LECTURE VIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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