Chapter XXVI: Preface: Of the German Editor (9)

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

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

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

LECTURE IX.

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

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

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

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

But a far wider and more extensive view of antiquity lies before our eyes, and history in its comprehensive survey now takes in almost the whole of the ancient world. Modern inquiry, therefore, with its vast erudition, its patient observation and quickness of apprehension, has succeeded in establishing more completely than heretofore the general truth of this symbolical basis of ancient mythology. And by this means it has been able to trace the inner threads of a higher truth which lay concealed within those fictions, and were the source of their vitality; for it was from such a beginning of truth they originally set out, however widely in their subsequent course and growth they may have deviated therefrom. Indeed, if it is allowable, on the ground that the true religion must, from the very first, have been one and the same, to give the name of Christianity to the simple religion of the first men and great saints of the primeval world, then may we well venture to assert that a vein of Christianity and of the knowledge of the true God runs through and ever and anon manifests itself on the very surface of heathenism and in its several mysteries. And, in truth, it would be any thing but an unprofitable task to trace, through this variety of symbolical expressions, the sinuous and intricate course of the human mind in its manifold development, as it pursued every direction, and took up the most opposite positions in order to view and contemplate the truth. However, this Christianity of the primeval world, even where it kept itself free and pure from all admixture of fiction and distortion, can only be regarded as a Christianity in anticipation. Or, perhaps, we may look upon it as an ascending progression (though not uniformly advancing, but marked with many an apparent check and recession, or even many a void interval of expectation), up to the last term of consummation in the visible and actual manifestation; just as, on the other hand, Christianity, since that epoch, may appear to the historical inquirer in a descending series, if not in its definite form and shape or intellectual development, yet certainly in the inward moral sentiment, and the power of a living faith.

It is now a matter pretty generally admitted, and which is, moreover, daily gaining a wider concurrence, that in these fables, which, at the first glance, appear the mere sportive creations of fancy, there is even contained many a beautiful hieroglyphic of nature and of natural truth. A brief allusion to the fact, therefore, will suffice for our general view, which calls upon us to notice it just so far only as is necessary to make our survey of the human mind and its development complete.

Now, if it should be demanded of us psychologically to treat of and to discuss at length all the delusions of the fancy, we should, indeed, open for ourselves a wide field of labor. It would rival that of the ancients in their treatises on the possible fallacies of logic, and the illegitimate forms of its syllogisms, with the different rules for avoiding and detecting them. But in truth, the psychological illusions of the fancy in actual life are no less numerous nor less diversified in their manifestation than the differences of individual characters, which are incalculable. And as to those logical errors, on the other hand, which relate solely to the form of argumentation, the consideration of them will be most profitably attached to those branches of science which concern the particular province of life in which they severally occur. However useful for the purposes of practice a detailed analysis and dissection of them may be, it, nevertheless, lies wholly without the limits of our present speculations. By scientific errors, which, as arising from a natural disposition and exciting cause in the fundamental faculties of the human consciousness, deserve to be called innate, must be understood none but such essentially false views of the whole constitution of things, or such scientific systems as result from some one-sided tendency or perverted application of the principal powers of man’s mind. We are not, therefore, concerned at present with the poetic fancy and the psychological delusions of this faculty. It can only be with an imagination that has exclusively given itself up to a scientific direction that we can have to do in discussing the question, What false system, and what error in science generally, or in physical science especially, can have proceeded from a perverted use of this faculty of fancy? This, it appears to me, can be no other than the well-known materialism--the atomistic view of nature, and, what is so closely connected with it, that atomistic thinking whose deadening character is far more dangerous and fatal to philosophy than that much-decried “system of nature,”[74] which, for the most part, has outlived its day, and, in its former shape, at least, is obsolete and out of fashion. This atomistic view of nature can not, for one moment, be regarded as or explained by an error of the reason. For the reason seeks every where for an absolute unity. But these imaginary atoms, out of which all is composed and compounded, are infinite in multiplicity. Among them there is nothing like unity. All there is ever dissolving itself, and falling asunder into an innumerable multitude of separate individuals. Neither can it be termed an error of the understanding; for the latter does not merely and universally, or every where and principally, employ itself with such anatomical dissections and mutilations. It labors rather before all things to understand, to comprehend the whole, to seize the inner meaning, to fathom the true significance, and to gain a knowledge of the very essence, in its true spirit and meaning. But all this, as it implies a living principle, is also applicable to such alone. Where there is neither life nor spirit, there is nothing to understand. These simple, minute corpuscles of nature, or these indivisible particles of the universe, as the foundation and principle of the collective world of nature and of sense, would form an inexplicable and unintelligible aggregate. But, in fact, the dissection and anatomy of the visible objects of matter has never yet succeeded in reaching these infinitely minute primal particles of existence. On the contrary, the chemical analysis of bodies terminates in certain living elements of a wholly volatile nature, which defy and elude all such gross and material manipulations. The whole hypothesis, therefore, must be held to be perfectly arbitrary; it is altogether an unfounded fiction. It is, no doubt, highly unpoetical, and any thing but fanciful; nay, rather, it is fatal both to life and fancy, but a fiction it nevertheless is. And on this account its origin must be ascribed to the imagination. It was, therefore, in this sense, and relatively to this fact, that I formerly asserted that when once the imagination--that is, the scientific imagination--applied itself to palpable corporeal phenomena, then the error that it would give rise to would be a dry and meager production of a grossly material nature. I might almost call it an imagination of death, inasmuch as the whole of it is founded on the dreary hypothesis that all is dead and lifeless, and, as such, contrasts so directly with that ancient and once universally diffused creed of nature which we so lately spoke of as teaching that in the visible universe, and even in the external and corporeal world, notwithstanding its appearance of death, every thing is animated, living, and ensouled. Further to combat, or totally to refute, the atomistic theory, would be inconsistent with our present object; that, too, is a duty which belongs rather to what is properly natural philosophy. Moreover, it would be a superfluous task; for a truly living philosophy of nature, based on a very different position, and taking far higher views, has long since and almost every where taken the place of this hypothesis, which, as it kills the spirit, so it dishonors nature. One historical fact connected with the theory is, however, deserving our notice. Leibnitz, we know, opposed to these atoms of Epicurus, as the constituents of all things, his own monads, as so many living and ensouled unities. While, however, by this expedient, this great thinker, and in his way, truly exalted spirit, retained the same idea of universal and atomistic decomposition, he did but reveal in it, as in so many other instances, that feature of his character which enabled him, by a sort of half rejection of, half connivance at, error, to put it aside with the skill of a diplomatist, rather than to get rid of it altogether.

But in science there is another erroneous tendency, which is still more deeply rooted, and which is far more pernicious and dangerous to true living philosophy than these ancient atoms and all these false, materializing systems of nature, which in some degree carry with them their own refutation, and that is an atomistic mode of thinking, which has its natural source in the present defective and disorganized state of man’s cognitive faculty. True physical anatomy is a most valuable science, and has already led to most important results. In this respect its merits can not be rated too high, so long as it does not dream of detecting with its scalpel the long-departed principle of life, but contents itself with endeavoring to point out and decipher in the dead husk, the still remaining traces of its general constitution, or of certain morbid states of the life that once lived and moved within it. But the dead and barren anatomy of thought leads not to any similarly pregnant results. Beneath its dissecting hand, the life that is still present is extinguished forever; and from the history of every science, instances innumerable may be adduced to prove that before this baneful spirit of analysis all high and noble truth disappears.

There are, then, two principal sources of philosophical error. On the one hand comes the illusory phantom of unconditional entity and of identical thought, with all that follows therefrom in the most diversified forms either of scientific fatalism, or a poetical pantheism, or some false or perverted tragic view of the world and things. On the other stands the atomistic theory, with its kindred errors of a materialistic cast of thought, and the atomistic thinking itself, and the dead analysis of general notions, with that imagination of death so deeply rooted in the human mind on which they all rest. And these two delusions form that curse of mental blindness which from the very first has invariably rested on such usurped absolutism and omnipotence of reason when it sets itself up as supreme. Or they are, perhaps, the now hereditary diseased symptoms of mental poverty and numbness which mark and distinguish the faculty of thought whenever it is caught and tied with the fetters of materialism.

The above are errors of a general kind, whether faults of objective thinking or perverted directions of thought, on which the personal character exercises little influence. It has, however, a far greater effect on those forms and species of scientific error which have their seat in the human will and understanding; for in the latter all become more or less individual, and in them character, sentiment, passion, and the free resolve, exercise the greatest influence. Consequently it is extremely difficult in the case of those errors which flow from a common, or, at least, kindred source, and which are so intimately interwoven together, to separate and determine what portion belongs to the mere cognitive faculty, and what to that which wills, works, and acts. However, I shall venture to speak simply and plainly of the prejudice of egoism, as having its root principally in the will, even though it often springs up quite involuntarily. Its existence extends widely over the pursuits and thoughts of man, and is even apparent in the spiritual domain, where the pure pursuit of the highest truth is not altogether free from it. It is very seldom, however, that this error shapes itself into a decidedly and completely idealistic view of the world, and a similar perfect system of science. For such a view finds on all sides so much opposition, and becomes itself so involved with difficulties, that it never can be carried out into a universally consistent system. At any rate, such a system is very seldom of long duration. It is so decidedly in opposition to man’s inmost feelings, that when it is first propounded, its startling strangeness often gives rise to the doubt whether it be really to be understood literally, and were ever meant seriously. It frequently happens, therefore, that the first author and founder of such a system of egoism makes in his second revision of it many and essential modifications; or, rather, he may be more correctly said to take quite a different position, and to give a wholly new turn to his ideas. Of this many an example might, if this were the appropriate place, be easily adduced from the history of the human mind in general, while our own times furnish some striking and remarkable instances of it. A lengthy analysis and refutation of a real and decided system of idealism would, therefore, be scarcely necessary, inasmuch as, properly, it furnishes its own refutation; at any rate, it would not fall within the scope of our present disquisition, whose principal object is to give a full exposition of the inner and higher life. For this purpose, all that was required was to notice this scientific aberration as a peculiar and remarkable form in the whole system of human errors, and with this view to sketch, in a few prominent features, its general character.

What I have said of the system of idealism, I would not, however, by any means wish to be applied to idealistic doubt. For this, like doubt in general, may perhaps form a salutary and highly beneficial crisis, out of which a well-established and enlightened system of knowledge is to arise. Indeed, I am disposed to believe, however paradoxical it may seem (and perhaps it is a profound inward feeling of its paradoxical character that carries with it my conviction), that this idealistic doubt is more likely to lead to a welcome change in the prevailing views of science, than that doubt which assails life itself, and which, as directing itself against the freedom of the will, I would call a moral skepticism; for the latter is diffused very widely indeed, and without any scientific pretension, as the mere fatalism of ordinary reflection.

What, however, we are principally concerned with at present, is the prejudice accruing to the cause of science from the fundamental errors which cling to the human mind in its present form. Now in this respect the evil influence of the prejudice of egoism is perhaps the most extensive of all. Even when it does not manifest itself openly in its most extreme and revolting form, it secretly insinuates itself into all men’s thoughts and actions, and pervades more or less every region of truth. Indeed, we may say, or, rather, must confess, that even in the most able, pure, and perfect expositions of well-established truths--whatever may be the form they take, whether scientific, historical, artistic, or rhetorical, or perhaps be designed for the practical illustration and guidance of life--a certain subjective bone and coloring is more or less perceptible. Over all human compositions and not merely art and poetry (where, though not absolutely and universally, yet still to a certain degree it is allowable), a peculiar light is thrown from the personal Me of the author, as reflected through the immediate sphere of his associates and the circle of ideas in which his mind has been accustomed to revolve. Against such an influence, whether proceeding from ourselves or others, we can not be too diligently on our guard. In all our judgments and conclusions we ought carefully to put it aside. And this is the only true and legitimate abstraction which holds good both for science and for life. But thus to abstract our own Me and subjective peculiarities is a duty which is far from being commonly observed, and is, in truth, extremely difficult, even with the greatest honesty of purpose, perfectly to accomplish.

As we have so often spoken of an unintelligible medley of barren abstractions as so many empty forms of thought, this truer notion of abstraction may well be allowed a brief passing consideration. It seems not improbable that in an older form of science, and a more religious way of thinking, this notion did possess this higher and more correct signification. At least, it is evident that if we would meditate upon God and divine things, and give up ourselves fully and entirely to these contemplations, we must first forget the whole outer world and withdraw our thoughts from it, and at the same time rise above ourselves and go out of ourselves and our own narrow and finite _Me_. Almost all the notions of science possessed originally a grand and exalted import. It was only in course of time that, deteriorated by common usage, they sunk into empty formulas of error. In life, indeed, the subjective prejudices of man, under the influence of a will carried away and narrowed by them, has had so wide a range of action as to be co-extensive with the whole field of human action. The willfulness of children forms the principle obstacle that education has to deal with; and the inflexible obstinacy and passionateness of party spirit is the ruling power in public life, the cause of most of its catastrophes, and the source of its greatest perils. In short, were we to attempt to extend our survey to all the prejudices which spring out of narrow subjective views, and the great and extensive authority which long-cherished opinions exercise both over the inner man and the outer world, the chapter devoted to them in a system or manual of a practical knowledge of humanity would be as long as that which should enumerate the false syllogisms and all the violations that were possible, either in thought or practice, of the logical form of right reasoning, or even as that other which should comprise all the psychological delusions of the fancy. We must, therefore, confine ourselves to a brief, but still complete sketch. And to insure such completeness there is one remark to be made, which is far from unimportant, or at least not superfluous. And that refers first of all to the relation which subsists between the aberrations of the understanding and those of the will, and in the next place to that between the fancy and the reason, and to the contrariety usually arising from an undue predominance of either of these two faculties. Understanding and will stand in a very close connection together, their reciprocal influence being very considerable. In many an error, or at least in many a perverse and erroneous direction of thought and opinion, we are scarcely able to decide whether the will and sentiments, or the understanding and special modes of thinking, have the greater part. How difficult, for instance, is it to determine this point in the case of the predominant spirit of contradiction, whether it reveal itself as a reaction, having indeed an external exciting cause, but still thoroughly passionate, or appear in the shape of a mere delight in opposition, such as is found in many, and often highly distinguished individuals. For both these motives have great influence, not only in life but also in the domain of science, developing themselves therein as a fruitful source of error.

As to doubt: it is even that state, or that tendency of the mind [_geist_] peculiar to the understanding, which though in itself not absolutely culpable or faulty, is certainly erroneous, and one which in its extreme manifestation becomes a negative error of the very worst and most pernicious kind in science. I have already several times mentioned, in passing, and by way of anticipation, that doubt appears to form one of the most characteristic and peculiar of man’s fundamental properties. As sleep forms for man, as compared with the pure and ever-wakeful spirits, an essential and peculiar state of his organic life in the body, and as that eternal hope which is innate in the human soul is acknowledged to be its higher stamp and Godlike signature, just so and in a similar way must doubt be regarded as the inborn character of the human mind, or at least as one of its most indelible features. And indeed this struggle of doubt and hope (which even after the full attainment of internal certainty and peace, still survives in a degree, showing itself when we come to the special points of practical application, and in truth will never wholly cease in this lower world), this conflict between hope and doubt holds no less important nor less extensive a place in the inner spiritual world than the reciprocation of sleeping and waking does in the external and organic, maintaining the due equilibrium of the bodily powers and their healthy state. Now, doubt takes its rise pre-eminently and originally in the understanding. The latter is its appropriate place in the whole human consciousness, though from thence it quickly spreads over its whole sphere and extends to its utmost limits. The delusion so peculiar to the reason, of an absolute unity or identity and necessity, leads rather to a false and perfectly imaginary science, which for the most part aims at possessing or dreams of having attained to a mathematical certainty. And though the intrinsic contradiction and inconsistency which reigns in this absolute view of the world and things, notwithstanding the denial of all contrariety with which it sets out, and which, apparently at least, it does get rid of at the beginning, is well calculated to provoke and occasion doubt; still it is not the seat where doubt is originally engendered and first takes its rise. The act of understanding, on the contrary, supposes an antecedent state of its absence. The object or thought which is now understood for the first time, must have already existed as a given matter, standing before us as a problem for our previous ignorance up to the time that we succeeded in solving it. In truth, the act of understanding is nothing more than the passing from ignorance into intelligence. And this passage is not always effected at one step, but for the most part by slow degrees, and often very slowly and gradually indeed. Now, doubt, as the intermediate state between the original ignorance and the inward yearning after certainty, forms the crisis of this passage or transition. Primarily, therefore, and as stripped of all perverted applications and unlimited extension, it is not in its essence an impediment to knowledge, but rather an indispensable aid and useful instrument for the attainment and perfection of sciences. Wonder, according to the sense in which it is employed in some passages of the Platonic philosophy, as the inner amazement of the spirit, or the astonished rapture of the soul at the happy discovery--the first opening out of the truth--wonder, we might say, is the mother of knowledge, which bears in its womb and gives to the light the first germ of it; but doubt is the father, by whom the internal basis, and also the external form of science, is and can alone be perfected. And inasmuch as science, although relatively and for any precise and given form it may appear complete, yet in itself, and generally, and with regard both to its eternal diffusion and intrinsic advance, can never reach to full perfection in this lower world; therefore doubt can never properly cease altogether. But still, if doubt is to remain a wholesome co-operative power of knowledge, one requisition and demand, and one only, must be made upon it. It must never question the hope and the end of truth itself, and must not give up that inward search after knowledge, of which it is really designed to serve as the organ. In the form of a universal skepticism, however, it falls into a tone of unconditional decision, which involves an assumption of complete certainty, and, consequently, of a perfect, though negative knowledge, totally inconsistent with its true character. It thereby undermines its own foundation.

Absolute doubt, therefore, alone constitutes scientific error. As such it must invariably be looked upon whenever, rising to the height of despair, it pronounces science to be unattainable. It is such unlimited extension that constitutes a fault or error. But even in this respect it is extremely difficult to determine for individuals, nations, and eras, this utmost limit, beyond which doubt becomes culpable. It is a shifting line of demarkation, according as the perplexity of infinite doubt, remaining nothing more than a passive state of internal conflict, is not raised into an abiding principle and unchangeable maxim of life. Besides, it is extremely difficult to determine, as a general law, how far doubt can and may go before hope is entirely lost. Nay, it is not easy to say whether, even in this pernicious extravagance, it may not transform itself into good, and bring about a salutary crisis of transition, and, being set free from its own exaggerations, discover the true road to the goal of truth, and to a thorough understanding of it. It is only when absolute doubt, in its full energy, is set up purposely and forever as the final conclusion of all thought and reflection, as the supreme science itself, being developed with cool, calm self-possession, and applied to all things without exception, that this spirit of absolute negation becomes totally erroneous. In this case, indeed, it is irredeemably bad; as the hostile antagonist of all that is good and precious, it overturns truth itself together with science.

And who, then, is the author of all evil in man himself, and in all his thoughts, knowledge, and volitions, as well as in all the rest of creation? It is the dark spirit of negation who so well knows how to veil himself in the false light of apparently brightest clearness. And since we have reached up to the height, or, rather, down to the depths, of this primary source of all error, it may perhaps be necessary to add a further remark or two on this prime author of untruth, with a view of guarding against the misconceptions that otherwise might arise only too naturally. In Holy Writ he is called the Spirit and the Prince of this world. In ancient times, this description has been greatly misunderstood. It was taken to mean that he is properly the demiurge and subordinate creator of this sensible world, in which there are so many traces of fearful dissension, profound corruption, and disorder. The intrinsic state of nature in its present condition appeared to many thinkers so inexpressibly miserable and so full of deadly evil, that they could not bring themselves to ascribe its origination to the true God. But even though nature be in fact ever so heavily laden with woes and intrinsically miserable--(and indeed it is spoken of in the Book of Truth as the creature “groaning and travailing in pain”)--though the world were even far more fearfully rent with disorder and corruption, and chained and fettered to a shape stranger to goodness and truth than seems at the first glance to be the case, still there would be no ground for adopting the oriental view of two principles. And indeed the wonder is how it could ever have found adherents; since this world, already sufficiently distracted, is thereby but involved in still deeper dissension, and actually rent into two distinct parts, so that it becomes no longer possible to think or conceive of such a thing as truth, or to hope for any veritable and satisfactory scheme of knowledge. This strange religious error, into which the primal world of Asia, with its deep and profound emotions, fell, is so remote and foreign to the more moderate, not to say colder, sentiments of the West, that it is extremely difficult to set it forth and understand it in all its actual awfulness. It would, therefore, be as idle as it would be inappropriate for me to enter further into this false, but ancient system of dualism. Still there is one remark which essentially belongs to our present subject, and is also closely connected with what has gone before. The first author of untruth, we have seen, can not for a moment be regarded as the true demiurge and creator of the world, as the oriental view would represent him. Nevertheless, inasmuch as evil, universally and individually, in great and in little, is a deceptive image and imitation of good, this spirit of everlasting negation has unquestionably a world of his own, which is his production, and in a certain degree called forth and created by him. And that is the null and seeing world of void naught, which, however, through a fatal delusion and belief in its reality, and through its opposition to the good as well as the true, has become a _real_ naught, and must be considered as such. The actual world of the beneficent Creator was created out of nothing, since, besides Himself, all is nothing but a mirror of His perfection, a mere reflection of His infinite power and glory. But though it was made out of nothing, it was yet created for something, or, rather, for very much, even for an ever-advancing approximation to, and a finally complete identity with, its Maker. This good and noble something, as the supreme end of the true creation, is, however, opposed by the naught of the dark world of shadows, which has now become real, and, consequently, evil. Thus created, however, or at least shaped and produced out of something, it exists for nothing, even for that naught which constitutes the proper world, the field of action and vital atmosphere of the evil principle. In the case of an individual whose delusions have been carried to the height of passion, and whose soul is torn and distracted by a perfect despair of all truth, it is sometimes said that he has hell itself in his heart; such a mode of speaking (as is usually the case with such images and metaphors, which we use without associating with them any very clear or definite ideas), is perfectly and in sober earnestness quite true. In a metaphysical sense even, it is perfectly precise and correct.

If this absolute doubt, which is so often set up for the supreme principle of all thought and knowledge, were always to show and exhibit itself such as it really is, and in its inmost nature, and if what it ultimately leads to, and from what source it originally springs, were fully known, then would this skeptical view of things, with its wild exaggerations, which go beyond all the analogy of human nature, prove far less baneful than it does at present. In general it would less easily gain assent and make a far weaker impression. But inasmuch as this fatally pernicious and most absurd paradox does not stand out here so sharply and clearly as it does in the genuine idealistic theory, but is mostly veiled and hidden beneath the manifold beauties of an exquisite skill of exposition, which very often drops the rigor of scientific form, it consequently numbers far more adherents than could have been believed to be possible. Indeed, they are almost as numerous as the admirers of a poetical pantheism, with which it contrives occasionally to form a half compact and seemingly identifies itself. And this fact alone furnishes a sufficient reason why we should not pass it over altogether unnoticed in these Lectures. However, it must be borne in mind that all our objections and exceptions are directed exclusively against an absolute skepticism, as exercising by its perverted application and undue extension, a fatally destructive influence on science and on life.

The true doubt, which keeps within its proper limits and on the road to its appointed goal of a constantly advancing but never perfect knowledge, deserves to be regarded as an ever active and co-operative power for the development of truth and science. It must therefore be confessed that the appointed guardians of the publicly acknowledged truth (which, as such, ought to possess universal authority, both in the state and the spiritual domain) do not always exhibit the greatest wisdom and discretion. Too often do they violently suppress every movement of doubt without distinction, and allow no opening to it in any shape. For by this course they do but exaggerate the spiritual and intellectual evil that already exists. At least this purely negative method can never totally eradicate it.