Much is there that attaches itself to this principle, or follows from it. It would consequently only lead to confusion were we at present to take a full survey of all these cognate matters and consequences, and lay them before you at the outset. Many of them will arise much more naturally afterward. Even the treating, and the elucidation, of the relation in which the senses, as the third element of the human mind, stands to the other two, and the place which it holds among them, will hereafter come more appropriately before us. And this is especially true of a question which, however, has an important bearing on the matter before us—the question, viz., whether or not some particular faculty, either of soul or spirit, is to be regarded as an internal sense, a moral instinct, or an immediate perception and intuition of the highest and best. And, connected with this inquiry, is the remark, that even in the usual outward senses there lies a spark of higher spiritual perception—such, for instance, as the artistic eye for beauty of form and color, and for grace of motion, or the musical ear for lovely sounds and measures; so that even the senses are not so purely corporeal, so totally material and grossly sensuous, as at the first glance they appear. But there is another topic which here enforces itself on our consideration, and which, for the correct apprehension of the whole matter, is even still more important than that of the relation which sense holds to the other two elements of man’s consciousness. And this is to determine whether these two, soul and spirit, are really different, or whether it be not probable that, as the active and the passive powers and aspects of a higher principle in man, they are, on the whole, one and the same, and consequently ought not, in thought even, to be unduly separated and distinguished. But however this question is to be answered, even though in man they be really and necessarily united, still a relative distinction of them is justified by that preponderance of one or the other which manifests itself at different times and in different relations of life. But a weighty reason exists for supposing that they are essentially two elements. A fair presumption that, after all, soul and spirit are not perhaps one and the same under two several sets, arises from a comparison of man with other created spirits, if only it be allowed us to make a further application of a parallel which, on a certain hypothesis, we have already hazarded. For, however problematical at most the results of such comparisons may appear, still in such cases as the present they are often very useful. They tend, at least, to give a sharp and precise determination of the peculiar and characteristic features of man’s consciousness. Now, the free and pure spirits far surpass man in energy of will—in activity and power—and, secondly, in rapidity and clearness of apprehension, possessing as they do an intellect immediately intuitive. In these properties, as contrasted with the mutability and weakness of man’s vacillating will, the slowness of his groping and erring intellect, the angels have greatly the advantage of man. But, on the other hand, the human mind or spirit possesses in its peculiar creative fertility a vast prerogative, which can not—not, at least, in the same degree—be ascribed even to the pure creatures of light. And, in truth, it is on the soul, which is not merely receptive or sentient, but also inwardly productive, lovingly creative, and ever giving new forms and shapes to the old and common, that the creative faculty of invention, so distinctive of man, ultimately rests. At least, it forms the inner foundation and root out of which it springs and rises. Fancy, indeed, with its external shape and visible manifestion in art, is only one portion of it. But still the other part also of the soul, viz., the reason, when directed to its right end, and so long as it remains within its natural limits, is a faculty of endless intellectual development, infinite advance, and perfectionment. And, in truth, the position is by no means new, that perfectibility or the faculty of endless improvement (which, however, is associated with an equally great and no less infinite faculty of deterioration), is the essential and wholly peculiar prerogative of man. It is his characteristic property. With regard to the other aspect or portion of the same property, the productive fancy namely, and its creative productions, a similar view to our own—and, indeed, under the same parallel and hypothesis—is expressed in the poet’s assertion already quoted—
“Thy knowledge thou sharest with superior spirits;
Art, oh man! thou hast alone.”[63]
Only the term “art” must here be understood in a wide and comprehensive signification, so as to take in language. Or, rather, language itself is the general, all-embracing art of man. For nowhere does art evince its peculiar, internal, and intellectual fertility, its creative faculty of invention, so striking as in this wonderful structure of human language, with its many compartments. Man, we might well say, in general terms, is a production of nature that has attained to the perfection of language. In other words, he is a spirit to whom, before all other creatures, the word explanatory and declaratory, the guiding, the communicative, and even the commanding word, is lent, imparted, committed, or conveyed, and even therein consists his original, marvelous, and high dignity, so far surpassing the ordinary standard of creation.
On this account, therefore, it is only natural and consistent, i.e., agreeable to man’s nature and dignity, that the comparative juxtaposition and parallel which is to lead to a more correct characterization of the human mind, with its peculiar faculties and properties, should, as I said, be directed upward, rather than, as is usually done, downward to the brutes, and to the animal consciousness, if, indeed, we may justly ascribe such to them. Now, in this method of comparison I would go a step farther, for by so doing I hope to promote the more perfect understanding of the whole, and also to arrive at a correct and accurate notion of the several faculties of man’s spirit and of the powers of his soul. Which, then, of man’s faculties or powers may be rightly attributed to the Deity, and which not? To answer this question, however, it is not my intention to enter into any very difficult and abstruse investigations, such as would neither be very apposite to this place, and perhaps (to speak generally) would be absolutely without and beyond the limits of the human understanding. It will be sufficient for my purpose throughout to take for granted what, according to the universal feeling of mankind, is generally admitted, and which is even as generally intelligible, as it is easy of apprehension and clear. But when I thus without hesitation take for granted a universal belief in the existence of a divine principle, notwithstanding the doubt which in the human mind springs up against all else, so also against the highest object of faith, I do so with a deliberate view and purpose. For I shall reserve the solution of this grave problem to a later period of my sketch and exposition of the thinking consciousness and of a true living science. It is there, in truth, that it will find its most natural and appropriate place. Here, however, for the purposes of our intended comparison, which, as the instance itself will prove, is likely to be highly instructive, it will be sufficient if I confine myself to a single remark. The little that we know or can with certainty predicate of God may be comprised almost in the few words, “God is a spirit.” It is by virtue of this proposition that we ascribe to Him an omniscient intellect and an all-mighty will. Both these attributes or powers of God, are, it is self-evident, in the most perfect harmony, and can scarcely be separated from one another; whereas in man they are frequently widely divergent, at times even hostilely oppose each other, and at best do but check and limit their mutual action. Here, however, arises the question whether in strict propriety we may venture to ascribe to the Deity any of the other mental faculties and powers which man is conscious of, though on a greater and different scale, and in a very extended sense?
Now, in the creative energy of God, there is, in truth, comprised the plenitude of all fertility, and, if it be allowable so to speak, an inexhaustible source of all invention.
But still, as every one must at once feel, a productive faculty of imagination and a creative fancy can not on this account be ascribed to Him; for, were we to do so, we should step at once into the domain of mythology with its fabulous gods. And even as little, in strict propriety and accuracy of language, can we attribute to God the faculty of reason, which, in man, is the opposite of fancy. Reason is the connecting, inferring, discursive faculty of thought. But all this, with its graduated series of ideas or conceptions, is not applicable to the Deity, for in Him all must be thought of as standing at once and immediately before the divine mind, or, rather, as directly emanating from Him. Consequently, in a strict sense, and following a rigorous precision of a thoroughly correct designation, we may indeed ascribe to God an immediately cognizant and intuitive understanding, but not reason; since, by this term, it is only by a violent abuse of language and a total conversion of ideas that a faculty of intellectual intuition can be understood. One kind alone, or branch of reason, is immediately intuitive; and that is the conscience, or the moral instinct, for the appreciation of whatever is good or evil, right or wrong. This might not inaptly be called an applied reason; viz., a reason applied to the will and to its inmost motives, and to its just commencing, still inchoate determinations, out of which external actions ultimately issue. But even because conscience is an immediate perception of right and wrong, a moral instinct for good and evil, and, consequently, in form, wholly distinct from that function of reason which infers and deduces consequences, I am indisposed to give it such a name, and would rather regard it as a peculiar faculty of soul or heart, subsisting by itself, and intermediate between will and reason. In any case, it would be superfluous to observe how highly inappropriate it would be to designate by this name that warning or punitive judicial vision with which God looks through and penetrates the inmost heart, even though we must seek here the root and origin of the lucid oracles and simple revelations of the human conscience. As a property, however, it can only be ascribed to those beings who, like man, behold the law of God far above them, but by no means to that Being who is Himself the sum and source of all moral laws. But let us now revert to our first question of the predication of reason to the Deity. If, in our present reigning systems, and especially in the latest German philosophy, reason is, notwithstanding, ascribed to Him, or, rather, the eternal, unconditional, and absolute reason is itself called God, and rationality is made to be His essence; this is but the immediate consequence of the predominantly pantheistic tendency of these systems, in which the Deity is identified with the mundane All, and resolved into the universal essence. For, inasmuch as it was felt that it could not be merely the all-producing and all-absorbing—the all-bearing, infinite, vital power of the heathen systems of nature—and, since a more scientific designation was required, nothing remained for the totally abstract designation of the one All, but the name of that faculty which even in the human mind forms the principle of unity.
No doubt, in the preceding centuries, one or two great teachers have employed very similar, if not identical expressions, in reference to the Deity; still this, to my mind, appears an exception from the general rule, to be explained and justified only by individual terminology and points of view. And, at any rate, it is much safer to follow the ancient usage on this point. Accordingly, I have made it a law scrupulously to observe it throughout. But if people will at once subvert the ancient modes of speech, and completely interchange and confuse the ordinary signification of the terms reason and understanding, then all must naturally turn on the thing itself and the internal thoughts and the proper meaning which lies at the bottom of them. And then, by a due consideration of these, a mutual understanding may perhaps be eventually arrived at, notwithstanding the different modes of speech. With most of the writers and philosophers of the present day this, perhaps, is scarcely to be hoped for. The grave question, however, here (and which, as it lies at the bottom, must ultimately decide on this difference of phraseology), is this—whether philosophy in general is, according to the rationalistic way of thinking, a mere philosophy of reason, or a higher philosophy of the spirit and of spiritual revelation, or, indeed, of a divine experience.
Further, whenever, in the olden phraseology, there are ascribed to the Deity, memory and even desires, not to say impulses, which, viewed nearly in the same light as man’s appetites and passions, are designated by the same terms, all this is to be understood in the same way as the expressions concerning His all-seeing eye, His ear, and His mighty arm. They are merely figurative and symbolical phrases. In the use of them there is no pretension to scientific accuracy, with which understanding and will are universally and actually ascribed to Him. They are devoid even of that apparent probability which gives rise to the question, whether imagination and reason can, with the same propriety as the former two, be attributed to Him. With as little truth can a soul be ascribed to Him. For this is, exclusively, a passive faculty; whereas, in God, all is energy and activity. The expression, however, of a soul of God, is found, by way of exception from the general usage, in a few among ancient writers.
A more correct mode of indicating what is meant by this term would be to say that God is love, and that love is even His essence. Or the same idea would be well conveyed by speaking, under the form of a living force and property, of God’s fatherly heart as the center of His being, of His omnipotence and omniscience, and of the infinite love which results from the two. No doubt even this expression of God’s fatherly heart is merely figurative and symbolical. Still it is one of high significance, and, as such, it is not a mere figure without meaning. For, the higher and profounder spiritual philosophy, from Plato down to Leibnitz, has ever purposely employed such symbols and figures to indicate that which properly is inexpressible. In fact, it has always preferred them to the abstract notions employed by the rationalizing systems of our own lifeless metaphysics of naught, which, as they are void in themselves, so do they in reality say nothing.
Thus, then, has the very first step in this comparative psychology carried us, at once, to the utmost limits of what is knowable by man. Still it has tended, in passing, to place in an eminently distinct light many important matters and essential properties and faculties which belong to our present sphere of psychological inquiry. It is now, however, necessary for me to turn my regards back to the point from which we started. In order to commence our philosophy of life with the center of life and of man’s whole consciousness, we set out from a psychological fact, which immediately impresses itself on the awakening consciousness. This fact is the perception of the discord which reigns in our entire self, and especially of the deep-rooted dissension which, in their usual state, divides the four principal faculties of the consciousness, according to the twofold contrariety of understanding and will, and of reason and fancy. I will here merely add the remark, that further still, another essential property of man, and a state equally characteristic and peculiar to him, is closely associated with, and, indeed, is grounded in this internal discord, viz., the freedom of the will and the state of doubt. Now, this freedom of will which belongs to man is very different from the freedom of God, or even from that of the pure spirits who were first created. The notion of free will, however, is so deeply and firmly grounded in our inmost feelings, that man’s universal conviction of it can never be wholly undermined by any doubts of the reason, however subtilely advanced, and, in appearance, demonstratively urgent. No objection or difficulty can totally extinguish and annihilate the persuasion of its truth within our breast. For even after the greatest shock which our faith in ourselves may sustain, either from reflection or from subtilely refining on the subject—after what, apparently, is a complete refutation of its truth, this divine and inborn prejudice (if I may so term it) of our intrinsic freedom still springs up again. As the inextinguishable vital flame of the spirit, it rises anew from the expiring embers of those deadening doubts, which are themselves nothing more than the dead notions and null phantoms of a false semblance of thought. Now this freedom of will is a liberty of choice, i.e., a will long vacillating between two different series of ideas—of opposing grounds and reasons, and, at last, deciding for one or the other. This volition, however, is, by its nature, so little decided, and frequently finds so great difficulty in coming to a decision, that even when externally it has already concluded its deliberations, it often becomes again undecided and begins anew to hesitate. Or this freedom of choice in man may otherwise be described and thought of as a decision of the understanding, which compares together two different volitions, carefully weighs the conflicting grounds in favor of each, and, at last, in its final judgment, recognizes the preference to one or the other. Consequently, this free will and choice, so peculiar to man, depends intimately and essentially upon that controversy between understanding and will, which, if not inborn, has become, at least, a second nature to him. I have spoken of this freedom of will as peculiar to man, since it is not necessary, and rather would be a most arbitrary hypothesis, were we to go so far as to assert, that, assuming the existence of other free but created essences, our own special kind of freedom is the only possible and conceivable one. Still, for our present purpose, it is allowable to make such a purely hypothetical simile and comparison, if (a point on which the experiment itself must decide) it be likely to render our own peculiar form of consciousness more intelligible and conceivable. In this sense, then, we may go on to say, that we must conceive the liberty of the blessed spirits as being in its essence very different from that of man’s. As such it belongs to beings who have long passed beyond the probation of the still undecided choice, or who, at the very beginning of their existence, were, by the design of the Creator, withdrawn from it, and have, consequently, attained to eternal freedom, together with undisturbed and undisturbable peace in God, who is the sum and inexhaustible source, as well as the unfathomable, of all freedom, no less than of all life.