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

by Friedrich von Schlegel

It is far, therefore, from being requisite that philosophy, following the mathematical sciences as a handmaid, should endeavor servilely to copy them, as has been so often erroneously done, and, in spite of experience of its impracticability, over and over again attempted. Still, with a true view of a living philosophy, mathematical science, however dead in itself, and even fatal to a higher spirit, attains under profounder apprehension to intrinsic significance, and becomes elevated and ennobled. The true method (that, namely, which alone deserves to be so called, the method of truth) is based on the simple process of thought and its living development, in which one thought springs and unfolds itself naturally from another, and rigidly excludes all that is foreign and repugnant. The true method does not move in paragraphs and numbered propositions, making an outward parade of an apparently strong chain of evidence, in which, however, a rigid scrutiny often detects some specific link in the chain totally valueless and without illative force, or at least weak and far from cogent, or placed in a false position, to which it has properly no reference, and only in appearance filling the void it covers. Thus it is also with what we call system, or systematic. We are indeed accustomed to employ this word in a twofold sense—either to convey praise, or in an evil and deprecatory signification. In the latter use we say, “This or that work is nothing but a system,” or, “According to this or that system.” But by such phrases, when criticising any comprehensive theory of scientific thought, we do not mean that the work is entirely without foundation, purely and absolutely imaginary. For in such a case it would hardly be worth while to spend more words upon it. Our meaning rather is, that while containing something that is true, and much that is excellent, undue importance is ascribed to the system, or too much is inferred from it, every thing being forcibly made to agree with it, and itself carried beyond the limits of sober truth: in a word, that the systematic coherence is only external and specious, and the result of much labor and art. In reality this is very frequently the case. This course is too often pursued in the theories and discoveries of modern science, especially in those branches which stand in the closest relation to physical life and its preservation, and are consequently most influenced by the fashionable ideas of the age. Some happy thought, bearing the very stamp of genius, some ingenious idea or entirely new view is started; on this foundation a system is forthwith raised, either by the author himself or his followers and disciples. Embraced with the ardor of enthusiasm, the novel theory is further extended and promulgated, and becomes the watchword of a sect or party, until, degenerating into a mere fashion, and being borne up awhile by the eddies of the moment, it sinks at last into insignificance, and is swallowed up by the vast stream of time. When once the matter has reached this point or this stage in the pathology of human thought and opinion, then that first idea and original invention may be considered as good as defunct, or at least is, as it were, buried alive, and the true vital principle which originally animated it is no longer perceptible.

But in a good and legitimate sense we may characterize a scientific work or a scheme of thought as systematic, or as forming a system in itself, and as such approve of it, if only it possesses the virtue of internal consistency, and the spirit of unity pervades and animates it. And if this consistency of idea be really intrinsic and spiritual, and at the same time living and natural, it will be easily recognized in its perspicacious simplicity of form and expression. It will need neither the external display of systematic precision and prolix demonstrative argumentation, nor the apparently rigid concatenation of paragraphs, in which, however, the forced connection and the panoplied array of propositions form but a poor device to conceal the deficiency of intrinsic life and unity.

The case is precisely the same with the science of human thought and philosophy, as with external life and daily experience. Nothing is more highly estimated in society, business, or politics, than an active and consistent character. Properly speaking, this example is not so much a simile as the very thing itself, or the same subject viewed from another ground or in a different relation. But this high and rare property of a genuine consistency of character does not depend on the delivery of a multitude of philosophic adages in and out of season, or the specious thrusting forward of moral maxims, but rather manifests itself amid general reserve and silence, by its straightforwardness of action, or when it speaks, by the clear simplicity of its language. So is it also with consistency of idea in philosophy. The intrinsic and vital unity of a comprehensive system of thought—the systematic coherence which results from a reigning idea of the whole, reveals itself and is to be known by a simple and familiar form of expression, not unlike that of a friendly conversation, and is not exclusively confined to any prescriptive or preconceived formula of the schools or artificial method.

But in respect to academical instruction, and the position which philosophy either may or ought to occupy therein, I have one remark to add. If I may judge by my own experience, or by what I have at times observed in others, either when as a youth I was an academical student, or when afterward, as a visitor at several of the German universities, I took part in the scientific pursuits, and occasionally as a lecturer propounded my own views and opinions, a decided and striking division seems to subsist between philosophy and the peculiar scientific studies proper to the future wants of life. This is, however, less the case with the study of medicine, which, being founded on, and conversant with, the science of nature, stands in a close relation to philosophy. Still even the prosecution of this natural science proves distinctly enough that the interests of general science follow entirely different paths from such as are most eligible, and more especially conducive to the acquirement and collection of particular information. Still more does this apply to that numerous class who devote themselves to civil professions, and whose future life is to be employed in political departments. By them philosophy is pursued as a mere collateral and secondary object of study, as a half-superfluous intellectual luxury. But this she nowise admits of; she demands an earnest and devoted affection, and must be embraced with the full ardor of love. It is in this very earnestness of purpose, and this genuine attachment and enthusiasm, that it has its source and being. Hence we may often observe many a studious youth attracted by the general question as to the nature of the human soul, and by these sublime investigations into the mysteries of existence. Under the influence, as it were, of some magical spell, he is absorbed in them so as completely to forget and lose sight of the studies appropriate to the calling he has chosen, or at least to neglect them, viewing them as comparatively secondary, while others of more practical tendency steadily devote themselves to the study of their profession, and confine themselves exclusively to its pursuit. Rigidly rejecting the metaphysical charm and seduction of system, as a dangerous lure, they care little, if at all, for the contempt with which the other class, whom dialectic speculation has bewitched into forsaking its proper object of study, looks down upon them as incapable of rising to the height of its own exalted argument. Now, if I might venture to hazard a suggestion for the removal, or at least the accommodation, of this alienation from, not to say opposition to, philosophy, which exists in the tone of our German universities, and if it be not out of place here to enter into this matter, my first desire and advice would be, that the study and course of philosophy should be kept entirely distinct from that of the profession or the particular science which is learned with a view to future avocations in life. In such a case philosophy might most advantageously be taken up by the student after the completion of his other studies, in short, at the conclusion of the whole academical course, setting, so to speak, the crown upon it, and forming the last step which the pupil must take before he enters upon the realities of life.

Moreover, there is no leisure for idle meditation during the years of academical study—that period of preparation which few have a second time afforded them, and which, being entirely practical, ought to be specially devoted to the perfect mastering of the special sciences which in after-life are to occupy us. It is rather in our later and maturer years, after the acquirement of the particular professional knowledge, and even in the midst of the active business of life, that leisure, together with a convenient opportunity, or a natural occasion, is afforded for that meditation with which philosophy ordinarily begins, but which in its results remains no idle speculation; or for that apparently superfluous inquiry, which, however, investigates a subject more necessary and more essential to man than all else.

So much—if it has not been indeed too much—I believed it requisite to say concerning the form of philosophy, not so much to justify or to excuse that which in the present case I could alone adopt, as rather from this point of view also to establish the independent position, and to depict the lofty aims of philosophy. For if philosophy is nothing less than the actual science of life (and the skeptical query whether such a science be either possible or attainable by man, will in nowise affect the question; for if the doubt concerning the nature of life, or life itself, is suggested by life, and consequently is living and real, it amounts to the same thing, and the objection applies alike to the doubt or the certainty)—if, I repeat, the object of philosophy be the sublime conception of our inner life, struggling to unravel the mystery of its own being, how can it be right, or how could a wish arise to exclude from it one half of humanity, or society, or of civilized life? The proper sphere of philosophy, no less than of art, is the whole civilized public. This is the body in which it must circulate, and to which its action must be applied. The specious ground for such an exclusion can only be looked for and discovered in the ordinary school form, which indeed, as I have endeavored to show, is by no means essential to it, but rather a mere accident, which is so far from being necessary, that it is not even of universal application.

If, therefore, the subject-matter of philosophy is the whole inward life of man, if its end is the solution of the ever-recurring questions of the speculative consciousness, and the reading of the enigma of existence, or however else we may choose to characterize and express it, it is assuredly something of a distinct and more exalted nature than any of the preparatory sciences which make up the academical course of study for the specific objects of some limited calling and profession. The philosophy of life, as it sets out only with one simple position—life, viz., man’s inner life—is restricted to no particular sphere, but embraces them all in their fit season and occasion. When, indeed, in the youthful, not to say childlike spirit, standing on the threshold of expectation, this inward feeling of life or consciousness has not as yet shaped itself into an ardent speculative curiosity, or a grave and melancholy questioning, or when at least, it has not passed through the first stage of thoughtful wondering, then it is as yet too early for the awakening of philosophy—that inward search after truth and meditation on the nature of our existence and consciousness, that self-examination, those half-doubting yearnings after an unknown love. Youth, inexperienced and undeveloped, may reasonably be supposed to be excluded from a participation in this natural field of philosophical speculation, although even in this, as in every other case, it is extremely difficult to define the precise limits. It would also be idle to repeat the remark so often insisted on by the sages of antiquity—that where life is totally absorbed in the business or pleasures of life, or distracted by the cares of avarice or ambition, so that, strictly speaking, no voice from within is heard, no soul-cherished feeling or sentiment, nay, even scarcely a thought purely spiritual, still survives, or finds a place in that world-engrossed bosom—there philosophy finds no ear for her sublime revelations of the inner life, nor dares hope for a responsive echo to her high-soaring meditations, and that profound emotion from which it draws her own birth.

Philosophy, I said, takes nothing for granted but life—an internal life, that is. The more perfectly, the more manifold the aspects, and the more comprehensively within the given limits under which this life which it supposes is viewed and studied, the more easily will it fulfill its object, the sooner will it attain to that which constitutes its proper end and aim. For this aim is to render clear and intelligible, both to itself and others, that higher life, whose existence it assumes as the necessary basis of its speculations. But how would this primary postulate, this natural basis of philosophy of life, be restricted and limited, if the sex which is so pre-eminently marked by strong and deep feeling should be entirely excluded from the sphere of its inquiries. Indeed, according to a more liberal, comprehensive, and enlarged point of view, such as is most consistent with the true nature of things, youth, with its enthusiasm and quick sensibility for the beautiful—its first and most exalted love—is not to be exclusively given up to the fine arts. As the latter are elements of life, and very important elements too, they can not be excluded from the sphere of philosophy, but, on the contrary, form no inconsiderable portion of its general problem. The objection, however, might be raised, that these, the best and fairest of the gifts which nature dispenses with a liberal and benignant hand, are but transitory, and that they wither and disappear before the first rude touch of external circumstances that limits their free play; so that, to judge from appearances, they scarcely can abide, or be steadily kept up to the gravity of philosophical contemplation. Often, it may be urged, some unpropitious destiny, some sudden storm of fate, overwhelms and destroys them, stripping the youthful tree of life of all its leafy honors before it has properly put forth its blossoms. This, no doubt, is perfectly true. In most cases, however, the destroying principle does not come from without. Fortune and external circumstances have little to do with it. It lies rather in the inner impetuosity of passion, in self-will, or some other dark shade of character, perverting and bringing jarring discord into the most exalted feelings of the soul. Would it not be well and especially advisable to place from the very first these tender and delicate flowers of youthful feeling within the influence, and under the action of an inward illumination and reflection, as the only probable means of imparting to them greater hardihood and durability, and thereby to convert the fair but ephemeral flowers of youthhood into the mature and enduring fruit of sincere benevolence, of a generous activity and inward harmony? There is, in truth, no easier or more simple mode by which man can hope to arrive at this end. It is only by means of such inner light, and purity of sentiment and luminous meditation, that we, can hope to work our way to the key-word of existence which shall reconcile every difficulty, clear up every doubt, and attune to harmony every discord. For hereby also will the power be gained which alone can sustain and protect this inner life from every destructive influence. This enlightenment, however, is nothing else than the philosophy of life, and therein consists its essence.

Now, in order to place before us the very center of the entire question, and at least to notice beforehand that which must more perfectly develop itself as, step by step, we trace the natural process of thought, both in life itself and the science of life, one remark is necessary. The soul is nothing less than the faculty of love in man. For this reason, also, the loving soul (if I may here make such an application of the words of a great teacher) is the clear mirror in which we gaze upon the secrets of divine love either reflected or symbolically figured as so many enigmas, which, nevertheless, serve us as light-giving and guiding stars amid the darkness of this earthly existence. And in this pure mirror of our soul we plainly behold the eververdant and immortal plants or hidden flowers of nature, like the dark bed of the deep through the clear waters of a still sea. In this mental mirror nature greets us with features less strange and unknown, and with familiar aspect seems to claim at once a kindred sympathy.

In these slight and passing remarks, I have touched briefly upon many a topic of which the full development must be reserved for our subsequent Lectures. Still, though thus limited, they contain the grounds which to my mind fully justify my adhesion to the opinion which, more than thirty years ago, in the first commencement of my literary labors, I advanced with regard to the question of the propriety of excluding one half of mankind from this region of speculation. And although, in maintaining this sentiment, I have to stand alone in, or even am opposed to, the age in which I live, still on this point I prefer to take as my guide and precedent the ancients, the Socratic school, and, above all, the great master, Plato. And were it necessary, and the present place admitted of it, I might easily, both from ancient history and modern times, adduce authorities enough, both in number and in weight, to refute the opposite opinion, or, rather, prejudice.