Moreover, another lady of established character for all that is good and estimable, has the most favorable opinion of her, honors her with her friendship, and loves her as a younger sister, or as her own daughter. All these considerations are, perhaps, sufficient grounds and rational warrant for an anticipatory confidence in such a case. But how widely remote and how different a feeling is this from that deep trusting confidence which springs up after the union—which a wife’s conduct instils into a husband’s heart—when, no longer captivated by mere personal charms, but almost entirely forgetting them, he rather rejoices to notice and to contemplate those qualities of the inmost soul, which, being most congenial to his own tastes and habits, afford him a sure prospect of unbroken harmony and felicity in the remainder of their wedded life.
It is extremely difficult to lay down any general rule by which in individual cases the boundary line may be drawn between a mere reasoning faith, resting on external considerations, and one that is founded on personal feeling and experience of life, in its gravest and most decisive moments. Very often a confidence that in its origin was quite arbitrarily taken up on a cold calculation of reason, will suddenly receive a full confirmation, and pass into that profounder assurance which draws its strength from our own feelings and experience. And as it is in actual life, so it is likewise in the higher sphere of faith. In matters of religion, and of science also, that which originally was merely a belief of the cold and abstract reason is subsequently transformed by degrees into a profound faith, rising at last into an abiding personal feeling, and even a deep intuition of living truth. As a first beginning, then, and as the foundation of a better, and as the first step of a higher and fuller development, a merely rational faith requires to be treated with respect and judged of with all due allowance. But when it is set up as perfect and complete in itself, and challenging the most rigorous requisitions of science, or when it is put forth as sufficient in itself, then our decision must be that this self-devised rational belief is only a substitute for, and not faith itself. For this must ever be vivid and based on an immediate personal feeling, and on this account full of love, and indeed both founded upon and proceeding from out of love.
Properly, the three elements of higher life are inseparable;and it is therefore extremely difficult to propound any invariable law applying to individual cases, as to the order in which these three grades of internal development must or ought always to succeed one another. Essentially they are one and indissoluble. As faith and hope are based upon love, so is love dependent on both the former; and this is as true of genuine love on earth as it is of that which lives in a higher domain. If its faith be hostilely disturbed, then it loses its hope also, and the very root of its existence. If hope is entirely cut off, it does not, indeed, lose thereby faith itself, and its object, but it preys on itself.
That in which all these three grades of feeling are most perfectly united, blended, and fused together, is enthusiasm. All genuine enthusiasm is based on some exalted and elevating faith; it is a form and species of the higher love, and involves in itself a grand and divine hope. And this is true of genuine patriotism, and of artistic enthusiasm, no less than of the religious, which is most akin to scientific, especially as the latter was understood by the ancients, and according to the place it held in the Platonic philosophy. But though thus combining all three, enthusiasm is yet essentially distinguished from them. Enthusiasm is only an elevated state of the consciousness, which, although in capacity it admits of being durable, is generally regarded as transitory. Accordingly, it is of a passing state that the term is generally understood. But the three degrees of feelings are elements of a permanently exalted consciousness—of the mind generally, in its highest state. And this is even that triune living consciousness, restored again to perfect unity, and to fertile operation. It is even that to which I have been, from the commencement of these Lectures, continually alluding, and especially in the assertion that it is necessary to pass from the existing state of the consciousness—which is neither its fitting nor original condition—with its four parts, one of which is mostly divorced from the rest by its undue exaggeration, and to revert to its higher and living constitution; which return I spoke of as the essential condition of true philosophy, if not its very self. Now, if any should desire to give one common name to this higher, or, rather, highest, state of the consciousness, inclusive of its three elements, and call it enthusiasm, it would be necessary to add the remark, that this enthusiasm is absolutely one, universal, and of the highest kind, havingfor its object the divine itself: and that, moreover, it is abidingly permanent, and at the same time reconcilable and even really associated with the most clear-sighted prudence.
Some such a highly exalted and sublime conception of true enthusiasm is to be met with, and, indeed, predominates throughout the Platonic philosophy. So far, therefore, it might be said, that the essential in thisharmonic triad[Dreiklang] of Christian sentiment was not wholly unknown to it, even though it knew nothing of the ideas of faith and hope in this form or direction. Comprising all in one, it gave such especial prominence to love as to make it by itself the very basis of science—of that science, at least, of which alone there can be any question in the present place, the science of the inner and higher life. For it considered such a science as being simply a love which has arrived at intelligence, and has thereby become firmly fixed, and, moreover, elevated to the highest degree of clearness and perspicuity.
The relation in which these three properties stand to spirit, soul, and sense—those three principles already mentioned of the consciousness, when in its undivided perfection it attains to a full, vivid operation—is somewhat of the following nature. Faith is an act of the spirit, by which the higher feeling, being distinguished and separated from all that is not essential, and being purely and spiritually apprehended, is set forth as an intelligent feeling, and consequently as a judgment, and in this light comprised in an imperishable idea. Love is the turning or directing of the whole soul toward the higher and divine, that is, even to God Himself. Hope, however, is the new life which emanates from them both, and in which the divine ideas become actual and active; or, in other words, it is the internal sense and fruitful susceptibility for the divine idea and its energies and influences.
Now, the next problem which properly comes before us in this place of our exposition of the human mind, and of the degree of certainty which is attainable by it, is accurately to determine and to indicate the true intrinsic essence of science. What, then, is it to know? How is it brought about and accomplished? In the next place, it will be necessary to explain the origin of error, which is ever opposing science, often imperceptibly deluding or undermining and destroying our convictions. This will, then, enable usto solve the questions and difficulties suggested by doubt in general, after we have once ascertained the place which is to be assigned to it in the human mind. And thus we shall at last be able to determine completely, precisely, and satisfactorily, the relation in which faith and enthusiasm, love and revelation, stand to science.
Now, in order to arrive at a full idea of science, it will be essential to distinguish its several elements—understanding and generalization [Begreifen], and also discernment—the different forms, too, of thinking—the necessary in reason, the possible in fancy, as well as the scientific cogitation of what is actual.
But before entering on this field of our labors, I would premise one general remark. It refers to the nature of that certainty which we have to look for and may expect in philosophy, according to the idea of it which we have made the basis of our speculations, as being the noblest and highest manifestation of man’s desire of knowledge. And here the examination of the words of a great and famous thinker, with regard to his own system, will best serve me for the introduction and exposition of my own views. The system of Spinosa—for I allude to him—is, it is true, in ill repute for its obscureness and unintelligibility. The remark, however, to which I refer, is wholly unconnected with his system. It is an estimate of his own knowledge, and is quite clear and intelligible to all, as every one will admit when I come to quote the words. And, perhaps, the obscurity of his system arises chiefly from the matter, and the position taken up, rather than from the author’s method, and the form of exposition. For, if only we can once bring ourselves to allow that the mathematical method is suitable to philosophy, we must pronounce Spinosa’s style most excellent. It is, in fact, remarkable, not only for the rigor and precision of its definitions and proofs, but also for the structure of its sentences and general composition, so far as excellence was attainable in the modern Latin of the schools, to which, however, Spinosa has succeeded in giving a wonderful evenness and uniformity of expression, having handled it with a facility never before paralleled.
As to the system itself, and the rank which, according to the position here assumed for the philosophy of life, ought to be assigned to it, it will hardly be necessary to enter into a particular review. Generally we have already expressedour opinion, and the judgment we should pass upon it may be deduced from the remarks which I formerly made when distinguishing between the two directions or views which, in its search after truth, present themselves to the reflecting mind for its choice between faith or doubt. One of these views of the world and things is based on the idea of the living triune God, whom faith embraces, love desires, and in whom all our hopes are centered. Now, this hypothesis implies, by a necessary and inevitable consequence, that the world is not self-existent, but, as we have all been taught, had a beginning, having been created by God out of nothing. According to the other theory (and to one of these every profound and truly scientific system of philosophy must in its essential principles belong), the world had not a beginning, but is eternal, being one with God—or, indeed, speaking absolutely,allisone, and necessary thought and necessary existence are not properly and essentially distinct, but only so many different forms or aspects of the one eternal and necessary essence. Now, of the latter system, according to the opinion of all competent judges, either of his own or our times, the work of Spinosa is the ablest and most consistent exposition that science has ever yet produced. But between these two systems and views of the universe, the philosophy of life can not long hesitate. Seeking to arrive at a clear insight into all that is divine, so far as it is traceable within the higher life and inward consciousness, and adopting and regarding it as an imparted fact of an internal, no less than of an external revelation, she can not be at a loss to decide between faith in a living God and that idea of one necessary essence which is at the same time both God and the world—an idea which, making thought and being identical, proceeds to give to all else correspondent arbitrary definitions. Indeed, the question can hardly arise for the philosophy of life, or if it does, it may at once set it aside. Now, this general observation on all such systems of necessity implies, of course, the condemnation of that of this great and famous thinker. It too must be at once rejected as fundamentally false. Such a censure, however, does not involve any thing of personal vituperation. All such feelings need not to be mixed up with it. For, in truth, it often happens that the greatest and most richly endowed minds, and the most single and straightforward characters, if they once take a wrong direction, fall into the profoundest, or, as they havebeen termed, themost violenterrors. But in every case it is but equitable to make a distinction between the author and his system, however severe may be the judgment we pass on the latter. In the case of Spinosa, too, we must bear in mind that he was by birth and education a Jew. As such, he was not only without the pale of Christianity, but even regarded it with strong national prejudices. If, therefore, his system is not consistent with the truths of religion, or, rather, if it even violently clashes with them, he is scarcely obnoxious to reproof. At least, he is not half so much open to censure as those who, not having this palliation to urge, assume a hostile position toward religion, while their animosity is not relieved by any splendor of great talents, but marked throughout by the meanness and narrowness of their views and the ordinary character of their scientific theory and system.
The expression of this great thinker to which I have alluded, relates to his own self and the object he had in view by his literary labors—to his work, in short, or system. It is contained in a letter to one of his most intimate friends, and runs as follows: “Whether my philosophy be the very best, I know not; at least I do not wish to decide that point; that, however, I have discovered the true philosophy, I have not the least doubt.” All this sounds modestly enough; and in all probability it expresses his real sentiments and opinion. It sets up, however, a pretension which I can not by any means admit. Spinosa here takes the term philosophy in a different sense from its old and original signification. Among the Greeks, the Sophists alone derived their name from a pretension to perfect wisdom and science. But the followers of a true wisdom, from Socrates’s time at least, explained philosophy to be what its name imports—a desire of the highest knowledge, and a pursuit of divine truth. And this is the essential point which, involving a total difference of opinion, has divided the minds of men through centuries and tens of centuries, and is as yet far from having attained to a satisfactory solution. And herein the Socratic idea of philosophy, which is also my own, receives a species of historical confirmation which that other mathematical notion of it stands still in need of. But to return to our author. By philosophy, as indeed is clear from his very system, he understands a perfect science and absolute truth. Now this perfection of knowledge does not, it is true, pretend to extendto and embrace all individualities. Still it is at least intensively an omniscience—which by the further development and expansion of what it possesses within itself unevolved, would in its external comprehensiveness embrace every particular case. And can such infinite knowledge and omniscience be ascribed to any other being than God? If we at once acknowledged this, it would surely be more agreeable to truth to consider man in this life as being merely in a preparatory state, where at most it is permitted him, step by step, to approximate still nearer to the height of knowledge. If that degree of knowledge which is conceded to and is attainable by man, really suffices for the wants of life, we might, or, rather, to speak more properly, we must be content with it. Probably even that which it is allowed to man to reach, has never yet been actually attained to by any individual. And why in any case are we unwilling to wait, if, as it undoubtedly remains forever certain, that when this period of preparation shall have closed in that eternity which is really life, man will in one way or another arrive at perfect certainty and clearness of insight into the nature of himself, the world, and the Deity, and will also fully understand the now inscrutable relation of God to man and the universe?