According to that outline of the human mind which we have just sketched,
its whole alphabet, so to speak, consists but of twelve letters or
primary elements. These are formed first of all into the stem-syllables
or radicals of higher truth and knowledge, out of which again, in the
inner language of true science, entire words and connected propositions
are constructed. And these again must further combine into one universal
key and all-embracing fundamental word of life. In this internal
alphabet of the consciousness, however, there is one point on which a
few words of further explanation are necessary to a right understanding.
And it is one of the very highest consequence, since it concerns the
final aim or even the first foundation, being nothing less than the
center of life and perfection of unity. God, it is said, must form the
key-stone in the arch of the whole consciousness; and no other real
point of union can be found. But now God is without, or, rather, above,
the human mind. How, then, are we to designate that by and through which
this center of unity, which we feel and acknowledge to be raised far
above us, is to be seized and retained, so that it may livingly operate
within us? I know no other way of indicating it than by the word
_idea_--the idea, viz., of the divine and of the Divinity Himself. As,
then, feeling forms the common center of life for the lower and ordinary
consciousness of man and its eight elementary faculties, so it is this
idea that, as the third internal principle, makes up, together with
spirit and soul, the higher threefold living consciousness. But by this
idea we mean not a merely speculative or abstract and dead idea, but an
effectually operative and living idea of a God, who, having life in
Himself, is the source from which all life proceeds. In its outward
form, and as compared with the other functions of the consciousness or
acts of the thinking faculty, this idea is a notion. At the same time,
however, it is also a figure or a symbol. For it is only figuratively
that that which is not so much inconceivable, as rather transcends
conception, being far above and beyond all possible notions, can be at
all indicated. It is by symbols alone that such can be conceived or
comprehended. Indeed, the word _idea_, in its original Greek sense,
alludes to some kind of visible figure and figurative shape lying, as it
were, within the notion itself. All that is highest of every species can
only be apprehended by such a mode of thinking as is at the same time
both logical and symbolical--in which the logical thought of reason and
the symbolical of imagination--the scientific, viz., or of that which in
cognition is the inward productive faculty, are once more in unison,
being thoroughly combined or wholly blended together. The idea, however,
is not merely a conception, which is a notion, and yet, at the same
time, as properly transcending all notion, a figure or symbol; but
looking to the inward form of the consciousness, rather than to the
object itself, it is a conception which is also a feeling. Indeed,
without the supposition of the latter it can not exist, and, strictly
speaking, is not even conceivable. That this is the case, the following
instance will fully show: How could we, if we wished it, suggest the
idea of true love, or make it clear and comprehensible to one who had
never felt any thing of the kind, and was, in short, totally incapable
of such a feeling?
Properly, however, and in scientific rigor, there is only one idea truly
so called. And that is the one idea of the Godhead. All else that we
call ideas, whether in this higher signification, or in a kindred and
similar sense--like the innate ideas, without number, of which the
Platonic philosophy speaks, or that idea of true love which I lately
alluded to (having previously made frequent use of such expressions, and
intending to do so again whenever they appear calculated to lead to
accuracy of distinction or vividness of indication)--all such can only
be called ideas in a certain sense and analogy. Such a mode of speech,
however, is allowable whenever we are treating of such notions and
conceptions as stand in any relation to the higher and divine. For,
contemplated from this spiritual center of the divine idea, they shine
in a new light. Being purified in its flame, they seem to be elevated
and brought many degrees nearer to this one supreme idea of the living
God, in all His perfection and beauty. In all its fullness and
completeness, however, this idea can not truly be said to be innate in
the human mind. At most there are there only the elements of it, viz.,
the remembrance of eternal love (which Plato’s doctrine of the
anamnesis, when purified, amounts to), the infinite longing, the voice
of conscience; and then, completing the number, as the fourth element,
comes the genuine and exalted enthusiasm for art and natural beauty. All
these higher elements, however, of the divine in man, form but a weak
echo of the whole. They are, as it were, but so many faint dying notes,
or the first infantine lispings of this one divine idea, which in its
full force and brightness must be given, imparted, and revealed; while
that which is thus given and experienced, and indeed personally
experienced, can only be embraced, understood, and retained by faith
through love.
He who has never had any feeling or experience of God, who is a stranger
to love, and incapable of faith of any kind, to such a one, so long as
he remains in this state, it would be lost labor to speak of God, or of
the divine idea, with all that flows immediately from it. This idea may
indeed exist as a rational notion necessarily emanating from our own
cogitations. But in this form, as the creature of our own conception,
but not as a given and revealed, it is little better than the fixed
reflection of ourselves--the objective projection of our own Me. For
such in all purely rational systems it ever is--emptied and utterly void
of all effectual living power, and of all truth and reality. But when
the idea of God has been received by a higher experience (and thus only
can it be vitally imparted), then may we in truth call it divine. For it
is no longer the barren, unfruitful idea that it is in all other cases,
but it contains in itself an effectual living and life-giving energy.
The fundamental elements of the human consciousness are, then, twelve in
number. The first universal basis is formed by the eight special
faculties, with love as their living center. To these must be added the
three principles of the higher inward life--soul, spirit, and the idea
of the divine--such as we have accurately defined and characterized it.
These together I have called the alphabet of the consciousness. And this
alphabet, like a fixed and established logical notion, I shall
henceforth adopt in this precise shape and number, making it, without
any essential variation, the basis of my subsequent remarks. It is, no
doubt, of great advantage, and even necessary for the elucidation of any
matter, rigorously to separate the several elements of the general
notion, duly arranging them, and accurately preserving their number.
Still we may be overanxious in this respect. And, indeed, language
itself is not always very precise in its designations; and the
different dialects of human speech, with their fluctuating phraseology,
often assign a different rank and position to the parts of the same
whole. Much, for instance is set down as an independent faculty, which,
more correctly regarded, is but a state--or even only a passage from one
state into another--or it may be merely a natural talent; or, perhaps,
some such happy coincidence and harmonious co-operation of several
powers of the soul as constitutes true genius. An instance of this kind
gave rise to that question which so lately engaged our attention,
whether the judgment is rightly to be considered a special faculty; and,
if not, how is it in strictness of truth to be designated? And in a
similar respect, I now find occasion to say a few words on wit, as being
nearly related to judgment (if the latter be, as I have explained it, an
_intelligent feeling_), and as holding an intermediate position between
judgment and genius. For now we have given a complete sketch in outline
of the whole consciousness, it is desirable to fill in, as completely as
possible, all the lesser and nicer features. In other words, it is
expedient to assign their proper place in the entire consciousness to
those properties of soul and spirit which are not so much simple or
first principles as complex phenomena of a secondary order, and
compounded of several distinct elements. Now wit, like judgment, is an
intelligent feeling, marked, however, with the qualities of
immediateness and pertinency. But it is not, like the judgment,
associated always with a special knowledge and insight. On the contrary,
wit often arises from a certain _naïve_ ignorance of the entire province
to which belongs the object on which it exercises itself. We might
almost say that the disposition to wit consists in a _universally_
intelligent feeling, for its quickness of perception is confined to no
particular department of life, but exercises itself on life in general,
and finds therein its proper arena. But this describes rather the notion
of what is commonly called “sound sense,” or “natural intelligence,”
which, in itself, is not wit, and is often found existing totally
unaccompanied with the latter. Nevertheless, this at least is manifest,
that if an individual be said to be entirely devoid of judgment--which
is nearly the same as saying that he possesses no _intelligent feeling_
in any species or form--it would be in vain in such a person to look for
much, if any, wit. That, moreover, which forms the chief characteristic
of wit, and essentially distinguishes it from judgment, is its
unconsciousness. On this very account children even, if they be at all
lively, are often witty. And, indeed, this childish wit forms, perhaps,
one of the most graceful of its many forms and kinds. To prove how
greatly this childish wit depends on its very unconsciousness, we may
appeal to a fact, which, moreover, will teach us at the same time not to
lay too much stress on the fact, if children, even at an early age,
appear very clever and witty. It is no unfrequent observation that when
children, by the development of their understandings, attain to greater
clearness of consciousness, their wit suddenly ceases, and their
character assumes a touch of dry, solemn, but still childish
earnestness. That genial unconsciousness which ever remains the property
of true wit, both of social conversation and of poetry, at once forms
and attests its affinity with genius. But, still, wit alone is not a
complete creative power. By itself it rarely gives birth to aught. It is
but a single element, which is added as the last finishing grace to all
the creative productions of fancy, and to every other work in which a
fertile and original mind gives utterance to its thoughts. On this
account it manifests itself in the most varied and opposite forms. It is
not limited to social conversation, or to art and poetry, but even in
philosophy--and the Socratic especially--assumes a peculiar and
important place as the essential ingredient of irony.
Now the variety of forms in which wit so richly displays itself is a
further point of resemblance between it and judgment. Still this common
property has a different cause in each. The immediate judgment, or
intelligent feeling, presents so great a variety of forms, because the
human mind is not equally conversant in every province of thought, being
generally familiar with some one in particular. But in the case of wit,
it is its very versatility, by which it suits itself to and insinuates
itself in every object of intellectual attention, that is the source of
its manifold diversity. But that it would carry us far beyond our
present limits, it would be highly instructive in a scientific point of
view to take a survey of all the several forms in which this mental
quality gushes forth in all the rich fullness of genius.
But now, since our exposition of the human mind has been hitherto
carried on by means of a parallelism with the idea of language, it will
not be out of place to make a few remarks here on the real alphabet, or
the elementary letters of different languages, as bearing a relation to
what we have called the alphabet of the consciousness. For the former
presents more than one remarkable analogy with the higher principle of
the inward life, and its whole organic framework. Properly, syllables,
and not letters, form the basis of language. They are its living roots,
or chief stem and trunk, out of which all else shoots and grows. The
letters, in fact, have no existence, except as the results of a minute
analysis; for many of them are difficult, if not impossible, to
pronounce. Syllables, on the contrary, more or less simple, or the
complex composites of fewer or more letters, are the primary and
original data of language. For the synthetical is in every case anterior
to the elements into which it admits of resolution. The letters,
therefore, first arise out of the chemical decomposition of the
syllables. But the results of this analytical process are very different
in different languages, as is proved by the difference of results in the
variety of alphabets. While in our own we reckon four-and-twenty
letters, in many others the number is far greater. In those oriental
languages nearest akin to our own, they amount to more than thirty;
while the Indian family counts as many as fifty.
It forms no easy problem to indicate most of these by our European
characters; and to pronounce them requires the organs of speech to be
more than ordinarily flexible. On the other hand, profound and
philosophical inquires into language, by rejecting all mere
modifications of harshness or softness in the same sound, and whatever
is manifestly a mere variation of the same letter, or a mere compound of
simpler tones, have reduced the whole alphabet to ten primary elements.
According to this system, which has not been established without great
acuteness, so much at least is evident, that properly there are but
three vowels,[70] instead of five, as we usually count them, the E being
a softened I, and U a deadened or faint O. The diphthongs, and other
tones intermediate between the simple vowels, in which the German is so
rich, are evidently to be considered but as so many musical transitions
from one to the other. We may here appeal to the Hebrew, as being in its
system of letters, notwithstanding its other ancient oriental features,
highly simple and profoundly significant and coherent.[71] Its
two-and-twenty characters may be divided into two orders. The first and
higher, as I would term it, contains the three vowels, the aspirates (of
which more by and by), and then the simplest and softest (they might
almost be called the child’s) consonants, B, D, G. The twelve letters of
the second contain all the other grosser, more corporeally-sounding
consonants. Usually, indeed, all letters, and especially consonants, are
classed into labials, linguals, and dentals, according to the organs
principally employed in their utterance, distinguishing, on the same
principle, certain nasals and gutturals. But however correct this
classification may be in an anatomical point of view, and
physiologically considered, still, for that parallel, which is grounded
in nature itself, between speech and thought, and for the analogy which
subsists between man’s inward and outward language, it is both
unsatisfactory and uninstructive. For it looks exclusively to a single
aspect. The ordinary grammatical division also of letters into vowels
and consonants, is at least incomplete. It would be far more correct to
associate with them a third class of aspirates. For the latter may be
distinguished from the former by many a characteristic property, even
though they are indicated by signs which resemble those of the other
class and often pass into and may be resolved into them. In the various
alphabetical systems the aspirates stand out most individually. They
assume the most diversified forms, even in their mode of notation, and
it would almost seem as if the ethereal breathing which floats around
them refused to be corporeally fixed and confined with as much easiness
as the other elements of language. In some languages, as the Greek, for
instance, according to the extant system, which belongs not to the
earliest period of its development, the principal aspiration is not
denoted by a letter, but is indicated in the same way as an accent. In
the oriental, and, generally, in all ancient languages, the aspirates,
according to the different forms into which they enter, hold a very
important place. It almost seems that the more aspirated a language is,
the nearer it is to its original state. It is also remarkable, that
wherever this element appears in undiminished vigor, it gives to the
whole language a character of antiquity and grandeur, and lends to it a
pervading tone of spiritual gravity, such as has been observed in the
Arabic, and prevails also in a high degree in the Spanish; though,
indeed, an undue prevalence of this high and solemn note, unrelieved by
others, is apt to degenerate into monotony. In our own German the
aspirates were originally far more numerous than they are at present.
And, generally, the more a language is softened down and refined by
daily use and conversation, the more it loses this impress of antiquity.
And it even happens with some, as with the French, for instance, that
the aspirates cease to be articulated, even though they are still
marked.
Now, while the aspirates form the spiritual element in the whole system
of elementary sounds, in the vowels, on the other hand, predominates the
soul-full voice of song. These, in short, form the musical ensouling
principle of language. The less a language is overladen with consonants,
and the more fully the simple vowels sound out, the better adapted is it
for music and songs. The consonants, on the other hand, which only in
part imitate sound, make up the material element of language. They are,
no doubt, necessary to the richness of a language, and its variety of
expression; nevertheless, when they greatly predominate, they render it
corporeal and heavy.
Now this remarkable analogy between this division of the alphabet into
aspirates, vowels, and consonants, and the triple principle of human
life and operation, as consisting of spirit, of soul, and of body, or of
bodily exterior, I could not but notice in passing, and throw out as
distinctly as possible.
But now this analogy and parallel between speech and consciousness
presents another view of the matter, which it appears desirable to
consider. In the alphabet of the human consciousness, which furnishes
the several elements out of which syllables and then words are framed,
which again form the first elements of all man’s higher knowledge, I
would pre-eminently consider as its vowels those eternal feelings of the
Godlike which have their foundation in the very nature of man. Now it is
usual to designate these fundamental feelings of man as faith, hope,
and love (charity). But, however customary it may be to class the three
together, the intrinsic connection between them is not easily pointed
out. And yet, perhaps, if we have recourse to another analogy with the
visible world, it will help us to trace this bond of union. This method
will probably be both easier and simpler than a direct refutation of
erroneous views on the subject, or any critical enumeration of elements
which in the psychological apprehension are incorrectly associated with
them. Now, these three feelings or properties, or states of the
consciousness, may be regarded as so many organs for the cognition or
the perception, or, if the term be preferred, for the suggestion of the
divine. In this respect, then, and relatively to their different modes
of apprehension, we may compare them with the external senses and their
organs. Thus love, in its first soul-exciting contact, abiding
attraction, and finally complete union, strikingly corresponds to the
external sense of feeling. Faith is the inner ear of the spirit which is
open to, catches up, and retains the imparted word of a higher
revelation. Hope, however, is the eye, whose clear vision discerns, even
in the remote distance, the objects of its profound and ardent longing.
The latter brings us to a thoroughly vivid idea (or, rather, presupposes
the existence) of faith, according to which it is no arbitrary and
artificial idea, but one real throughout and vital. Although intelligent
and spiritual, it is still a feeling, and ultimately rests also on a
feeling, that, viz., of love, out of which, as its root and foundation,
it arises. Indeed, faith is nothing else than love, through a pure will,
maintained with consistency of character; and this applies to it even in
its nobler relations among human things, and does not apply to it merely
in a higher and divine reference.
In the last age (if it be not also in the present), the notion of faith
was taken in a very different sense, and the phraseology arising from
that view is, in part, at least, still prevalent. On this account a few
explanatory words are necessary for the sake of caution and distinction.
The following is the historical occasion or scientific origin of this
other notion of faith. At a late period of so-called enlightenment, in
the midst of which, however, many grave misconceptions prevailed, reason
was set up as the sole authority. As the highest and greatest of man’s
endowments, it was almost deified, whatever did not appear at once and
easily explicable by reason, being forthwith and indiscriminately
pronounced a prejudice, and, as such, to be got rid of with all
diligence. In this state of things, modern German philosophy commenced
its career with attempting to show that this sovereign reason, which had
set itself forth as the first and highest in man, is extremely
defective, and comes far short of the requisitions both of science and
life. The position was honestly and earnestly maintained, and the proof
worked out with tolerable completeness. Subsequently, however, its
validity has been questioned, or only admitted under many limitations
and qualifications. But even this modified praise can not be bestowed on
the scientific remedy with which men hoped to supply the defects of
reason, and to cure the old and universal evils of rationalism. For, in
fact, the method by which they sought to get rid of this great and
manifest deficiency was simply by suddenly opening an unlimited credit
for the reason, which going beyond all actual need, and based either on
arbitrary assumption, or a confiding generosity, should be sufficient
for all emergencies. But this expedient, in the existing state and panic
of the rational market, could not remove the evil; it only exaggerated
it. In a word, it was the same old reason which (its claim to
supersensible honors having been rejected) had been just thrust out of
the temple of science by the front entrance, that, under the disguise of
faith, was now being smuggled in by the postern. It was but a mere
arbitrary substitute for reason that had assumed this new name. Now such
a faith as this requires to be carefully distinguished from that living
faith which springs from and is founded on love. For this purpose I have
attempted to show, from the very outset, the great difference between
the two.
Now, if occasionally I have felt myself called upon to set bounds to and
to protest against the illimitable requirements and assumptions of
reason in science, my remarks have been directed, not against reason
itself, but chiefly against that absoluteness with which it pretends to
reign paramount. In our German tongue--and since the comparative
parallel of thought and language is a part of the general plan of our
present exposition, this trifling but not insignificant philological
remark will not here be inappropriate--in our vernacular tongue, the
close limitation of the thing is furnished by the term itself. For as
understanding [_Verstand_] comes from the verb to understand
[_verstehen_], and implies the existence of an object which stands
before the mind, to be penetrated and searched through by it, so reason
[_Vernunft_] implies a _Vernehmen_, a perception or apprehension, and is
itself nothing else than the organ of spiritual perception, which is
threefold: 1st, of a higher law and rule above us and given to us; 2d,
of the inward voice of conscience and the pure self-consciousness within
us; and, 3d, of other rational thought around and beside itself. Now it
is only against that reason which is unwilling to perceive any thing,
or, at least, any thing beside or above itself, that all my objections
are directed. For when the reason refuses to acknowledge aught above
itself, but absolutely rejects it, then will it estimate but little
whatever is beside itself. At any rate it will never be eminently
successful in its attempts to comprehend or understand it. In this case,
it will continually make the greatest mistakes and blunders in its views
and conceptions of that even which it really finds and perceives, or at
least believes to discover within itself. Reason, in itself, and in its
due limits, is, indeed, but one of man’s various fundamental powers;
still, in the present state of his divided and discordant consciousness,
it is a highly essential faculty. Like all the others, consequently,
which severally do but present so many different aspects of man’s
external and internal life, reason, when it oversteps its due limits, is
liable to great, nay, the greatest of aberrations. But it might here be
asked, are not the possible aberrations of fancy still more dangerous?
We must answer, Without doubt they are; and this is the only answer we
can give to the question put thus generally. But in the special
reference to our own age, there is far greater and more frequent
occasion to call attention at present to the evils produced by the
errors of reason, than to warn men anxiously against the possible abuses
of fancy. And this for the simple fact, that of all the powers of the
human mind, which, when isolated, are, more or less, destructive in
their action, reason has, in the later ages, and in our times,
especially, been decidedly predominant. Consequently, we have on all
sides before our eyes obvious and instructive examples of the mazes and
abyss of error, fatal no less to science than to morals, into which
reason not only falls herself, but hurries all that come within her
influence, when, having once started from a false position, she has
followed out this wrong tendency with full rigor of consequence. We see
in it the cause of all the catastrophes of the age, and the fearful
struggle of party. The dangers which might arise from the exclusive
ascendency of fancy are, in our generation, less likely to be general,
and they are less threatening, less urgent. And the explanation of this
fact is equally simple. The occurrence of lofty and genius-gifted powers
of imagination is extremely rare; and, at any rate, many instances are
seldom met with at one and the same time. Here, therefore, it is often a
false alarm; the threatening clouds quickly disperse, the blue heavens
again shine forth, and the wide horizon of the all-spanning reason once
more becomes bright, and even clearer than we had ever known it before.
And if occasionally an overabundance of genius-gifted power does
manifest itself in the domain of fancy, the general effect that results
from it is, at most, a recognition of its excellence, which, however,
only slowly and with difficulty gains possession of men’s minds. This
feeling may, no doubt, sometimes amount to a profound admiration, whose
language, sparkling with the exquisite ornaments and flowery tropes of
exaggeration, may seem to border closely on a deification of its object;
still this feeling, however great and universal it may appear, is very
far from that height of enthusiasm which wholly engrosses and carries
the mind along with it. Indeed, for the most part, it carefully avoids
and keeps aloof from such a state.
In short, however much any particular age may admire or even worship
great powers of genius or art, it is very rarely indeed, if ever,
carried away by its partial and erroneous tendencies, or its arbitrary
and quaint peculiarities. At least, the same party zeal is not to be
witnessed here that divides both science and life between the rival
systems of absolute reason. However, the consideration of the
prejudicial effects of the despotic ascendency of the reason has, almost
of necessity, brought before us the somewhat connected topic of the
hinderances which art may occasion to the pursuit of the highest truth
and certainty. We will, therefore, now examine the evils which arise
whenever art, as the executive power in the region of fancy, usurps an
undue authority over the rest of the consciousness, and when, in its
judgment of things, taking an undue position in some merely poetical or
artistic view, it assumes a reality that belongs not to it, and dreams
of finding in itself the final cause and firm basis of all existence.
For the right exposition of that notion of faith, hope, and love, which
we made the foundation of the knowledge of all higher truth, it was,
above all things, necessary that we should carefully and accurately
discriminate between the true living faith which is grounded on and
springs out of love, and that spurious faith which reason arbitrarily
devises to cover its own weakness and deficiencies. In the same way it
remains for us to point out the true end of hope, establishing the
internal foundation of its idea, and making out, at the same time, its
intimate relation to art, as it arises from its connection therewith and
with time. Now, as all high hope stands in close union with man’s inmost
character, and forms a principal element of his being, his whole life
and activity being based on hope, so likewise in art--so faithful a
mirror is it of human nature--man’s holiest hopes form the chief aim and
the animating soul of its representations. A perfectly faithful, though
artistically expressed, imitation of a love higher than any actual
manifestation of the feeling (of whatever nature it be), may simply, of
itself, constitute a work of art, and, indeed, is its natural
object-matter. But still, isolated and by itself, it would furnish but a
fragmentary feeling for the fancy, without a true beginning, and without
end or aim, or proper conclusion. Faith is but, as it were, a straight
line--the rule of sentiment for this life, of expectation for the other.
But now, in the mind of man, above every actual love and every definite
faith, there is a _superabundance_--if we may so speak--of feelings,
thoughtfully forecasting, ardently loving, and hoping, even beyond hope
itself--of thoughts, dreaming, at least, of a higher truth than is to be
met with on earth.
And this divine superabundance in the human soul, if I may be allowed
this bold expression, is properly the sublime matter, the invisible
object and spiritual essence of true art and poetry. Not that this inner
soul, this vital breath of high art and poetry, must, even in the
outward form, invariably express itself (as it does in music generally)
as a feeling of longing. Neither must it in its definite direction to
the future, always manifest itself externally in the form of hope; and,
consequently, speak only in lyrical strains, as the music of enthusiasm.
Such a limitation would, indeed, have a most monotonous effect. On the
contrary, even in a highly-finished picture of some actual and present
scene, this idea of hope, as the soul which animates the whole, may be
present, and like an invisible thread of higher life, be interwoven in
it. And this envelopment, or, rather, this veiled manifestation and
indirect revelation of spirit, is often to be found, not only in
creations which are permanently artistic, but also in those that are
profoundly poetical and enthusiastic. Even the sorrowful remembrance of
a by-gone foretime of infantine innocence, and of sublime grandeur, is
properly nothing but a reflection of this divine hope, and, in a free
and comprehensive sense, which thus combines poetry and art, may be even
counted as a part of it. And if ancient art and ancient poetry
especially, with their mournful back-glances at the olden majesty long
past and gone, come over us with emotions something like those of
eventide, when the last parting gleam of the brilliant sun is fast
setting behind the distant hills, so in their opposite aspect, as hope,
turning its bold, enthusiastic eye toward the future, they may smile
upon us as the rosy dawn which runs before the rising sun of truth, and
that new time which is to shine and glow in its beams--or as the first
beautiful ray of enthusiastic promise. Such, in all probability, seems
the position most suitable to art in our own days. Now, with respect to
this peculiar position of art relatively to hope, and their intimate
affinity, and their relation to the present age and to the two other
elements of the harmonic scale of human life, viz., love and faith, the
frequent and expressive sentiment of a poet whose intimate friendship it
is my privilege to enjoy, will convey most forcibly the conclusion which
I would wish to enforce upon your minds. Although his remark with regard
to the harmony and union which ought to prevail between the true
elements of higher feeling was addressed primarily to the present
generation, it admits of application to every age. He asks--
“The age has neither faith nor love;
How, then, for such should hope remain?”[72]
This voice first sounded forth in fateful days, when danger and alarm
were so instant and threatening as almost to cut off and extinguish
hope; but the storm so dark and menacing passed away. A new prospect has
since opened upon us, and all is changed. As a just estimate of our own
times, however, it appears to me, in its present unqualified form, too
sweeping and severe. The age is not so entirely without hope as the poet
here asserts. No doubt we have been somewhat lukewarm, inconstant, and
unsteady in this respect. Or, more correctly to express the real state
of the case: in itself and in that faith in itself which, as it was
overhastily embraced, was set up without limit or condition, and
generally in all faith, from its highest degree down to that lowest
grade of it which moves within the ordinary pursuits and relations of
life, it has been somewhat confused and wandering; nay, at times it has
proved somewhat forgetful, not only of the old and transitory, but also
of what is modern, and even what was most recent and within its own
experience. Accordingly, to the eye of the observer, it appears, on the
whole, to be devoid of all ruling principle, and to be still in search
of some regulative standard within itself. If, in this search after
faith, some few have taken up too quickly, and rested satisfied with
that arbitrary expedient and device of a faltering and meager reason,
this was, no doubt, a symptom of a partially sickly state, but by no
means such as to justify us in passing a sweeping sentence on the whole
age, as totally unsound and diseased. For in all human affairs and
relations, such a profound longing as this, when it is lasting, and
generally whenever it does not proceed solely and entirely from some
want or defect, invariably presupposes some natural disposition and
capacity, though it may be one which is neither rightly cultivated, nor
as yet expanded to full vigor and stability.
And as little, or rather still less, would it be just to deny to the age
all love--if, at least, an enthusiasm which readily and cheerfully makes
the greatest sacrifices be a part of love. Consequently, I can not
concur with the opinion which will not concede to the age in which we
live the least spark of hope. Even though many of its expectations--as
being at least precipitate or wholly immaterial--as being founded, in
short, on naught--have terminated in naught, and even in their desired
fulfillment, must have ended in a nullity--still we dare not, therefore,
throw aside all higher, holier, and diviner hope. For in this we feel
every earthly expectation, so far as it is real and well-grounded, will
receive its final accomplishment, being realized to a degree surpassing
all that we had ever ventured to look for. And even if dark clouds are
again gathering on the horizon, and if to many an observer, whose
position in the political world affords him a wide and distant prospect
of society, the dangers menacing our own generation seem still more
fearful and terrible even than those which have but scarcely passed
away; still there is no need of despair. Rather, taught by past
experience in like fearful circumstances, and recognizing in this lesson
of experience a teaching higher than man’s, we will, even though our
fears be fulfilled in the worst and most awful form, regard it all as
probably forming, if not a necessary, yet certainly a most salutary
crisis of transition to a higher state of divine hope. To this divine
hope it is sufficient for me thus briefly to have alluded. For whatever
I have at any time in my past life attempted--it may be feebly and
inadequately--to give expression to, and all that it is my object to
convey to my present respected auditory, and all that hereafter I shall
have to say in this world, has had and will have no other end or object
than to point to and to preach this sacred and eternal hope of a true,
not merely earthly, but profoundly new era, and of a spiritual life
advancing in it toward the perfection of majesty and glory. To gain a
full assurance for such a hope, and to establish it to the best of my
power firmly and immovably among the actuating motives of life, has ever
been and will always be my first and dearest wish.
But still, though the poet’s distich, in its immediate reference to our
own days, requires to be greatly qualified, I would, nevertheless,
venture to apply it to art. At least, it admits of such an application;
though in this case likewise it must undergo some restriction and
limitation. As passed even on the present condition of art, the sentence
is harsh, if not unjust. If, however, there ever was or should be a time
of which, if not strictly and absolutely, yet generally and on the
whole, it could with truth be asserted, that the existing condition of
art “had neither faith nor love,” then might we go on confidently to add
the inference, “How then should hope remain for it?”
I must once again repeat it: such a sentence, if applied to German art
in our own days, would be both harsh and unmerited. If, however,
art--which itself is nothing but the significant hieroglyphics, the
deeply-moving and elevating song of eternal hope--should have for its
basis, instead of a true and unwavering faith, one merely artificial and
self-imposed, or at best, the unreal faith of feeling, fugitive and
transitory, and unable to stand the fiery trial--if, too, love, instead
of being deep-felt and profound, be but the cuckoo-note of a fashionable
admiration, unthinkingly caught up and repeated without nature; then
the harsh sentence we have just quoted, together with its sad inference,
finds a due application. At least, it is so far applicable as it is true
that in this sad deficiency of living faith and earnest love, we can
alone discover an explanation of what otherwise seems so strange in the
history of art within the recent century. If, after many a truly noble
beginning, the further development and result corresponded but little
and most imperfectly with the expectations that had at first been
excited--if, with truly great talents and rare endowments of genius, so
much has fallen to the ground, like imperfect blossoms, without maturing
any useful and lasting intellectual fruits--it was simply because art
was deficient in this its firmest basis. And partly it was, also,
because she mistook and was unable to take her proper position in the
times, or even if she did understand, was too weak to retain it by an
abiding feeling of love. For the true position of art must not be
misunderstood, nor the natural order of things reversed, if it is truly
to flourish, and the age itself is not to be deprived of, or checked and
disturbed in, its true enjoyment of it. True art and poetry are the
beautiful crown, the promising blossoms, yea, the very flowers of hope,
on the nobly-grown tree of humanity, as it widely expands itself in rich
and marvelous intellectual development. But it can not also be its root;
and if any where it pretends or desires to be such, there assuredly some
strange perversion must exist, or some profound and essential defect
must have led to so singular a pretension.
We hear, no doubt, in horticulture, of inverted trees, whose heads being
placed in the ground, strike root and grow, while the natural root
freely develops itself into branches and leaves. The experiment so
successful with plants can not be imitated in mental matters without
fearful peril. Here the blossoming crown, if reversed, will not take
root, and never bear real and genuine fruit. No! an absolutely æsthetic
foundation is insufficient even for this life, and much more so, then,
for the next. Of the origin of life and the world, a mere poetical view
of things can give but a specious and cleverly-evasive account; but as
good as none of that of hope, of which, in such a case, it must wholly
have lost the clew. If, then, that which is at most but the bright
morning tint of hope should seek to keep back the sun, or would set
itself up for the true luminary, then--supposing it for a moment to be
possible--it would itself soon lower into dark clouds, and instead of
the longed-for splendor of the full and glorious daylight, a dull, gray
sky would cover the whole earth. This intrinsic weakness often betrays
itself in poetry (and frequently, also, in other spheres of human
invention), by what at any rate appears to be an inflated display,
which, instead of concealing, does but create a suspicion of a deep
internal hollowness. What I allude to may take two forms. Sometimes it
manifests itself in an excessive luxuriousness--often we might call it a
very deluge--of the most unintelligible exaggerations of sacred
feelings, such as I regret occasionally to observe in our modern school
of poetry. At other times it comes forward in an equally lavish and
boundless prodigality of wit and raillery; sometimes, too, a serious
humor lurks in the wit, while a mocking parody makes sport with the very
humor, or a still loftier tone of irony, from its height of spiritual
exaltation, soars above both wit and humor, and the whole work
itself--nay, above all besides, and even the very universe. It is in
this one-sided preponderance, and in the absoluteness with which reason
or fancy is allowed to take a decided but exclusive direction, that the
first cause lies of that alienation already mentioned as subsisting
between men of a purely æsthetical temperament and poetical nature, who
on the one side judge of every thing by the rules of taste, and the men
of practical reason on the other, whose only standard is utility. This
estrangement is only too apparent in real and actual life, where in the
degree which we have supposed, and by the methods ordinarily pursued, it
is utterly irreconcilable. They stand, indeed, as fully estranged from
each other, and as hostile, as two wholly different races. And in this
light a well-known _savant_, at the close of the last century, seems
really to have regarded them, since, on the whole face of the earth, he
saw only two races--noble-minded, elegant, and tasteful Celts, and dull,
ordinary, and stupid Mongols. Here, however, I must repeat my previous
remark, that, in these days at least, by far the greater danger is to be
apprehended from an absolute ascendency of reason. For the rationalizing
system of thought which results from such one-sidedness, is not confined
merely to the schools and their scientific theories, but it too often
extends its pernicious consequences, and its fatal and debasing
influence, over the whole range of public and social life. On the other
hand, the slight aberrations of taste, or (if they most be accounted
such) the little extravagances of genius, may always be easily and
promptly reduced within due limits, especially in an age like our own,
so thoroughly pervaded with a correct feeling of art.
To give a solid basis to the whole of life, a firm internal conviction
is necessary. It must be a deeper feeling than any that a mere
aspiration, however beautiful, or any poetical visions of enthusiastic
hope, or even that irony which exalts itself above both, can ever give.
Now, for the attainment of this inward certainty and irrefragable
science of life and truth, pure thought, though it does not form the
only road, is, nevertheless, in every case a necessary agent, whose
co-operation is indispensable. In the further prosecution, therefore, of
our pursuit of the science of life, as deducible from the very notion of
the consciousness, according to that theory of it which we have been
developing, thought, in and by itself, must now, as we hinted in our
first sketch, form the subject of a special inquiry. But here the
principal thing to be guarded against is, the delusion that philosophy
must aim at the rigor of mathematical certainty, and a mode of proof
derived, on such an hypothesis, from that science, by a servile copying
of its method; for, often as this has been attempted, it has never as
yet led to a felicitous result. This misconception in the domain of
science is something like to what it would be if in poetry, from an
undue consideration of music, the mere play of tones--the rhyme and
rhythm--which do indeed contribute to the ornateness of its figurative
investiture, should be held to be the very essence of the art. Or, to
take another illustration, it is much the same as if, with some of the
more recent English poets, we should wish to make picturesquely
descriptive poetry to be a peculiar species; whereas in truth it forms,
or has a tendency to degenerate into, a mere faulty mannerism.
You will remember that I explained a notion to be a conception
completely determined, both inwardly and outwardly (_i.e._, in extent
and comprehension), according to the mathematical dimensions of number,
measure, and weight. But this, perhaps, is the only mathematical formula
that in the domain of philosophy is universally applicable. And even as
such it only applies to the notion as a standard and fundamental idea by
which we may judge of the correctness of its formation, and the
completeness of its division into its several organic parts, or lower
genera and species. It is no use further for the combination of the
several notions into entire scientific periods and conclusions; for we
may regard every complete system of science and speculative thought as
some such perfect period and syllogism. But with regard to the notion
and its object, it is unquestionably of the highest importance to
determine whether it be absolutely simple or compound. If the latter, it
may suggest many questions. If double, it may fall into an intrinsic
contrariety, or be involved in a twofold want of harmony. If it numbers
three constituents, we may have to inquire whether in its triple energy
it enjoys a living unity of operation; or if possessed of four opposite
directions, it may be involved in binary contrarieties and double
discord; or, again, we might have to inquire whether the essential
accession of some fifth element forms the living center to hold together
and reunite the four which otherwise are divergent and apart; or whether
the whole in triple couplets, or a double trine, forms a six; or whether
seven arise from the union of a trine and quartain, either in the world
of thought, or the realities of life and outward experience; and again,
eight may be a double square in the one or the other relation; or yet
once more, we may have to inquire whether in the still advancing inward
reckoning and development of life, nine arise from a thrice repeated
triple energy. And lastly, whether all these first elementary numbers
are in various ways perfected and combined together in the decade.
Rightly understood, the Pythagorean theory of numbers--however
unintelligible its single statements may appear, when detached from the
general context--is perhaps as little devoid of foundation as the
Platonic doctrine of anamnesis. The latter I have endeavored to justify,
by explaining it in a better sense than it is ordinarily taken; the
former, however, from a deficiency of original and genuine historical
authorities, it is far more difficult to judge of correctly and
impartially. In the first place, the Pythagoreans as a body stand very
far indeed above the ordinary standard of the Grecian intellect and
enlightenment; for Plato was but a single great mind, and stood almost
alone even in the Socratic school.
The degradation of the female sex, though founded on the habits as well
as political institutions of the rest of Greece, was decried by these
earnest and deep-thinking men, who, in their reform, adopted quite an
opposite sentiment. And if in their measures for its removal something
seems still to be desiderated, and even something to be blamed, both
defects arise chiefly from their having fallen into the other extreme of
error, by proposing to give to woman a culture too decidedly masculine,
and seeking to establish it as the rule of their new society. Women were
concurrent and co-ordinate members of the governing body of the
Pythagorean league, and an essential element of the splendid aristocracy
of merit in this new model of life and society; which, however, as
clashing too directly with the inveterate habits of their countrymen,
soon provoked a revolution, and was entirely overthrown. It was,
however, from this source that Plato, and also Socrates, chiefly derived
their respect for highly-gifted women and their general view of the
female sex; which in a degree, though very imperfectly, anticipated the
purer Christian notion both of it and human nature, possessing on the
whole a right but vague notion of the true dignity of both.
With respect to the theory of numbers in this ancient philosophy, and
its true and simple sense, we have the following remarks to make. There
is, we know, a certain chronological feeling by means of which the
skillful physician strives, with acute and often happy conjecture, to
determine the impending crisis of disease and its probable termination.
There is also a similar tact which enables the experienced politician to
measure the under-current of the rapid flow of mundane events--to feel
the pulse of life as it beats in its thronging and quickly-passing
incidents. In both cases, however, we feel that it is no infallibly
certain and perfectly omniscient oracle--for none such is to be found in
the whole range of the human mind. Neither is it any prophetical
forecasting--not to speak of any pre-destined necessity. It must be
regarded as a delicate and sensitive tact, which may deceive, but whose
perceptions subsequent results most frequently prove to be correct. Now,
of somewhat similar nature to this, there is a kind of immediate,
searching, arithmetical glance into the internal and essential numerical
relations of things in general, and also of all the objects of nature
and phenomena of life, which does unquestionably form an essential
element in every innate talent for scientific thinking. In some such
simple sense as this we may understand the Pythagorean doctrine of
intrinsic life-numbers in things and their manifold relations. Under
such limitations we may adopt it, or at least allow its validity. And
at any rate we must admit that it was an advance (or at least the first
step thereto) in scientific thought, to be able, by this way of
regarding things, to count, in the analysis of them or their notions, up
to ten, or even to fifteen or more.
Thus, then, as regards the general notions (but only in regard to
these), the mathematical view and method may be profitably applied to
philosophy. In any case it is highly important, and indeed essential,
for the correct formation of notions (and also for the complete division
of them into their organic members, whatever may be the sphere to which
they belong), that we should be able to determine the true inner number,
both of them and their objects, since on this number the right quantity
and weight of any one notion relatively to others, whether kindred or
distinct, and especially to the whole, most intimately depends.
The combination, however, of single notions into propositions, or
complete systems of science, can not, in philosophy at least, follow a
mathematical or any similar principle. For philosophy, we have seen, is
a science of a higher life, derived from an internal experience. It
rests, therefore, on the triple basis, inasmuch as the latter is given
from within, from above, and from without. Consequently, the great
object here is, naturally, not, as it is in mathematical science, to
link together, in apparently rigorous connection, the several phenomena
of these higher data, or (if, as some will have it, there be only one)
its single momenta, and manifoldly to concatenate them as so many pure
schemes and formulæ. The essential point is rather to gain a pure
apprehension of the imparted data of this higher life; and rightly
understanding them, to clothe them correctly in words, and by giving
these again in correct grammatical coherence, to express them clearly
and forcibly. But this would imply that the method of thought in this
self-cognition of life, thus expressed in words, is of a thoroughly
grammatical nature; and then the higher logic--if we must so speak, and
isolate and detach the latter, as an elementary science, from its
connection with the living whole--the higher logic would consist simply
of the rules for this inner language, and be nothing but a correct
grammar of living thought. And, in truth, I for my part do believe that
it ought so to be treated. And it is from this point of view, and
according to the idea thus advanced of such a higher grammatical
correctness of thinking, that I shall proceed, whenever any point
connected with the form of thought and the right method of science comes
into question, or requires to be noticed in passing. An instance will
place clearly before our mind the different points of view taken by
these two modes of judging and doctrinal methods. In compliance with a
similitude which accurately enough corresponds to the truth, let us
consider a system of philosophy as a whole period of higher thought, or
as a perfect proposition of science. Now, in that estimate of a period
of this kind which observes the usual requisitions of mathematical
certainty and mode of thinking, it would be said: “This system is
wonderful, and quite perfect, for all its positions are rigidly
demonstrated.” But even supposing the system were thus rigorously
demonstrative in all its parts, still the whole system might be
radically false; for it might originally have started from an erroneous
principle, or, being devoid of any truly real and abiding
subject-matter, be based on some empty phantom of scientific
imagination, or the unsubstantial absolute of the reason. But the same
system or period of thought being judged from the opposite position of
what I have called a higher grammatical method, will be thus spoken of:
“It is all empty words, without worth or substance, for nothing in it is
taken from actual life, and nothing of the kind has ever been felt in
man’s experience.” When, however, the subject-matter is real, and
furnished by the realities of the inner life, there, in the special
details, much may be wanting, here and there a word may be missing, the
structure of the periods of the whole system may not be perfectly
distinct, and the general arrangement not sufficiently lucid:
occasionally also a faulty and inadequate expression may be met with,
and yet the whole work may, nevertheless, constitute a great advance on
the road to higher knowledge, and furnish a valuable contribution to
truth. With the exception of the case of the total inanity and
perversity of view, our judgment must never be indiscriminate or
rigorous. Scientific thought in general, and especially in philosophy,
consists of notions, intuitions, and judgments, if only the latter term
be taken, in its usual logical sense, to signify the combining together
notions or intuitions. Now, of the true mathematical mode of proceeding
with notions according to the pure and simple acceptation of the
Pythagorean mystery of numbers, and, secondly, of what in its inmost
essence is a grammatical method--their combination in methodical
thought--we have already spoken. As to the inward intuitions that we
enjoy of that higher something which is in three ways imparted to us,
the mathematical mode of procedure is plainly inapplicable to them. Even
the grammatical one ceases to be fruitful here; at least it is
unsatisfactory. Natural science, which is itself pre-eminently based on
intuition, will perhaps most readily furnish a comparative illustration,
calculated to throw light on and explain that perception of a higher
something from which philosophy sets out. And this illustration will be
best borrowed from those experiences in natural philosophy which appear
to seize the fundamental phenomena of nature and her inmost life; even
though the experiment itself set before our eyes these wonderful
phenomena, and the secrets which are brought to light therein, in the
greatly-diminished proportions of scientific abbreviation. Extremely
trifling as the imitation of lightning by our electrical apparatus may
appear, still that little spark has kindled a great and universal light
in the domain of physical science. The magnetic needle, which at first
sight was looked upon as an insignificant marvel of nature, taught man
first of all to fix his position on this earth and to find it again
after quitting it--and so, by leading him on to the discovery of the New
World, founded thereby a great epoch in the history of the human mind.
Not merely does it point to the terrestrial north-pole, but it also
guides the thoughtful observer to the inmost center of nature, where, in
this mystery of living attraction, the universal key of interpretation
seems to lie hidden. And who would mock or despise the thoughtful
naturalist who delights, by the prismatic analysis or division of the
elementary colors of light, to produce or copy in miniature the rainbow
which spans the heavens?
Now, in these first simple and elementary phenomena, external nature, as
it were, spontaneously presents to us beautiful emblems for still higher
phenomena belonging to another and internal region. They enable us
metaphorically to express the divine phenomenon of truth, and its vivid
apprehension and intrinsic adoption, till it becomes a fixed and
imperishable knowledge, and to narrate intelligibly the intrinsic
genesis of truth and true knowledge. For the following is, if we may so
speak, the history of the growth of living science in the human mind,
whenever the latter is capable of it, and is raised or raises itself to
the height thereof.
The beginning is made by the first kindling spark of truth, which works
like the electric shock--by the first ray of knowledge, which afterward
gradually expands into the nourishing flame of love.
The second step of further progress is formed by the magnetic attraction
of the soul, which from the first contact to the ultimate union, strives
still to penetrate more profoundly, and more accurately to investigate
the object of its love. In this remark, I proceed on the hypothesis
(which hereafter will still oftener be spoken of) that no living
cognition is possible or actual without a previous vital contact and
union between the knowing and the known.
When, lastly, the moment of completion arrives, then the close of this
pursuit of a highest knowledge will be made by that full expansion of
divine light which often, like a heavenly token of peace and
reconciliation, shines forth in the very midst of the clouds of
discontent, and dissolves all doubts before it. But now philosophy,
according to the original sense of the beautiful Greek word, does not by
any means signify the highest wisdom, the everlasting truth itself, or
the perfect science. It denotes rather the pure longing, the love of a
genuine knowledge of divine truth, which spiritually conquers and
triumphs over every difficulty in the way of its attainment This, then,
implies that this science does and must set out from love as its basis.
For the indication of this foundation of true knowledge, in its
characteristic features at least, natural science has furnished us with
the adequate symbols.