The reason passes, like the heart, through certain epochs and
transitions, but its development is not so often portrayed. Men seem to
have been satisfied with unfolding the passions in their extremes, their
aberration, and their results, without considering how closely they are
bound up with the intellectual constitution of the individual.
Degeneracy in morals roots in a one-sided and wavering philosophy,
doubly dangerous, because it blinds the beclouded intellect with an
appearance of correctness, truth, and conviction, which places it less
under the restraining influence of man’s instinctive moral sense. On the
other hand, an enlightened understanding ennobles the feelings,—the
heart must be formed by the head.
The present age has witnessed an extraordinary increase of a thinking
public, by the facilities afforded to the diffusion of reading; the
former happy resignation to ignorance begins to make way for a state of
half-enlightenment, and few persons are willing to remain in the
condition in which their birth has placed them. Under these
circumstances it may not be unprofitable to call attention to certain
periods of the awakening and progress of the reason, to place in their
proper light certain truths and errors, closely connected with morals,
and calculated to be a source of happiness or misery, and, at all
events, to point out the hidden shoals on which the reason of man has so
often suffered shipwreck. Rarely do we arrive at the summit of truth
without running into extremes; we have frequently to exhaust the part of
error, and even of folly, before we work our way up to the noble goal of
tranquil wisdom.
Some friends, inspired by an equal love of truth and moral beauty, who
have arrived at the same conviction by different roads, and who view
with serener eye the ground over which they have travelled, have thought
that it might be profitable to present a few of these resolutions and
epochs of thought. They propose to represent these and certain excesses
of the inquiring reason in the form of two young men, of unequal
character, engaged in epistolary correspondence. The following letters
are the beginning of this essay.
The opinions that are offered in these letters can only be true and
false relatively, and in the form in which the world is mirrored in the
soul of the correspondent, and of him only. But the course of the
correspondence will show that the one-sided, often exaggerated and
contradictory opinions at length issue in a general, purified, and
well-established truth.
Scepticism and free-thinking are the feverish paroxysms of the human
mind, and must needs at length confirm the health of well-organized
souls by the unnatural convulsion which they occasion. In proportion to
the dazzling and seducing nature of error will be the greatness of the
triumphs of truth: the demand for conviction and firm belief will be
strong and pressing in proportion to the torment occasioned by the pangs
of doubt. But doubt was necessary to elicit these errors; the knowledge
of the disease had to precede its cure. Truth suffers no loss if a
vehement youth fails in finding it, in the same way that virtue and
religion suffer no detriment if a criminal denies them.
It was necessary to offer these prefatory remarks to throw a proper
light on the point of view from which the following correspondence has
to be read and judged.
LETTER I.
_Julius to Raphael._
October.
You are gone, Raphael,—and the beauty of nature departs: the sere and
yellow leaves fall from the trees, while a thick autumn fog hangs
suspended like a bier over the lifeless fields. Solitary, I wander
through the melancholy country. I call aloud your name, and am irritated
that my Raphael does not answer me.
I had received your last embrace. The mournful sound of the carriage
wheels that bore you away had at length died upon my ear. In happier
moments I had just succeeded in raising a tumulus over the joys of the
past, but now again you stand up before me, as your departed spirit, in
these regions, and you accompany me to each favorite haunt and pleasant
walk. These rocks I have climbed by your side: by your side have my eyes
wandered over this immense landscape. In the dark sanctuary of this
beech-grove we first conceived the bold ideal of our friendship. It was
here that we unfolded the genealogical tree of the soul, and that we
found that Julius was so closely related to Raphael. Not a spring, not a
thicket, or a hill exists in this region where some memory of departed
happiness does not come to destroy my repose. All things combine to
prevent my recovery. Wherever I go, I repeat the painful scene of our
separation.
What have you done to me, Raphael? What am I become? Man of dangerous
power! would that I had never known or never lost you! Hasten back; come
on the wings of friendship, or the tender plant, your nursling, shall
have perished. How could you, endowed with such tender feelings, venture
to leave the work you had begun, but still so incomplete. The
foundations that your proud wisdom tried to establish in my brain and
heart are tottering; all the splendid palaces which you erected are
crumbling, and the worm crushed to earth is writhing under the ruins.
Happy, heavenly time, when I groped through life, with bandaged eyes,
like a drunken man,—when all my knowledge and my wishes were confined to
the narrow horizon of my childhood’s teachings! Blessed time, when a
cheerful sunset raised no higher aspiration in my soul than the wish of
a fine day on the morrow; when nothing reminded me of the world save the
newspaper; nothing spoke of eternity save the passing bell; only
ghost-stories brought to mind the thought of death and judgment; when I
trembled at the thought of the devil, and was proportionately drawn to
the Godhead! I felt and was happy. Raphael has taught me to think I am
on the way to regret that I was ever created.
Creation? No, that is only a sound lacking all meaning, which my reason
cannot receive. There was a time when I knew nothing, when no one knew
me: accordingly, it is usual to say, I was not. That time is past:
therefore it is usual to say that I was created. But also of the
millions who existed centuries ago nothing more is now known, and yet
men are wont to say, they are. On what do we found the right to grant
the beginning and to deny the end? It is assumed that the cessation of
thinking beings contradicts Infinite Goodness. Did, then, Infinite
Goodness come first into being at the creation of the world? If there
was a period when there were no spirits, Infinite Goodness must have
been imperative for a whole eternity. If the fabric of the universe is a
perfection of the Creator, He, therefore, lacked a perfection before the
creation of the world. But an assumption like this contradicts the idea
of perfect goodness, therefore there is no creation. To what have I
arrived, Raphael? Terrible fallacy of my conclusions! I give up the
Creator as soon as I believe in a God. Wherefore do I require a God, if
I suffice without the Creator?
You have robbed me of the thought that gave me peace. You have taught me
to despise where I prayed before. A thousand things were venerable in my
sight till your dismal wisdom stripped off the veil from them. I saw a
crowd of people streaming to church, I heard their enthusiastic devotion
poured forth in a common act of prayer and praise; twice did I stand
beside a deathbed, and saw—wonderful power of religion!—the hope of
heaven triumphant over the terror of annihilation, and the serene light
of joy beaming from the eyes of those departing.
“Surely that doctrine must be divine,” I exclaimed, “which is
acknowledged by the best among men, which triumphs and comforts so
wondrously!” Your coldblooded wisdom extinguished my enthusiasm. You
affirmed that an equal number of devotees streamed formerly round the
Irmensäule and to Jupiter’s temple; an equal number of votaries, with
like exultation, ascended the stake kindled in honor of Brahma. “Can the
very feeling,” you added, “which you found so detestable in heathenism
prove the truth of your doctrine?”
You proceeded to say: “Trust nothing but your own reason. There is
nothing holy, save truth.” I have obeyed you: I have sacrificed all my
opinions, I have set fire to all my ships when I landed on this island,
and I have destroyed all my hopes of return. Never can I become
reconciled to a doctrine which I joyfully welcomed once. My reason is
now all to me—my only warrant for God, virtue, and immortality. Woe to
me if I catch this, my only witness, in a contradiction! if my esteem
for its conclusions diminishes! if a broken vessel in my brain diverts
its action! My happiness is henceforth intrusted to the harmonious
action of my sensorium: woe to me if the strings of this instrument give
a false note in the critical moments of my life—if my convictions vary
with my pulsations!
LETTER II.
_Julius to Raphael._
Your doctrine has flattered my pride. I was a prisoner: you have led me
out into the daylight; the golden shimmer and the measureless vault have
enraptured my eye. Formerly, I was satisfied with the modest reputation
of being a good son of my father’s house, a friend of my friends, a
useful member of society. You have changed me into a citizen of the
universe. At that time my wishes had not aspired to infringe on the
rights of the great: I tolerated these fortunate people because beggars
tolerated me. I did not blush to envy a part of the human race, because
there was a still larger part of humanity that I was obliged to pity.
Meeting you, I learned for the first time that my claims on enjoyment
were as well founded as those of my brethren. Now, for the first time, I
learned that, raised one stratum above this atmosphere, I weighed just
as much and as little as the rulers of this world. Raphael severed all
bonds of agreement and of opinion. I felt myself quite free; for reason,
as Raphael declared, is the only monarchy in the world of spirits, and I
carried my imperial throne in my brain. All things in heaven and earth
have no value, no estimation, except that which my reason grants them.
The whole creation is mine, for I possess an irresistible omnipotence,
and am empowered to enjoy it fully. All spirits—one degree below the
most perfect Spirit—are my brethren, because we all obey one rule, and
do homage to one supremacy.
How magnificent and sublime this announcement sounds! What a field for
my thirst of knowledge! But—unlucky contradiction of nature—this free
and soaring spirit is woven together with the rigid, immovable clockwork
of a mortal body, mixed up with its little necessities, and yoked to its
fate—this god is banished into a world of worms. The immense space of
nature is opened to his research, but he cannot think two ideas at the
same time. With his eyes he reaches up to the sunny focus of the
Godhead, but he himself is obliged to creep after Him slowly and wearily
through the elements of time. To absorb one enjoyment he must give up
all others: two unlimited desires are too great for his little heart.
Every fresh joy costs him the sum of all previous joys. The present
moment is the sepulchre of all that went before it. An idyllic hour of
love is an intermittent pulsation of friendship.
Wherever I look, Raphael, how limited man appears! How great the
distance between his aims and their fulfilment!—yet do not begrudge him
his soothing slumber. Wake him not! He was so happy before he began to
inquire whither he was to go and whence he came! Reason is a torch in a
prison. The prisoner knew nothing of the light, but a dream of freedom
appeared over him like a flash in the night which leaves the darkness
deeper than before. Our philosophy is the unhappy curiosity of Œdipus,
who did not cease to inquire till the dreadful oracle was unravelled.
Mayest thou never learn who thou art!
Does your wisdom replace what it has set aside? If you had no key to
open heaven, why did you lead me away from earth? If you knew beforehand
that the way to wisdom leads through the frightful abyss of doubt, why
did you venture the innocence of your friend Julius on this desperate
throw?—
If to the good, which I propose to do,
Something very bad borders far too near,
I prefer not to do this good.
You have pulled down a shelter that was inhabited, and founded a
splendid but lifeless palace on the spot.
Raphael, I claim my soul from you! I am unhappy. My courage is gone. I
despair of my own strength. Write to me soon!—your healing hand alone
can pour balm on my burning wounds.
LETTER III.
_Raphael to Julius._
Julius, happiness such as ours, if unbroken, would be too much for human
lot. This thought often haunted me even in the full enjoyment of our
friendship. This thought, then darkening our happiness, was a salutary
foretaste, intended to mitigate the pain of my present position.
Hardened in the stern school of resignation, I am still more susceptible
of the comfort of seeing in our separation a slight sacrifice whose
merit may win from fate the reward of our future reunion. You did not
yet know what privation was. You suffer for the first time.
And yet it is perhaps an advantage for you that I have been torn from
you exactly at this time. You have to endure a malady, from which you
can only perfectly recover by your own energy, so as not to suffer a
relapse. The more deserted you feel, the more you will stir up all
healing power in yourself, and in proportion as you derive little or no
benefit from temporary and deceptive palliatives, the more certainly
will you succeed in eradicating the evil fundamentally.
I do not repent that I roused you from your dream, though your present
position is painful. I have done nothing more than hasten a crisis,
which every soul like yours has sooner or later to pass through, and
where the essential thing is, at what time of life it is endured. There
are times and seasons when it is terrible to doubt truth and virtue. Woe
to the man who has to fight through the quibbles of a self-sufficient
reason while he is immersed in the storms of the passions. I have felt
in its fulness all that is expressed by this, and, to preserve you from
similar troubles I could devise no means but to ward off the pestilence
by timely inoculation.
Nor could I, my dear Julius, choose a more propitious time? I met you in
the full and glorious bloom of youthful intelligence and bodily vigor;
before you had been oppressed by care or enchained by passion; fully
prepared, in your freedom and strength, to stand the great fight, of
which a sublime tranquillity, produced by conviction, is the prize.
Truth and error had not yet been interwoven with your interests. Your
enjoyments and virtues were independent of both. You required no images
of terror to tear you from low dissipation. The feeling for nobler joys
had made these odious to you. You were good from instinct and from
unconsecrated moral grace. I had nothing to fear for your morality, if a
building crumbled down on which it was not founded. Nor do your
anxieties alarm me, though you may conjure up many dark anticipations in
your melancholy mood. I know you better, Julius!
You are ungrateful, too! You despise the reason, and forget what joys it
has procured you. Though you might have escaped the dangers of doubt all
your life, still it was my duty not to deprive you of the pleasures
which you were capable of enjoying. The height at which you were was not
worthy of you. The way up which you climbed gave you compensation for
all of which I deprived you. I still recall the delight—with what
delight you blessed the moment when the bandage dropped from your eyes!
The warmth with which you grasped the truth possibly may have led your
all-devouring imagination to an abyss at sight of which you draw back
shuddering.
I must follow the course of your inquiries to discover the sources of
your complaints. You have written down the results of your thoughts:
send me these papers and then I will answer you.
LETTER IV.
_Julius to Raphael._
I have been looking over my papers this morning. Among them I have found
a lost memorandum written down in those happy hours when I was inspired
with a proud enthusiasm. But on looking over it how different seem all
the things treated of! My former views look like the gloomy boarding of
a playhouse when the lights have been removed. My heart sought a
philosophy, and imagination substituted her dreams. I took the warmest
for the truest coloring.
I seek for the laws of spirits—I soar up to the infinite, but I forget
to prove that they really exist. A bold attack of materialism overthrows
my creation.
You will read through this fragment, my dear Raphael. Would that you
could succeed in kindling once again the extinct flames of my
enthusiasm, to reconcile me again to my genius! but my pride has sunk so
low that even Raphael’s friendly hand can hardly raise me up again.
THEOSOPHY OF JULIUS.
THE WORLD AND THE THINKING BEING.
The universe is a thought of God. After this ideal thought-fabric passed
out into reality, and the new-born world fulfilled the plan of its
Creator—permit me to use this human simile—the first duty of all
thinking beings has been to retrace the original design in this great
reality; to find the principle in the mechanism, the unity in the
compound, the law in the phenomenon, and to pass back from the structure
to its primitive foundation. Accordingly to me there is only one
appearance in nature—the thinking being. The great compound called the
world is only remarkable to me because it is present to shadow forth
symbolically the manifold expressions of that being. All in me and out
of me is only the hieroglyph of a power which is like to me. The laws of
nature are the cyphers which the thinking mind adds on to make itself
understandable to intelligence—the alphabet by means of which all
spirits communicate with the most perfect Spirit and with one another.
Harmony, truth, order, beauty, excellence, give me joy, because they
transport me into the active state of their author, of their possessor,
because they betray the presence of a rational and feeling Being, and
let me perceive my relationship with that Being. A new experience in
this kingdom of truth: gravitation, the circulation of the blood, the
natural system of Linnæus, correspond essentially in my mind to the
discovery of an antique dug up at Herculaneum—they are both only the
reflections of one spirit, a renewed acquaintance with a being like
myself. I speak with the Eternal through the instrument of
nature,—through the world’s history: I read the soul of the artist in
his Apollo.
If you wish to be convinced, my dear Raphael, look back. Each state of
the human mind has some parable in the physical creation by which it is
shadowed forth; nor is it only artists and poets, but even the most
abstract thinkers that have drawn from this source. Lively activity we
name fire; time is a stream that rolls on, sweeping all before it;
eternity is a circle; a mystery is hid in midnight gloom, and truth
dwells in the sun. Nay, I begin to believe that even the future destiny
of the human race is prefigured in the dark oracular utterances of
bodily creation. Each coming spring, forcing the sprouts of plants out
of the earth, gives me explanations of the awful riddle of death, and
contradicts my anxious fears about an everlasting sleep. The swallow
that we find stiffened in winter, and see waking up to life after; the
dead grub coming to life again as the butterfly and rising into the
air,—all these give excellent pictures of our immortality.
How strange all seems to me now, Raphael! Now all seems peopled round
about me. To me there is no solitude in nature. Wherever I see a body I
anticipate a spirit. Wherever I trace movement I infer thought.
Where no dead lie buried, where no resurrection will be, Omnipotence
speaks to me this through His works, and thus I understand the doctrine
of the omnipresence of God.