The philosophy of life, and philosophy of language, in a course of lectures

by Friedrich von Schlegel

We are, perhaps, only too much disposed to imagine that the ancient race before the Flood resembled in every particular a later and even the present generation. Our conceptions of it, as regards both its virtues and its vices, are in nowise great and wonderful enough. In the first place, it is highly probable that the atmosphere of the globe was at that period totally different from what it is in the present day, and that consequently both the food and manner of living in those days were also dissimilar from our own. If any reliance is to be placed on the best and oldest historical testimonies on these points, we can scarcely doubt that the primeval race—at least the generations immediately preceding the Deluge—were of gigantic stature, and that their mental powers and faculties were on a correspondent scale of magnitude. In perfect conformity with these other proportions, the Scripture also assigns to those antediluvian races a duration of existence, which, as compared with our own standard of the average life of man, is equally gigantic. And so little of antecedent improbability is there in this statement, that to get rid of it commentators have been forced to have recourse to the most far-fetched and arbitrary, and, in fact, most untenable and groundless hypotheses.

Now, it is manifest that such corporeal advantages and length of life which the first patriarchs of the human race enjoyed, must have been highly favorable to the development of their intellectual gifts and immediate intuition, as founded on a living natural faith, so long as they were rightly used and directed toward God, as their proper object. And in the same way their tendency to fearful corruption, under an impious and sinful employment of their great mental endowments, must be equally evident. At the same time we must confess our inadequacy to form a conception of the height to which they attained in either state which would be in any way proportionate to the truth. It is, however, an invariable principle of development, confirmed by the observation of nature, and a careful induction of historical facts, that all that is greatest and noblest, if it once begins to degenerate and corrupt, reaches in its corruption and degeneracy the worst and most fearful extremes. And so it appears to have been with this gigantic and gigantically endowed race of the antediluvian world.

In modern times, a great German philosopher, who flourished toward the close of the seventeenth century, and was no less famous for his historical learning than for his mathematical discoveries, made the memorable remark, that the last sect in the whole development of Christian revelation, and toward the close of modern history—the last sect, and also the most prevalent and most fearful, would be that of atheism. This dictum, at the time at which it was pronounced, which was somewhere about the transition from the anxiety and oppression of the seventeenth century to the enlightenment and self-complaisancy of the eighteenth, must have appeared a perfect paradox. But now that its fulfillment seems, both to our eyes and understanding, so close at hand, we recognize with amazement, not to say with a slight feeling of horror, its deep oracular truth.

Now, as the beginning and the end often bear a wonderful resemblance to each other, it is not improbable that the first sect was of the same kind and nature as it has been predicted that the final heresy will be. A mere dead unbelief and purely negative atheism, it is true, can as little have prevailed in those times as a symbolically degraded and immorally materializing heathenism. For it was only after the higher magical powers were withdrawn from man, that the fancy became in this sense, and to such an extreme degree, symbolical and figurative. Or, perhaps, we may more correctly say, that of all high endowments now lost forever, a purely figurative fancy was all that remained; whereupon, in opposition to it, the other erroneous extreme of abstract thought gradually attained to a greater and undue development. And we may with good reason assume, that with this fearful catastrophe the very consciousness of man was essentially altered and changed. Of the wild and lawless state of the generations before the Flood, we can not, perhaps, form a juster conception than by regarding it as an open rebellion and organized revolt of man against his Maker and benefactor, a complete and visible supremacy of the evil principle and the wicked spirits on earth, and an intimate union between man and the devil. It must have resembled the description which we meet with in some old books of the future reign of antichrist. Such a state of things may justly be denominated atheism. But, however this may be, and whatever conception we may form, and whatever historical shape we may give to particulars in this domain (where, after all, we can not get beyond conjecture and presumptions, or, it may be, hypothetical history, based on probabilities), one general point is incontestable. Truly noble, in those primeval times of a pure natural faith, must have been the intellectual powers and development of the first ancestors of the world and those great progenitors of the human race, and fearful, in the same degree, must have been the fall and corruption which followed the abuse of those high privileges. For man’s mental powers, still subsisting in the plenitude of their productive energy, and his lordship over nature being undisturbed, his corruption must have generated the wildest and most monstrous excesses. Consequently, amid the universal reign of evil and wickedness, the only course that remained was the total destruction of the existing generation, and the complete renovation, or, rather, a new commencement of mankind.

But the corruption of later times, though, in truth, on a less scale, has likewise been very great. Rapid, too, has been the passage from good to evil. Moreover, it is self-evident that in the primeval ages of a vivid natural faith, and of a life according to nature, that separation between life and nature that exists in these later times could not well have taken place—nay, at such a period it is totally inconceivable. On the contrary, science and life must have been in perfect unison. And this is true, not only of the virtuous knowledge in the first happy epoch of the world’s golden age, but also of the wicked ideas and the demoniac efforts of error in the succeeding periods of gigantic bewilderment and arrogant enmity to God. It is by reason of this unity between life and knowledge that this instance belongs to that gradation in the mutual relations of the two in the different ages of the world.

Quite otherwise, however, was it, in this respect, with Grecian philosophy. In the most enlightened days of classical antiquity we behold it either coming forward in direct opposition to life, especially in its public aspect of politics and religion, or else as absolutely esoteric, retiring altogether and estranged from active duties. Now, in adducing the history of Grecian philosophy as my second instance, and as an eminently important moment in the history of the intellectual development of the ancient world, my object is to show that in the same way that, according to all grounds of analogy, a simpler natural faith, as the simple religion of the first patriarchs of the human race, preceded the later form of heathenism into which the worship of the Gentiles so wildly and so fearfully degenerated—so, also, in the philosophy of Greece, its later systems and sects, which were so thoroughly false and pernicious, were preceded by, at least, a comparatively better and higher view—by a purer theory of science and of truth.

For though the oldest philosophers of the Ionian school held water, or air, or fire, to be the ground and principle of all things, and built on such hypotheses their whole theory of nature, nevertheless we should, in all probability, greatly err, were we, on that account, to charge them with or to suspect them of materialism. They understood these elements, not in the ordinary, but in a spiritual and living sense, as the elements of universal life, and, at the same time, did not fail to acknowledge a higher spirit operating in and above nature, and God’s all-disposing intelligence. Of Heraclitus, who made fire the essential ground and first principle of all things, we know, with historical certainty, that, notwithstanding, his philosophy and view of the universe was, in the highest degree, ideal and spiritual. And the same is true also of Anaxagoras, the teacher of Socrates. Much, too, that would do great credit to the general spirit of thought and science of that period, might be adduced from the venerable founder of the valuable art of medicine, and also from his school, were the present the appropriate place. The simple fact, too, that Socrates proceeded from out of this Ionian school, would alone dispose me to form a favorable opinion of it in its earliest state; and it is greatly to be regretted that our information concerning the oldest of these great thinkers is so scanty, and its details so uncertain and so little to be depended on, that it is impossible to form any settled and definite judgment on the matter.

When, however, we proceed to examine the religious spirit and value of Grecian philosophy in general, or any of its special branches, schools, and epochs, we must adopt as the fundamental rule of our judgment the universal dogmas of man’s pure and uncorrupted feelings or judgment. Taking for our standard the natural belief in a living and personal God, and in an everlasting and all-ruling spirit, in the immortality of the soul, and in the freedom of the will, together with the immutable principles and ideas of justice, honor, morality, and virtue, we must, in this case, carefully exclude all the special doctrines of a positive faith. We must not look for or require, in so early an age, that which the further development of later periods brought to light. Far be it from us to wonder at, or to urge it as a reproach against Pythagoras or Plato, if among their doctrines we meet with ideas, which, strictly understood, are not perfectly consistent with Christianity. Rather is it a matter for surprise and congratulation that they knew and were aware of, had anticipated and taught, so much that a later date first placed in a fuller light, and made the common property of all men. This, at least, was the opinion and conclusion on this subject entertained in the first century by the greatest and best-informed of the fathers of Christian doctrine and science.

This highly religious tendency and perception which we recognize in Pythagoras, for instance, or in Plato—this anticipation by science of the ideas of Christianity, of principles which, with this exception, belong to the Christian era of the world’s history, could not have been without God. We must, in short, recognize therein a higher providence. We may accordingly justly regard Grecian philosophy, in its better spirit and elements, as forming on its part a preparation for the Gospel, and a scientific introduction to Christianity, of a special and peculiar kind.

Now, among those whose observations, and sciences, and endeavors were throughout directed Godward, the Pythagoreans stand highest and foremost. We have already alluded to the fact, that in physical science they were acquainted with the best and the most important of all that our history of discoveries, within the last three centuries, is so proud of. Here and there, perhaps, their knowledge even outran our own, and in all probability they were not without some insight into those mysteries of creation, about which our philosophy of nature has within the last half century excited so much wonder and admiration. It is also probable, we observed, that by their theory of numbers we are not to understand the ordinary formulæ of mathematics, nor the usual arbitrary play with them in which science so often indulges, but rather the development of the intrinsic and divine law of nature and of life according to its everlasting structure and immutable foundations, or according to the vicissitudes of its critical times and seasons. But here it may be asked—whence had they all this? how, without the telescope, and with, at best, a very defective system of mathematics, and an imperfect art of calculation, did they attain to a knowledge of the true astronomical system of the universe? To start the hypothesis, that they learned and borrowed it all from the Egyptians, would only be to remove the question a step farther back, and not really to answer it. But even if we were to admit the fact, such an assumption would only, as regards the essential question with respect to the Pythagoreans and the origin of their science, increase their merits and their glory. For in the same way as we observed on an earlier occasion, with reference to Moses and the Hebrews, it must have been by the exercise of a rare wisdom, that while they selected all that was best and most valuable in Egyptian science, they rejected so much that was pernicious, and laid aside so much that was likely to lead them astray, and even the impious magical superstitions that were to be found there.