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

by Friedrich von Schlegel

Under this conviction, I strongly protested, at the very opening of these Lectures, against all such intermeddling of philosophy with matters foreign to it; and I trust that, for my part, I have hitherto duly observed the spirit of that protest. But now, the end which philosophy strives to attain to is a right estimate and full understanding of its own nature, and that of man, both in the internal properties of his mind and in his external existence relatively to God and nature, and also to the world and society. In pursuit of this object, having once found and acknowledged the center of the inner life, such as it is given to us, and setting out therefrom, philosophy can and may, with perfect propriety, submit to investigation the highest ideas of life, and judge them after its own method, and from its own peculiar position. But still it will do this in the hope rather of explaining what actually exists, than of establishing any self-devised ideal of its own, or of setting up impracticable laws for a merely conceivable state of things under the most arbitrary assumptions—for a wholly visionary world.

Consistently, then, with this notion of philosophy, and under this limitation, I have not, I think, deviated in the latter Lectures from the law I originally laid down. Inasmuch, however, as the exposition of a philosophy of life must necessarily be vivid, and consequently requires to be interspersed with historical views and examples, I must request you, looking principally to the ideas which form the essential foundation of these discourses, to judge the latter by the pervading tenor and connection of the thoughts rather than by the several allusions and instances which I have introduced for the mere purpose of illustration. All that is merely personal in the interpretation passed upon those events will, I trust, be looked upon as the private opinions, indeed, but still the unprejudiced conclusions, of an individual.

In the course of these Lectures I attempted, first of all, to establish a firm foundation for the human soul, considered both in its own proper nature and with regard to its most essential relations in life to nature and to God. In the next place, by investigating the order of the divine dispensations in nature, and in the realms of truth and history, it was my endeavor to obtain for it a wider and more solid basis. Lastly, I occupied myself with tracing the course which the Spirit of Eternal Truth pursues in science and in life, and the shapes which in its progress toward perfection it successively assumes. Accordingly, I have pointed out to you, first of all, how this Spirit of Eternal Truth is ever one and the same in the highest science and in divine faith; then, how victoriously it comes forth out of the conflict between faith and infidelity; and, in conclusion, I showed you that, far from being confined to the narrow region of science, it may and rightly ought to enter with an earnest influence into life itself. How the latter duty is actually fulfilled we endeavored to show, by considering the symbolical signification of life, and, as derived therefrom, its higher sanction and divine foundation, especially in public life and the state. And herein the idea of a universal Christian and truly historical justice found a closer application and wider development. And this formed the subject of our last disquisition.

I there sought to elucidate this idea solely and entirely from history. For this purpose I endeavored, by means of historical instances, to set in a clear, discriminating light the opposite and divergent notions of an absolute and of a dynamical or limited monarchy, so far at least as regards the essential features and characteristic constitution of each. As instances of the former, I pointed to the old Roman world and the empire of the caliphs, while the latter was elucidated by the English constitution, in which, as yet, it has attained to its highest and most perfect development. This is, no doubt, a master-piece of political wisdom, wherein an intractable spirit of opposition being adopted, as it were, into the very constitution, is thereby rendered legitimate and its evil tendency is held in check. Still the principle of it can not rightly be viewed in any other light than the wise procedure of the physician who, in the case of an inevitable epidemic, resolves to inoculate the disease in order to be able to control it the better, and by watching more closely its crisis, to regulate its course and issue.

In its true historical place, therefore, this constitution finds its satisfactory explanation and justification; or, rather, deserves our highest praise, the fullest acknowledgment of its merits, and even our admiration. But inasmuch as every feature of it is thoroughly historical and national, and since the slightest local diversity in the character of a people or nation might with different relations and circumstances give rise to wants and difficulties little expected or dreamed of, we must be cautious how we seek to introduce it elsewhere. In the arts it is ever a sorry business to imitate great works of original genius. By such a course little but manner is multiplied. So it is rarely a felicitous idea to suppose that a constitution, though copied from ever so lauded a model, must be suited to all nations alike, and must prove a universal and unfailing source of political felicity—a tree of liberty, which we may transplant at pleasure, or, as it were, a constitutional bill of exchange, which, once endorsed we may put in circulation.

But if the true Gordian knot in that master-piece of polity, the English constitution, remains still an unsolved problem, since that war of religious opinion, which seems at every moment to be threatening an outbreak, is as yet, with consummate skill and prudence, kept under and restrained within its recognized limits, we may see in this fact a further confirmation and justification of the encomiums we recently passed upon the religious peace which has become for us in Germany as it were a second nature, and which, in the place of such a constitution, is to us the guaranty of mental freedom and the pledge of a higher unity than one simply political. It is not a mere dead letter, but it is a living power enshrined in the minds of men. And if occasionally some rash expression in a great and influential writer, or any grievous act on the part of a powerful and leading political character, may seem to menace violence to this religious peace, the general feeling soon pronounces itself against such indiscretion, and the single note of discord is quickly brought in unison with the general harmony, or else dies away without producing any deep or widely-prejudicial consequences. Not, indeed, that the existing differences in religious opinion are a thing desirable—we mean any thing but that by our encomiums on the religious peace. What we really mean is, that in the present state of things such a peace is of the very highest value, and one whose great blessing can only be appreciated fully by those who enjoy it. And nothing but a comparison with other civilized nations in this respect can enable us to understand and to form a full estimate of its value. And if every ordinary treaty of peace between states, whenever it is settled on true and lasting foundations and sincerity of purpose, has an influence on the inward development of mind or spirit in the course of history, and affords, as it were, a calm presage of a higher and a more universal peace of God, how can we look upon this peculiar and internal peace between men’s minds in any other light than as a token of a richer and fuller future, and as a symbol of ultimate perfection and unity?

In our notice of the schism in the faith we made allusion to the possibility of a collision between the two highest and most sacred powers, the civil and the spiritual, according to the distinction involved in the very idea of the Christian life. In order, therefore, to avoid every possible misconception, it seems to be necessary, or, at least, not a superfluous task, to add one brief remark on the extreme case when, in such an unfortunate collision, right and justice are openly violated and set at defiance. If the civil power be the party attacked and unduly interfered with in its legitimate province, it has a perfect right to defend itself, as, indeed, in our days, it is quite able and knows well how to do. The only thing that apparently remains to be desired is, that in the exercise of this right it should observe, as indeed becomes the stronger side, the greatest moderation. But if, on the contrary, the aggression proceeds from this side, and the spiritual power is attacked, then it ought to bear in mind that its legitimate opposition to the civil power ought to assume a material character. Its resistance must never be public and open violence, nor, either directly or indirectly, by means of what we may call machinations, for such a proceeding would undermine the sacred foundations of public confidence, and shake the whole edifice of moral order and society. In the case of such an aggression, religion would deprive herself of her duly-acquired position in the state. But this, so long as the latter remains Christian, religion itself never can and never will do, as neither will those whose duty it is to guide and to minister it in a truly reverent and pious spirit.

The only opposition, therefore, that the spiritual power can rightly and justly make to the aggression of the state must be of a passive nature. It is not necessary to lay down any elaborate and rigorous distinctions for such an emergency; for such definitions rarely meet the complicated variety and special character of every possible or even every actual case. A few historical examples, which readily present themselves, will serve briefly and perspicuously to illustrate the view of duty which we wish to enforce. In the unfortunate case of a great and public collision between the Church and the State, the model of a just and legitimate resistance on the part of the spiritual power has been furnished by the conduct of that venerable old man,[60] whom half of Europe regarded as invested with the highest priestly and apostolical dignity. With calm fortitude, even in bonds, he refused to yield to the military despot, and won the personal esteem and admiration likewise of that other half of Europe which denied his spiritual authority. Or, to take an example from a more limited sphere, and of a more personal nature, we may appeal to the history of the patron saint of Bohemia, which, at least, can not be classed among the legends, and which, in any case, will afford a beautiful and simple example of a noble, perfectly-allowable resistance of a spiritual party against the injustice of the political head of the nation. By such passive resistance, and by such alone, did Christianity, in the earliest centuries, though so unattractive and so lowly at its first commencement, gradually attain a secure external foundation, and become the religion of the whole civilized world. A public outbreak, and even a secret feeling of discontent between the spiritual and the temporal power, between Church and State, is, at all times, and in every case, a great evil, threatening and bringing danger and ruin on both. For the state, as being ultimately founded on a religious basis, undermines its own foundation by assuming a hostile attitude toward religion. No financial difficulties, or any such partial calamities, will ever ruin a people so long as any moral energy still exists in the whole body, and it is consequently sound at the core. Political skepticism, which is the immediate and necessary consequence of infidelity in religion, is the true cause and origin of the decay of nations. These two vital principles of human society, therefore—these two powers, however essentially and necessarily distinct—must work together in perfect peace and unity. For the one can only flourish where the soil has been rendered morally fertile by the other, while the latter can not exercise its full influence except under the sanction of the political power. If religion were at unity in itself, and totally free from party and controversy, and the state, as the public life, were in perfect harmony with it, and thoroughly pervaded by its life-giving spirit, humanity would, by such a consummation, have made a great step in advance toward that divine peace for which every human pacification, however imperfect, is the expression of a profound and imperishable longing—of a pursuit which, though ever attaining, is still never wholly abandoned.

However, the alienation and separation of the civil and spiritual powers seems to belong peculiarly and essentially to, or, rather, to be a necessary law of, the present condition of humanity, still involved in struggle with evil, and not yet having attained to the end of its endeavors. It is much older than men think. It must have existed in the first ages of the world, and in the earliest stage of the Gentile religion. For among the Hindoos, who, as they are the most ancient people that we are acquainted with, are also the most authentic monument that remains of the primeval condition of the human race, we find this separation formally and definitely established. It there forms an insurmountable barrier between the regal and the sacerdotal dignity. On this point it would not be advisable to direct our attention exclusively or even principally to the condition of the priestly class among the Greeks and Romans, since, in the later epochs of these nations, Gentilism had greatly degenerated, and in the more civilized days of these people had lost all its essential forms, and its true spirit had disappeared. But, with that still more ancient people of the Hindoos, the same unchanged law still exists in these days as in the very earliest times. A Brahmin who should attempt to ascend the throne or usurp its powers, or a rajah who should wish to be as a Brahmin, or to suppress and annihilate the Brahminical caste, would be universally regarded as an abomination. The attempt, on either side, would appear an offense against human nature and divine laws. For a mixture or confusion of castes signifies to the Hindoos the very abomination of anarchy; and by this term, in one characteristic word of their language, they designate all revolutionary times, even though, we must observe, such periods among the Hindoos were never more than brief and transitory, the waves of anarchy breaking harmlessly against the everlasting rocks of this ancient and solidly-compact system.

Besides the many other traces of family affinity between the Indian and Teutonic races, another is furnished by the Germanic constitution, which forms the political basis of most European kingdoms. In India the noble class who most especially are bound to military service forms also the caste of the lords of the soil; and from their latter character they also derive their name as a class.[61] Some of the most general and most ancient features of the feudal system have likewise been discovered among them, though not, indeed, its more artificial and complicated system, to which feudalism was in later times developed among European nations. To this landed nobility belong the nabobs and even the rajahs. For it was left open to the fluctuating fortunes of different families to rise or to fall from the summit of political dignity. Between the several grades of honor accessible to a particular caste no insurmountable barrier was raised; all were open to all the members of the same rank or caste.