Lecture Vi.

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, 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. 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?”

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.