Chapter XIII: Preface (12)

At this stage of Grecian philosophy, we witness, for the first time, a remarkable phenomenon. The true and good science which directs itself to the Godlike and divine, is unable to attain to any lasting or pervading influence on the lives of men: on the other hand, we see a false and evil sophistic gradually gaining a complete ascendency amid the general demoralization of society, and the growing anarchy of the political community, which, thoroughly corrupt and degenerate, only rose out of one revolution to fall immediately into another. Or, rather, this false sophistic, and this moral and political anarchy, were perfectly one together, so far at least as two destructive principles can ever be or be brought in unison.

The complete alienation which now existed between the better science and life, and especially public life, is most distinctly manifested in the case of the greatest among the Grecian philosophers of later times--in Aristotle, and the position he occupied in his own age and nation. This acute thinker, with the utmost care and diligence, collected together all the most eminent results of the science, and the most remarkable thoughts of earlier times. Examining and analyzing them with great critical acumen, and with a comprehensive survey, he formed them into a new whole, and arranged them into a system of his own, completer and fuller than had ever before been attempted or accomplished.

We can not, perhaps, estimate too highly or admire too much this great master of human subtilty, whether for his intellectual powers and extent of learning, or even as a writer. Still we must not forget that in his system were contained the germ and evident tendency to the two chief forms of philosophical error--naturalism on the one side, and rationalism on the other. And so we find that in the later times of the following centuries, each of these false systems, according as the occasion favored the one or the other, were drawn out from the Aristotelian doctrine, to receive a further and a distincter development. In his doctrine on the Godhead, he can least of all stand a severe and rigorous criticism. And in many points, as, for instance, in his notion of the absolute self-sufficiency of the reason, he approximates but too closely to the idealistic view which we have already designated as the transition to scientific atheism.

It was only in a very remote and distant age that Aristotle attained to a very great importance and authority. In his own day he did but form a very inconsiderable school, which exercised far less influence on public life than two other sects, in whose history the development of Grecian philosophy finds its close.

The system of the Stoics, with its stern and, consequently, impracticable theory of morals, its doctrine of absolute necessity and blind fatalism, announces itself at once as identical with an austere rationalism. At the same time, under the teaching of the Epicureans, a soft and effeminate naturalism became almost universally prevalent. And while, in another and newer form, it gradually assumed the place of the old mythical heathenism, which daily fell more and more into neglect and disrepute, it still retained the old heathen sentiment, and a careless and undisturbed indifference in inactive bliss and self-enjoyment, as it was even ascribed and imputed to the gods, was introduced into life, and extolled as the true wisdom. Thus, then, while on the one hand the foundation was laid for that insensibility with which the wide-spreading and growing corruption and the approach of the general ruin were contemplated, so, on the other hand, the apathy of the Stoics was not exactly the right kind of sentiment to furnish a check or counteractive to this sybaritic indifference.

As concerns the relations of public life, the social community, and the state, the Stoical doctrine appears, no doubt, in a worthier and a better light. On this account it numbered among its adherents almost all the great statesmen that lived from the last times of the Republic down to the later centuries of the Empire. Considered, however, in themselves, and scientifically regarded, both systems must be looked upon simply as the last chemical decomposing process, or the initiatory putrifying state of all higher science and philosophical reflection among the Greeks. On the whole, then, we conclude that Grecian science and philosophy have exercised no influence at all on life, or at least, either a very inadequate, or such as has proved radically baneful and pernicious.

But now, in the very center of man’s history--in the transition-point between the ancient and the modern world--science and life were again at unison, as at the beginning. And this was effected by the appearance of a new science in another form. For most assuredly we shall not err in giving this name to a new living and spiritual power, which, totally changing and giving an entirely new direction to the arbitrary views, sentiments, and principles of public and private life, and also to the modes of thinking prevalent in the age and in the world, was strong enough to triumph, not only over heathenism itself, but also over the science and philosophy of its most enlightened nations. Now this new mode of thinking, which came forward in the full certainty of the most undoubting faith and the highest internal illumination, had, so far as it is right and allowable to call it a science, a very different form and scope from all that has previously and usually been so called. For it issued out of the very depths of life, and received from love--a divine love, that is--its first diffusion and establishment. Consequently, it was a thoroughly living science, or, as being perfectly clear and certain in itself, a new scientific life, which, moreover, proceeded from this its first starting-point, was able to penetrate into all the other forms of public life and of the anterior systems of science, and by adopting or remodeling them, give to itself therein a further and more universal development.

But here, also, the divine impulse from above encountered the usual partial or entire resistance from below. Accordingly, this new living wisdom, which, in its essence, is one with life, and which, therefore, the more it is developed only unfolds this unity the more universally and the more immutably, was not, at the first, universally adopted, or did not become every where predominant. Moreover, even where it was received, and its authority acknowledged, its reception was often little more than external. It was not admitted as a living principle into all the depths of the soul, or impressed on all the habits and tendencies of the mind [_geist_]. And even where, in some degree at least, it was adopted in the inner man with full and sincere love, it was often nothing more than an undeveloped germ of the future and of a higher life. Isolated by itself, and standing apart, it remained shut up within the inmost bosom, without at the same time penetrating, reanimating, and giving a new life and shape to all the other life-elements of the consciousness and the productions of human science.

Thus, then, it was only too possible for error to find its entrance even here also. And it is remarkable that both its principal forms, such as in varying shapes the history of philosophy is constantly presenting to us in the different epochs of its progress, here again most distinctly present themselves with all the features of their intellectual physiognomy plainly marked, and with the still more obvious contrast of their intrinsic diversity. A philosophy of nature more or less visionary and fanciful was the common basis of the various Gnostic sects. With their long series of imaginary emanations from the Deity, resembling in no slight degree the old heathen genealogies of the gods, they would, had they triumphed, have converted Christianity into a similar mythology, though of a more philosophical character. In the Arians, on the contrary, and other kindred sects before and after them, we recognize rather the spirit of rationalism, which, dwelling on some point of life, or theory, with a show of rigor and accuracy, while, apparently, it disputes only about words, is, in fact, undermining the foundation of the most essential ideas.

All these parties, however, as they originated, so they also disappeared, within the first five or eight centuries of our era. It was, therefore, impossible for their pernicious influence to gain a deep hold of life. At least it was neither universal nor permanent. Yet by them the ardor of a first love was cooled. And sad, indeed, has been the loss as regards the fullness of living energy, and even in respect of profounder wisdom.

The history of the middle ages again presents a rare and singular phenomenon. One great mind and writer of antiquity, whose influence in his own day was far from extensive, became at this date, in a most remarkable manner, the problem and center of scientific inquiry. For several centuries the human mind was laboriously engaged in disputing about the philosophy of Aristotle. And although men did not understand it--not, at least, its deeper meaning, for they lacked the first and most essential qualifications, and also the requisite means for such a purpose--this apparently aimless disputation, and this unsolved problem, was, nevertheless, not without great and manifold influence on their own and the following ages. It has had a permanent effect on the whole frame of man’s life and being.

Of the two wholly different aspects which, as we have already so often remarked, the philosophy of Aristotle presents, it was probably not its fruits of rationalism (for, at this period, such were generally regarded as forbidden) that throughout the great part of the then civilized world excited so incredible a fondness for this all-absorbing and all-understanding system. Its attraction lay rather in some great and mysterious knowledge of nature. And the desire for these intellectual treasures was not a little heightened by the fact, that, in general, they were inaccessible.

In the little intercourse subsisting, at this period, between distant nations and lands, and the almost total separation of the East from the West, it was only through the Arabic versions, or Latin translations molded again upon these, that any knowledge of this philosophy could be drawn. This must have led, it is obvious, to a wide deviation from the true sense and critical spirit of the author. Its original aim must have been generally missed. For, however highly we may be disposed to estimate the intellectual merits of the Arabians, as writers of their native history, or in poetry, or in any other science, they are notoriously deficient in the true critical spirit. Their total and universal want, in this respect, is especially evident when they are compared with the Greeks, among whom this critical acuteness, whether false or true, sprung up and reached its greatest height.

Strange, no doubt, and singular is it at first sight, to view this old master of philosophical thought and science, who, on the whole, is so perfectly heathen, suddenly received among the medieval theologians, and taking, as it were, his seat, and giving his voice among them. Still, if men of great mental powers and authority sought to make themselves masters of the whole matter--both of the much-disputed works of this writer, this Aristotle, so strangely disguised in his new motley dress of Arabic Latin, and also of the voluminous labors bestowed upon him--we must look upon this procedure as analogous to that of the thoughtful physician, who, in the midst of a wide-spread pestilence and inevitable contagion, prefers to inoculate it himself, in order the more safely to treat and to cure it. In short, as the case really stands, we must look on these illustrious men in two distinct lights. On the one hand we must see in them the Church’s venerable teachers, and the sagacious and discriminating theologians of the day; on the other, the scholastic interpreters of Aristotle, who had now become a necessary evil for the Christian middle ages.

This, however, and whatever else was the matter and object of such subtile disputes, was too soon forgotten. In these scholastic contests, after the fashion of the day, the combatants, horse and man, were armed _cap-a-piè_, incased and disguised in logical coats of mail, composed of countless rings of thought and chains of ideas. With this heavy panoply, the great object was to heave their antagonist out of the saddle. Often they recoiled from the shock without advantage on either side--so equally matched were they in their good lances and the weight of their armor--and often they swerved from the charge. Mostly, however, both of the philosophical knights found themselves, at the end of the strife, at their old station in the lists, or driven back, perhaps, to their original entry. This scholastic philosophy, in the form it now took, of a highly elaborate art of logical tourney in the philosophical schools, was, undoubtedly, an abiding evil in the age that immediately followed, and furnished an important element to the party disputes of later, and to the rationalism of these latest times.

The overthrow of the Grecian empire and the discovery of the new world, suddenly and at once introduced into Western Europe vast and varied treasures of historical, physical, and philosophical knowledge. In this brilliant epoch of the fifteenth century, a new world of thought was, as it were, laid open. A new era of science would have been founded, and a veritable reformation of the whole Christian life must have ensued, had not the moral corruption and the political disorders of the period been gross beyond description. But for all this, how much is there to admire in the Platonic writers of the fifteenth century, among whom Germany, after Italy, produced the most famous and the greatest number? When we take up, even now, any one of their works, and contemplate therein their comprehensive liberal pursuit of science, their mild, antique spirit, their noble form, and their quick recognition of the beautiful, we can not turn from them without regret to that new state of barbarism into which, during the sixteenth and part also of the seventeenth century, science was plunged by the rampant spirit of party and controversy.

At last, however, peace and quiet returned again to Christian lands and states, and slowly, and by degrees, to the minds also of men. And now was it, in the eighteenth century, and especially toward the middle of it, that out of this apparent and superficial peace, a new science, or a new light, or at least a new diffusion of it, seemed ready to arise. Simply regarded in a scientific point of view, this philosophical endeavor of the eighteenth century, and the most memorable of the systems to which it gave rise, occupied our attention in the very opening of these Lectures. Here the immediate object of our consideration is not this new science itself, whether true or false, but rather the influence on the age, and on life in general, of this modern mode of thinking, as generally diffused and prevalent.

Much, undoubtedly, has been discovered or newly learned in the natural sciences and in the domain of history; many too have been the bold ventures, at least, and novel essays in philosophy. This new wisdom, moreover, was taught and disseminated far more universally than ever before had been the case; while even the agreeable feeling produced by the moderation of the intellectual spirit now prevalent, greatly promoted its wide and rapid diffusion. But at a later period this enlightenment, so rapidly and so widely diffused, which, moreover, was taken only in a negative sense, was soon recognized to be unsatisfactory and superficial, while also the theory of popular liberty and independence which was grafted thereon, and claimed, or at least wished to be rational, bore the bitterest and worst of fruits.

In short, to speak most leniently of it, the whole was nothing less than the undigested scheme of an immature and imperfect knowledge, brought into the world before its time. Accordingly, its rash and precipitate course in the last age, whose history is unparalleled in the annals of the whole world, together with the fearful catastrophe which it has brought about, opened the eyes of men to the fearful abyss to which such a precipitate abuse of science had hurried them. And, in consequence, thinking men of the highest endowments and the richest intellectual gifts among different nations, have in many ways nobly devoted themselves to the work of restoration in sentiment, in thought, and in science.

But on the one hand, the first elements of the former destructive principle appear to be still existing, even though it be in less obvious and more pliable and disguised forms. On the other hand again, the corrected mode of thinking, and the better tone of sentiment and science, is for the most part confined merely to a more chastened outward form. Scarcely any where as yet is it carried far enough back, up to the profoundest sources of spiritual life, up to the primal origin and veritable foundation of the divine and of the eternally good.

And yet this is exactly the problem of our age, and herein alone shall we find the solution of the great enigma of the times. For from this hasty review of the whole course of the intellectual development of humanity, from its beginning to its close, the result, for the sake of and with a view to which alone I ventured so cursorily and in such faint outline to sketch all the leading epochs of the history of philosophy, must at least be evident. As in the beginning, and in the center thereof, science and life lovingly co-operated together and were fully in unison; and as in the intermediate epochs and intervals among the Greeks in civilized antiquity, and in the middle ages among ourselves, they became more and more estranged, so at the end will they be at one again. And already, even in our own days, every thing is tending to bring about such a consummation. But who shall say whether it shall be in a good or an evil sense? Ere long, life shall either, under the influence of the true and good and divine knowledge, be again restored, permanently regulated, and receive a new shape and fresh vigor, or, by a false and delusive science, be completely destroyed, and involved in eternal ruin.

Having, in this hasty review, considered, under its historical aspect, the problem of the relation of science--the true and divine, as well as the false and delusive--to both private and public life, it now remains for us to examine and to answer this same question from the side of theory. Regarded from this point of view, it would appear that whenever science fails to exercise an influence on life, or when they withdraw and are estranged one from the other, the fact may be always accounted for and explained by accidental causes and purely local influences, such as have their origin in the several periods of the world’s history, or flow from certain imperfections on one side or the other. For, considered in itself, science in general is nothing but this unity of thought and life, and consequently its living operation and influence are involved in the very idea of a higher science, provided only it be true and properly regulated. Either, therefore, science is life elevated into a thought, and consequently transformed into a thinking, or else it is a thought carried into reality, that has passed and been transmuted into life, and therein fully attested and certified by life itself--consequently a thinking become life.

Now, according to this view, that science consists in the mutual approximation to, and the final attainment of, a perfect unity between thought and life, there are three degrees of it, according to that triple gradation and threefold principle which exists in the human consciousness. The first of these, then, is reflection. And this, understood in a somewhat profounder acceptation than ordinarily, is an internal feeling, hearing, or seeing of one’s own thinking. Consequently it is a perception similar to that of the senses, by means of which the unseen thought is in some degree projected and introduced into external reality. But this act of reflection is nothing more than a passive state of the soul in its internal observation of itself. So long as it remains confined to this narrow sphere, it perpetually revolves in the same orbit, and, properly speaking, produces no ulterior results of a knowledge fruitful and applicable to actual and outward life.

The second degree or moment of science is abstraction, by virtue of which, from the complete sum of all the criteria and characteristics of an object, or, rather, of a thought, some one is prominently set forth as the most essential, and for the sake of communication designated by a name. For all communication and language is based on this faculty of abstraction, which is itself an arbitrary act of the free will. But although by this naming, generalization, and communication, the internal thought is advanced a step farther into the external world and the living reality among and with others, still the reality of the thought is by no means satisfactorily established thereby. For this very liberty in the choice of name, of combination, and of general classification, opens a wide field for caprice. This is evident enough from the countless multitude of terminologies, so needlessly invented and so rapidly thrown into oblivion, which form so many remote and mutually unintelligible philosophical dialects, in the ever-repeated attempt to build methodically the Babel tower of philosophical system. For these designations of abstract thoughts, even when they are most felicitous, fail to win the concurrence of others, and do but open a door to endless dialectical disputation.

Thus, then, neither reflection, which is eternally revolving within the narrow orbit of our inward self, nor empty abstraction, though it strays at pleasure over the spacious realm of the possible, can lead us to the desired end of perfect certainty or veritable science. It is alone the practical carrying out into real life of a speculative thought, that can bring it to the conclusion of perfection of certainty, and to a complete and true science. Now I should prefer to designate this its highest grade by the notion and name of _consequence_. But by this term, I must be understood as meaning not merely a correct logical enchainment of ideas, but pre-eminently a faithfully-worked-out _consequence_ or consistency of sentiment and life, _i.e._, a perseverance in good. At the same time, it must ever be remembered, that the evil principle, although it often makes a boast of possessing this quality, does so only in appearance, and never in this true sense. On the contrary, torn to pieces by conflicting passions in its inmost being, it is really in the highest degree inconsequent, as acting in direct opposition to its beginning and origin, which, like all other created beings, it took and received from God.

Truly consequent or consistent a man can not be except in the truth, _i.e._, in Him out of whom all truth, and from whom all existence is derived and flows--in other words, in God. Science, therefore, is an _applied_ thinking, _i.e._, one that has passed into life, and thereby become real and certain; and it is only on the road of practice, by its actual carrying out or _real_ manifestation, that it can attain to its highest degree, and that the truth of an idea or speculative thought can be satisfactorily attested.

The ideas, according to the original sense of the term, are even the self-existing thoughts of a higher life, as distinct both from the simple facts of the consciousness in the domain of reflection, and from the arbitrary forms of thought set up by empty abstraction. And though even here as elsewhere, a false, sickly, or a null and illusory life, may be substituted for that which is true, still this applies only to the form of the living idea, as contrasted with the sensuous semblance or the dead notion. For, that an idea is truly divine, can only be proved by this quality of consequence--by its divine influence and effect on life.

On the other hand, many philosophical thinkers have somewhat erroneously indicated the intrinsic certainty of philosophical thought by the name and under the form of an intellectual intuition, and thereby given occasion to manifold misconceptions. But if in all the fullness of the conception already advanced of the eternal truth, and of Him who is its sum and source, we were really able to be sentinent of and to feel the divine life--to hear and audibly to perceive the eternal Word and actually to see the holy Light, such a spiritual intuition of God’s glory and majesty would be far more appropriate for the future than for the present world. And even though we may and can admit it to be conceivable, as given from above, still a communication of it would be impossible, and, consequently, could not be available for the ordinary purpose of giving a philosophical foundation to any human system. Under this form, then, of a so-called intellectual intuition, if it be really such, and not rather a mere form of abstract thought under another and an assumed name, speculative science would consequently assume the character of a questionable vision, and a possible mental delusion. For a full internal satisfaction and certainty--so far at least as these are attainable by man--even in the case that they are the sign and the proof that this intuition, or perception of the divine light actually took place, can only be furnished by that quality of consequence already described as belonging to every thought and cognition which is founded in God. And to this character of consequence or consistency, the condition of agreement with every other idea or revelation already acknowledged to be divine, belongs naturally as the irrefragable law of judgment and of life.

That full and correct conception of eternal truth which has been developed by us in the ninth Lecture as the living _idea_ of the Supreme Being is unquestionably the fundamental speculative notion and the internal spiritual basis on which every other higher science, that has any pretensions to the qualities of permanence and consequence which belong to right-thinking and to immutable truth, is subsequently raised, or, in other words, it is the source from which it abidingly flows. In the three subsequent Lectures, however, the subject has been mostly scientific, speculative, and metaphysical, though throughout accompanied with historical illustrations drawn from the development of the human mind. And here, accordingly, a reference to the science or discipline of logic is every where supposed.

Now, in the form in which this science or discipline has come down to us from the Greeks, there is much that is rather an accident than a part of its essence, and whose presence must be accounted for by some special and local necessity. With no people before or since has rhetoric enjoyed so commanding an influence as with the Greeks, and with none also has the sophistic art produced such great and such pernicious effects. Accordingly, they found it necessary to devote to the analysis of all its arts, delusions, and tortuous windings, and also to the development of the dialectical means for their detection and refutation, a disproportionate degree of attention, which is neither necessary for us nor practically useful.

The Hindoos, likewise, have from the most ancient times possessed a scientific system of logic. Indeed it has even been said, that Aristotle, having received from Alexander the Great some of their logical treatises, borrowed from them his own system, or, at least, molded it after them. But from the reasons just adduced, I am disposed to think that, in all probability, the Hindoo logic was much simpler than the Grecian, where the simple end of truth, and the great desideratum of a correct standard thereof, was lost sight of amid an overminute analysis, and the mazes of an endless subdivision of notions.

In the routine of our school education logic might, perhaps, be made a highly profitable study if only it were combined with and made to bear upon the history of the gradual development of human thought, and especially the theory of language. And then, since thought and speech are so intimately allied to and dependent on each other, it would be advisable to go a step farther, and extend our logical studies to the theory of imagination, symbolical language and its fundamental rules.

In a scientific education, too, a logic of the memory (if we may be allowed the expression) would in all probability be highly useful. For an established law and disposition of our thoughts would greatly facilitate the exercise of memory, and as furnishing rules for the practice, or generally as an exercise of that faculty, would form an excellent basis for scientific education. For the conduct of life, indeed, there is nothing so important or so desirable as a right logic of the conscience, which should detect all the internal delusions of egoism and the still more subtile sophistry of selfishness in every point where the question lies between the righteous truth and a latent falsehood. And this is intimately connected with, or at least leads directly to, the notion of the sound reason which requires before all things a conscientious susceptibility of the truth.

But a logic applicable to this higher science must be understood in a far more comprehensive sense than is ordinarily done. And this is even what we have here attempted to furnish. Logic in general is conversant about three objects: the notion, the judgment, and the conclusion. But it ought also to possess a general fundamental rule and regulative standard of truth, so far as this is attainable. But inasmuch as in this domain the eternal is simply one, so also for this higher science one notion properly is sufficient; as also one judgment which comprises all others, and one conclusion which completes the whole, is sufficient. The act of understanding has been explained to be the completion of the notion; and the full and complete apprehension of the eternal truth, or of Him who is the sum of all verities, was the subject-matter of our ninth treatise. The act of discerning was explained to be the completion of the judgment; and this perfect judgment, which decides and distinguishes between truth and error, was the theme of our tenth disquisition. Science, however, is the perfection of all thinking, and in its actual operation, as applied to life, and in itself carried to a conclusion, is one with it. Now this was the end to which the present discussion and development was intended to lead; while the further prosecution of it and its reference to the several spheres and domains of existence must be reserved to the following discourses.

LECTURE XII.

OF THE SYMBOLICAL NATURE AND CONSTITUTION OF LIFE WITH REFERENCE TO ART AND THE MORAL RELATIONS OF MAN.

How difficult it generally is for man to express his internal conceptions, to bring out the indwelling idea and to realize its perfect external manifestation, is shown, for example, among other instances, by the fine arts, or the art of the beautiful. For this reason the theory of the latter, the so-called æsthetics (which, however, might far more correctly be termed symbolism), forms the natural pendant and accompaniment to logic, if the latter, instead of being limited, as is usual, to the mere art of distinguishing the different kinds of notions, is understood in a far higher sense, and referred to eternal, and, consequently, divine truth, and to its intrinsic and equally divine standard. For when the question no longer involves a purely material or simply subjective verity, but that which is more exalted and heavenly, then beauty (that, namely, about which art is conversant, and which, far surpassing all that is merely human, pretends and really ought to be divine and supernatural) forms the other and symbolical aspect of one and the same eternal truth. And indeed it is neither separable from it nor opposed to it, so long as art maintains its high standing and employs the sensual charm which it requires for the lively expression of vitality, and its outward manifestation, only as a symbol and for the sake of that higher significance which she herself lends to it, and does not seek nor admire it for its own sake, nor sees therein the fulfillment of its own true end and aim.

But by far the greater number of the productions of art are only repetitions or copies of some previous realization. And I use this term, not in its usual depreciatory sense, but rather in one that is applicable to what are truly artistic productions but still only successful formations at second-hand. Extremely rare, indeed, are the original expressions or impressions of an indwelling, unborrowed idea And even among these very many are nothing more than the first faint outline and commencement, which only at a subsequent epoch of art, and after long and repeated essays, attains to complete perfection and a really successful and veritable outward exhibition of the indwelling idea. For we must ever consider as an idea that inward object which art in its external manifestations strives to realize, and which in its creations ought to stand out, as it were, bodily before us.

Even in music (as the expression of the emotions of the soul in their flow and change, and in the struggle with inharmonious discords, till at last they finally dissolve in harmony) it is not so much the immediate feeling--for this would be no more artistic than the mere cry of passion--as rather the idea of it that the artist has in his mind, and that forms the subject of his representations. The musician strives to represent the whole idea--the beautiful and the marvelous in the whole progress of its development. Following the inmost life-pulse in its alternate rising and falling, he labors to give its unexpected transitions up to their sudden harmony or its repetitions of still increasing pitch up to a full and soothing close, or (if this is designedly to be left unattained) up to the abrupt and painful breaking off or gradual dying away and cessation of the plaintive note or the tone of ardent longing.

And the same is the case with sculpture. But here we would premise the remark, that the principle with which we set out, of the triple nature and division of man’s being, is confirmed by the existence of a corresponding order and diversity in the fine arts. Among the arts, accordingly, whose object is the manifestation of the beautiful, music is pre-eminently the art for the soul, while sculpture is for the most part corporeal.

Now, in sculpture it is not any actual figure or the body itself that the artist has in view. It is the general idea thereof that constitutes the subject-matter of his representations. He seeks to portray its most perfect structure, its full organic development, its exquisite correctness of symmetry and sublime beauty of form. And to all this even the expression of character and passion is in a certain degree subordinate. And exactly because the external medium which it employs, because the material mass on which its internal conceptions are to be stamped, or, rather, out of which they are to be worked, is the inanimate stone and cold marble, therefore does true sculpture aim at a higher excellence than the uniformity and death-like repose which characterize the Egyptian statues of the gods. It seeks rather to triumph by copying with the most marvelous truth and fidelity the living frame in its most rapid movements, and life in its most violent struggles, and by seizing its fleeting graces to fix them forever in its own imperishable creations.

In truth, the imitation of actual reality, however difficult and in itself worthy of admiration it may be, does not constitute the aim or object, or generally the principle of sculpture, any more than of any other art. A remarkable proof of this is afforded by the fact that color, with all its charms, is excluded from the plastic art and its embodied manifestations as too meretricious and too closely allied to reality. For by such an expedient, not less than by the use of ingenious mechanism to give motion to the limbs, the artistic ideal, or the images of the gods, would have degenerated into the puppets of children.

Reality, therefore, with its actual shapes and the delusive imitation and servile copying of them, is in nowise the proper or immediate object of the plastic art. Even beauty of form is not always, not at least solely and exclusively its aim; it is only so accidentally and relatively, as a condition of the expression of character, of external states, and of the total significance. Always and universally it is a thought, the _idea_ of some subject or form as the inner sense and significance thereof, that constitutes the essence of a work of art, and with which art in general is concerned. In other words, art is symbolical. And this may be predicated with equal truth of every higher art, as well as of sculpture, whatever may be the medium of its manifestations, whether a statue, or tone as in music, or words as in poetry. It is exactly this that constitutes the difference between high art and every other which, however closely allied to it in appearance, has some ulterior and practical object, and which therefore can not be symbolical.

Of this kind, for instance, is the difference between rhetoric (which most assuredly is an art, or at least was exclusively treated as such by the Greeks) and poetry. And it is of the utmost importance to keep this distinction constantly in view. For exactly in the same degree that it is neglected is the proper character and true excellency of the higher art of the beautiful lost sight of. And a right estimate of the other arts which have an ulterior and practical object would also be endangered. An orator who with the greatest command of practical and imaginative language is nevertheless devoid of convincing logical power to sway the minds of men by his arguments, and to bend them irresistibly to his purpose, would exercise but little influence; while no heavier censure can be passed on one who sets up for a poet, than to affirm of him, that he possesses and understands nothing but the rhetoric of passion, without--though such further qualification is evidently superfluous--true poetry.

Of the fine arts, therefore, which, employing a material medium for their representations, possess an ideal and symbolical significance, music is the art of the soul, and sculpture is that of corporeal form, and of the manifestation of the true idea of organic beauty. But among the three sister arts, painting is the true spiritual one. As the light, with its ceaseless variety of tints and hues, is the most spiritual element of nature, and as the eye is the most spiritual of man’s senses, so painting, as concerned about these, is the most spiritual of the arts, and the one with which the symbolical spirit readily associates itself. Painting directs itself wholly to the eye, whereas sculpture appeals indeed to the eye, but only as the necessary medium for satisfying the corporeal sense and feeling.

But painting, in its manifestations, does not confine itself to abstract beauty (if we may so say) or the perfect structure and symmetry of form. It embraces all the eye can reach in the visible phenomena of the world, with all its wonderful play of light and shade and magical splendor of coloring, where not only the whole, but the several parts--in a word, all that in many and various ways is charming to the senses, attractive to the eye with ever new wonders, and all that to the mind or spirit is full of deep spiritual and symbolical significance. And for this reason the wonderful art of painting is even the most appropriate, shall I say to exhibit, or rather to suggest, the high mysteries of divine love in religion and revelation. No wonder, then, if, in modern Christendom, music and painting, the art or symbolism of soul and spirit, have been chiefly cultivated, and attained their highest development and perfection, whereas the art of the perfect development of organic form and corporeal and sensual beauty, reached its height of excellence in the sculpture of classical antiquity, which in the same way and degree will never again be paralleled, or at least will never be surpassed.

It appears sufficient if we assume that there are only three symbolical arts for the higher manifestation of the beautiful. For architecture, although in various ways bound and modified by the conditions of some ulterior design, is, nevertheless, in its principal features closely related to sculpture, and stands on the same line with it. For beauty of structure, correctness of proportion, and grace of symmetry, which form the fundamental laws of the plastic art, constitute also the ideal of architecture. Accordingly, among the Greeks and Romans, where the latter attained to its highest and richest cultivation, its principles, relations, and forms approximate to those of organic figure, to which they are not indeed outwardly in their structure, but in a certain degree and according to their internal constitution, similar and correspondent, or at least related.

Egyptian architecture, with its predominantly mathematical character, and the tree-like Gothic aspiring to heaven, with its slender shafts and floral decorations, form the two extremes of this organic character which belongs to architecture, and which constitutes it one and the same art with sculpture. For the structures of the former environ and surround the creations of the latter. And it is only consistent that that which supplies the legitimate sphere and the natural medium for the other properly exhibitive art of sculpture and its statues of the gods, should even possess or acquire a similarity of character with it. As to the Egyptian and Gothic architectures, the remark readily suggests itself that the symbolical character displays itself predominantly in them: purity of form, however, is the prevalent feature of the _antique_ (or Grecian), but even here in its proportions the symbolical principle may be traced, although it is more recondite, not to say concealed.

Even poetry is no fourth art alongside of the other three. It does not stand on the same line with and form, as it were, the complement of their number. It is rather the universal symbolical art which comprises and combines in different mediums all those other exhibitive arts of the beautiful. In its rhythm and other metrical aids it possesses all the charms of a music in words; in its figurative diction it maintains an endless succession of shifting pictures in the vivid coloring of diversified illustration; while in its entire structure (which must be neither purely historical, nor logical, or even rhetorical) it strives to attain, by a beautiful organic development and disposition of its parts, to an arrangement of the whole both architecturally great and correct.

Poetry owes in every instance its first creative beginning to some great and singular ray of light from symbolical tradition, which, at the same time, illuminates the noble and memorable past, and points forward to the dark and mystical future. For it would be difficult to produce one among the great epic poems of antiquity that does not contain this poetico-prophetic element, and does not touch upon the profound mysteries of both worlds. The next and middle step is occupied by the poetry of sentiment and feeling--that music of the soul or poesy of song in which the calm deep longings and the wild tearing passions of the moment, once plunged and glorified in that immortal element, become eternal. But the height of perfection in the organic development of poetry is marked by the drama. This third and highest form of poetical art has for its subject-matter the whole struggle of human life, which in its vivid representations it aims to realize, and, as it were, to bring bodily before our eyes.

There exists an obvious analogy between the several constituents, as well as the different species or kinds of poetry and the three _material_ arts of the beautiful. As the latter are symbolical throughout in the subject no less than in the manner and design of their manifestations, so also, but in a far higher degree, is poetry, as the art which embraces all the three in its own sphere. And this was the end to which I wished to arrive, inasmuch as the symbolical significance of the whole of life is the very point which at present claims our attention. For it bears intimately on the conclusion which I attempted to establish in my last Lecture. It was there my endeavor to prove that the supreme science, which is essentially identical with a divine faith, may be actually applied to life, be really brought in unison with it, and become transformed into a living and real existence. But this can only be accomplished by a symbolical process, or in other words, the symbolical signification of life is either itself the basis, or else an indispensable condition of, and inevitable transition-point toward, such a union and its accomplishment.

But in the arts which portray the beautiful, this symbolical significance and property is most distinctly prominent; here it is most easily understood and most universally recognized. On this account I have chosen this subject, as forming the natural transition and connecting link between the previous and the following Lectures. No doubt the æsthetical portion of man’s constitution and life is in itself sufficiently remarkable and attractive, and rich and important enough in its effects and consequences, to vindicate for itself such an episode, and to claim for it a place in philosophical speculation. For it shows that that fundamental law of psychological science and triple principle of division of the human consciousness into spirit, soul, and sense, admits also of application in this domain also, and may serve to confirm the whole theory and way of thinking. The further prosecution, however, of this elementary view or sketch of art would carry me beyond my present limits. For the aim of that philosophy of which I am attempting to give an exposition is directed to life itself--as well the inner life of the individual as the public life (and in the present place, also, its symbolical relation or signification)--which is so inseparably and intimately connected with the investigation into the divine foundation of life and the divine direction which ought to be imparted to it.

It can easily be shown that education as well as art is essentially symbolical. Such, indeed, must be the character of the education, whether public or private, of the whole rising generation, unless it is to degenerate into an ordinary mechanical system. And it is even in this quality principally that we are disposed to place the distinction between an unspiritual education, which, even though in the sternness of its morality it may defy censure, yet eventually proves barren and mortal, and one more solid and more conformable to human nature, which, less pretending in the outset, is even the more lasting in its effects.

The ready susceptibility of the youthful mind for every thing symbolical that lies within its reach, and its vivid perception of its meaning, might be clearly enough shown by instancing some of the ordinary amusements of boyhood and youth. How commonly, in these years, are the various occupations, pursuits, and circumstances of real and, to them, still future life, childishly, perhaps, but still ingeniously imitated, or, rather, anticipated! And how lasting an influence does this frequently make on their little society! What various but lasting traces does it often leave on their minds, more perhaps than many hours of study, especially if in the latter the usual system of overloading the young mind defeats its own end. Play, indeed, must not become the mere pastime of idleness, for it is only by its alternation with labor and the sternness of discipline that it continues to be a recreation and a pleasure.

And, indeed, the earnestness, the labor, and the sterner part in this whole business and matter of education, as mixed and composed of two opposite elements, of the serious and the sportive, is highly capable of receiving so spiritual a reference and vital a significance. And if all education be nothing else than a preparation for the future, and the state of this preparation, then it must be self-evident that too many or enough of such vivid references and spiritual allusions to a future life, either generally or to any particular phase of it that may chiefly be had in view, can not be introduced into education and its serious and sportive elements and pursuits. For it is only by this method that the susceptibilities of youth and the youthful fancy can be vividly excited and thoroughly impressed with the fundamental design and significance of the whole of life--a result which no mere dry definition of the future state, or generally of any “destination of man” on the dusty road of logic, will ever attain to.

It is nowise singular if this symbolical property and disposition of human nature announces itself as distinctly in the earliest development and in the most perfect of the productions of artistic genius, whether we take into consideration the whole existing state of mankind, or his original and essential constitution relatively to the world and to God. We have already remarked, on more than one occasion, that man, as soon as he was deprived of those higher faculties which he had abused to his ruin, fell thereby more entirely than would seem originally to have been the case, under the dominion of figurative fancy, and that, consequently, his whole nature and consciousness became greatly changed from what it was at the beginning. If man did at the very first possess the faculty and the power to communicate his thoughts to others inwardly by a mere operation of his will, and without having recourse to the external medium of words, he no longer enjoys this privilege; and if any wonderful phenomena in any way resembling thereto be now found, they only form so many remarkable exceptions, instead of making the rule of human life and consciousness as they now are. As at present constituted, man feels that his state is pre-eminently symbolical: he sees in symbolism a necessary requirement for his earthly pursuits--a substitute for those immediate powers of cogitation which he has lost. And all this is true, independently of any use he may freely choose to make of symbols for the higher purposes of spiritual life.

Man, at the beginning, was placed on this earth as its first-born son, in the midst of the telluric universe, or, in other words, in the center of a planetary world akin to and similar to his own. Now, whatever may be the case, or whatever it may be allowable to think of any other of the starry spheres--though in the invisible world of spirits all perhaps is more immediately full of and instinct with essence, and is not veiled in material emblems, this is not the case with this earth. Terrestial nature, in all its organic productions and warring elements of life, is throughout symbolical. Man, therefore, viewed from this position of his earthly habitation, is surrounded by a symbolical world of sensuous emblems. And if we can, or, rather, if we will, believe the grand intimation with which revelation opens, the first and highest destination of man is even symbolical--to be the Divine image.

If, now, all the natural wants and properties of man are symbolical--if such be his present state in the midst of creation--his whole position in the mundane system, and his high and heavenly destination, can we, or, rather, ought we, to wonder if even religion presents itself for the most part clothed in a symbolical garb? For this is the case, not merely with that which was the wild upgrowth of a poetical and purely imaginative heathenism, but also the old, original, and pure religion of nature--as the first love devoting itself for sacrifice--the second revelation of God. And so we find it to have been in the old world, or, as it is otherwise called, the old covenant. Here the first twilight of faith was yet studded with all the starry splendor of the whole symbolical creation, as it were with the brilliant diadem of nature’s most glorious images. And even the new era of the ascending and brightening dawn still bears on its front the glittering morning-star of art.