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

by Friedrich von Schlegel

Of the outer senses, the eye is incontestably the most spiritual. The ear, whereby we are sentient of sounds, words, and voices, and melody, and all music, corresponds to the soul; while the sense of material feeling, which is also destined to be the ministering organ and guardian of the health and welfare of the body, is corporeal, and corresponds to the principle of organic life. After the loss both of sight and hearing, the body may both be and long continue healthy and vigorous; whereas a defect in the sense of feeling, so soon, at least, as it became general and total, would be the commencement of death, or at least appear to be so, since diseases temporarily take this form. However, this third and corporeal sense of feeling is not always entirely external and grossly material. It may develop itself, at least by way of exception (since the sense of art in the eye and ear is not universal), as a sort of intellectual perception, though still a physical feeling of kindred life and of the inner light, which often gives rise to a peculiar and remarkable immediate natural sense (not to call it an instinct) for the invisible, which is enshrouded within the outward phenomena of life. And though some would fain deny the reality of this capacity, still, inasmuch as its existence is a matter of fact, adequately confirmed by experience, as great, if not greater error may be committed in the opposite direction. Because this acute natural sense does unquestionably often arrive in a most wonderful manner at a just and right conclusion—or this instinct make most remarkable divinations—we must not, therefore, exalt it at once into a kind of invisible, infallible, and, as it were, omniscient oracle. For such is not to be met with in the path of psychology, nor in the whole circle of faculties which belong to man as man, and least of all in that critical point of transition out of the ordinary perception of consciousness into a complete state of unconsciousness, and from this again into a clear and bright consciousness; which point, even on this account, seeming to stand midway between light and shade, exhibits here and there a strong resemblance to the world of dreams. Such, in general, is the limitation of the human intellect, that reason, as has been already often remarked, can never be regarded as an unerring oracle and infallible organ of truth; neither is the clearest understanding and the most experienced artistic sense, even in its own peculiar sphere, always unerring. Still less can either the will or the fancy make such a claim. Even the inner voice of conscience, although its name alludes directly to an inward knowing, and the certainty thereof,[69] is not always and universally recognized as such an infallible guide—otherwise many a thinker and writer on the subject would not have set up, as necessary to explain at least some cases, the idea of a mistaken conscience. It appears, then, that this natural sense, even where it exists in the greatest strength and clearness, must be always regarded as an entirely individual and peculiar gift, and can only be understood and judged of as such. This remark involves, perhaps, the most important consideration, which, in judging of it, we must always keep in view. Moreover, even where it really and decidedly exists, whether in a state of complete or half-consciousness, or in full conscious wakefulness, it always requires the closest observation and the most watchful care before it can attain to its full perfection; for its development must be extremely slow and gradual. In this respect it must resemble the expansion of that high and spiritual sense of art which forms a bright and luminous point within the material organ of the ear or eye—which lies enshrouded in the external organ like a spiritual germ, or—as we may justly term the artist’s vision as compared with that of other men—an eye within the eye.

We have now taken a general view of the whole human mind, finding it to comprise four great fundamental faculties of the first class, and then certain secondary ones—viz., memory and conscience, with the appetites and external senses, which, at least in the psychological point of view, appear to be mixed forms or derivatives of the former. The four first are occasionally found combined together in due proportion. When this combination is the natural endowment of genius, they attain to their noblest energy, and even by a lively and careful development, they often attain to a most exquisite unity of operation. Mostly, however, we meet with a decided preponderance and exclusive ascendency of some one, which in its external effects is only limited and checked by the fact that it is thus isolated. The four rarely co-operate together; and, for the most part, by their dissension they prove checks and hindrances to each other. But not merely in the individual and his personal life and conduct do these four fundamental forces display such strength and vital energy in the grand development of the whole human race; and in its history we may also observe the same fact. Among the Greeks we recognize, distinctly and clearly, a profound and ingenious intellect predominating in life, no less than in art and science; in the Romans, an irresistible and sovereign force of will, reducing the world to its subjection, and often no less gloriously imposing laws on itself; in the Christian middle ages, the lovely devices of fancy giving its bold shapes to life itself as well as to art; and lastly, in modern times, reason squaring every thing to the measure of its own mind and laws, coupling often, and associating, or, by its middle terms, equating together the remotest elements, and not less frequently exercising a destructive energy against all, and even against itself. Thus this ground-scheme of human consciousness, which formed the first result of the psychological investigation of our own selves, meets us here also on a grander scale as a part of the world’s history, and in the large dimensions of successive ages and centuries, as the first striking result in the history of man’s civilization during the twenty-five centuries which, as lying nearest to our own times, we are best acquainted with. Much as may be wanting to fill up, both in the commencement and the middle—much, in short, as it would be necessary to add or more closely to define, if it were our object to draw a universal sketch of the four historical epochs and ages of the civilization of the world within the limits best known to us, yet for our immediate object these mere hints are sufficient; for they prove how, even in history, in its place each of these four fundamental powers of man developed itself in the most decided form and displayed a marvelous and uncontrollable energy. Here, too, we see that an intrinsic equilibrium between these several powers forms in general but the rare and happy exception, while on the whole it is mostly wanting. Indeed the absence of a complete vital union and co-operation is but too painfully felt and perceived in the history of the world.

Quite different, however, is the case with the mixed and mediate faculties of the second rank, which are derived from the former. To these may be applied the remark we lately made on the American tribes and languages, in relation to that degradation of the human race so especially noticeable in them, and its still advancing degeneracy and dismemberment. The external senses, whose meager powers of cognition are but a sorry make-shift for man’s mind, which in its thirst of knowledge would embrace all existence, the Godhead, and the universe, are narrowly restricted to the material world immediately around him. From such slight and unpromising beginnings, science is no doubt occasionally able to evolve many a great and noble truth. And even in the external senses themselves a feeling of art or a clear and pure sense of nature gleams forth at times, like a little spark of purer light. Still even here many and great impediments affect them and their sure application. Memory, too, is on the whole little more than a mechanical readiness, with difficulty acquired, and soon weakened and blunted. The appetites or instincts are liable to numberless aberrations and passionate excesses. As to conscience, there is but too much reason to fear that it is for the most part in a state of weakness and apathy, dwarfed and mutilated in its powers and operations. At least, the remark is no very strange one that conscience, which has an ear as well as a small, still voice, does not always hear very quickly, and often fails to hear very much that it might and would do well to listen to. Whether there are not men who in this respect may be considered perfectly deaf, is a question which can only be answered by an accurate and specific history of human crimes, or by those whose calling it is to study this sad and gloomy side of the picture of human life. Such complete moral deadness as this, however, which happily forms a rare exception in humanity, may, perhaps, be rightly regarded as a kind of moral imbecility for all higher and moral sentiments, even though it is frequently accompanied with great clearness of intellect and a high degree of instinctive shrewdness or cunning. On the other hand, the cases are probably rare, where the delicate moral sensibility or inward perception of right and wrong among nobler natures, is developed in such purity and strength, and carried to such a height of perfection and stability, as the musical ear and artistic delicacy is by great musicians and amateurs of the art. Probably, too, it is more suitable, and also more profitable, for human nature in its present degraded state, that its higher senses and organs for the invisible should not manifest themselves in us in all their extreme and overpowering energy, and for the most part should but shine with a subdued light, or, as it were, gleam through some shrouding envelope. Even of the conscience this is true. At least, it admits not of denial that a few moments’ brief enjoyment of a truly bright and clear-sighted conscience would be enough to tear the soul forever from its present indifference, and to plunge it into an abyss of unspeakable grief, for which earthly language possesses no adequate expression, and for which the human bosom has no suitable notes of lamentation and mourning. It is, therefore, only the greater proof of beneficence if the invisible world, and the mysteries of eternal woe which await the lost spirit—in comparison with which every earthly pain and all earthly suffering are as nothing—is in mercy shrouded with a veil, which only seldom and on rare occasions may lawfully be lifted. Now, generally, it is at the uttermost confines of error, in the very depths of degradation, and the lowest level of narrow-mindedness, that the first higher impulse and beginning of happier times exalts itself, opening out the way of return to a newer and better life. The same probably may be the case in our present shackled and distracted consciousness. Those very gross mistakes and aberrations to which the limited and discordant faculties are liable, may furnish the common basis for the growth of another vitally complete and harmonious co-operating consciousness.

For now that we have, by the enumeration of these eight faculties, made a complete sketch of the human consciousness, the question may arise, naturally enough, “Which is the common center of this sphere, or what is there found or demonstrable in this center?” It was with a view to this question that I attempted to give a refined interpretation of the Platonic idea of the anamnesis, taking it to mean the recollection of a higher love, not so much in a former existence as of and from eternity. We explained it, consequently, to be a species of transcendental memory. And in this sense we justified it, demonstrating at the same time, in that other region which is formed of man’s instinct and desires, the existence of the pure idea of infinite longing as the highest effort of the human soul. The sense of art, and profound feeling of natural beauty, which belong to true artistic genius, are recognized as being in their sphere extraordinary endowments. In the same way no one will wish to deny that the moral feeling, as the natural expression of the inner voice of conscience, constitutes in social life the fundamental condition and the surest foundation for all lofty and noble sentiments. Thus feeling is that center which we were in search of, of the otherwise divided and distracted consciousness. I might call it the moral feeling, only then it would not be of so universal an application as it really is. For the moral aspect constitutes only a single view and energy of the whole, since the feeling of art, and every other kind of higher sentiment, belongs equally to it. With much greater propriety I might term it the inner, by way of distinction from the external and material sense of feeling. Less clear than the understanding, and not so decided or definite as the will, with more vitality and life than the reason, but at the same time more narrowly limited than the fancy, the immediate sphere of individual existence—feeling, occupies the central space between the four fundamental faculties, as well as between the four intermediate faculties of the second order. It is the apparently indifferent, but in truth the full and living center of consciousness, where every vibration of all the other isolated powers meet and cross, either neutralizing each other, or combining together into new life and harmonious co-operation It admits, indeed, of the most various degrees of development and of every kind of progression, from the simplest, almost indifferent, and passive sense of mere existence, up to the highest and self-sacrificing enthusiasm, which heeds no form or phase of death, or up to that highest state of rapture which loses itself on the very verge of unconsciousness. In this respect we might well say, with the poet, “Feeling is all.” It is the center of life, and the heart of the whole, each single and individual faculty, in and by itself, being, as compared with it, but “noise, powder, and smoke,” “shrouding the bright empyrean.” And yet this center of the consciousness is not, however, such as to be able, by its inherent force and activity, to organize and regulate the whole, holding in union all those otherwise isolated powers and states of the human mind. In this respect it is, on the whole, passive. Indeed, viewed in a more accurate light, feeling is not so much an individual and peculiar faculty as an entirely formless and indefinite, but still vitally moved and frequently excited, condition of the consciousness, which is to form the point of transition from its present state of fourfold division, into the living, perfect, and harmonious co-operation of its triple state. When reason and fancy have ceased to be divided, being restored to oneness by the living feeling, but are blended together in the thinking and loving soul, we have the basis on which a restoration of the consciousness to harmony and perfection must in every case be commenced. When the great faculty of the understanding no longer stands aloof by itself, coldly inactive; when the strong will ceases, by its blind obstinacy, to impede its own efforts; when the two have now grown together into an effectual potency of the life-enlightened spirit, in which every thought is at once an act, and every word a power (a state which is only possible and attainable in this center of a higher love)—we have then the second step on the path of return to the original perfection of the consciousness.

But before I attempt to add to this scale of progression the last term which is yet wanting, I must episodically introduce and discuss another question. It relates to the phenomenon of judgment, which as yet has not had its place assigned to it in the consciousness. Is it to be considered as an independent faculty of the soul, and in what relation does it stand to the other mental powers? Now, by judgment, in the merely logical sense, nothing more is understood than the connecting of a predicate with a subject. For instance, in the complete syllogism, “All men are mortal: Caius is a man, therefore Caius is mortal,” the minor premise, where the middle or general term is specially applied, and, consequently, predicted of an individual, alone forms such a judgment. Now, since it is the reason that logically connects thoughts together, it is not easy to see why this one act, by which the predicate and subject are connected, should be separated from all others and set up and regarded as an independent and especial faculty. For by so doing nothing is explained, and an unnecessary addition is made to the subdivisions (already too numerous) of the human mind and its thinking powers. Quite otherwise, however, is it with another class of judgments, which, in fact, are highly deserving the name. For these in their proper sphere actually decide. And their decisions are generally regarded as authoritative because they are based on natural talents, a practiced eye, a multifarious and extensive experience, a long study of the matters they are concerned about, which in practice render them more or less certain and trustworthy. In this case the act of judgment is no simple function of the thinking faculty. It is, rather, the sum of the manifold elements and spiritual perceptions on which it exercises itself, and which it presupposes. For the most part it is the highly complicated and composite result of many fundamental premises. We can not, however, reckon this higher function of judgment in any particular sphere as a peculiar mental faculty, since in such a case a special one must needs be assumed for every one; for a right discrimination in any one sphere does not by any means imply equal certainty in another. Moreover, the several species and branches of the general gift are found to exist quite separately and distinct from each other. Since, then, the general notion of an independent faculty does not afford a satisfactory explanation of the phenomena of judgment, we must seek it in some other direction. And here a few examples will greatly tend to illustrate the whole matter. How much, for instance, is comprised in a genuine artistic judgment! It is compounded of a multitude of observations, impressions, reflections, and emotions. And yet the opinion resulting from all these is simply one, and definitely comprised in one simple sentence. Suppose the opinion pronounced to be, that this or that beautiful and ancient painting is not from the master to whom it is commonly ascribed, but belongs, rather, to this or that other school. Of course I am not supposing the case where such an assertion can be proved historically by documentary evidence. In such a case the decision would turn on a matter of fact, and not on judgment—at least, not on true artistic judgment. The judgment in question must principally, if not entirely, be drawn from the work itself—from the style of the handling, and similar indications, by a practiced and almost infallible tact. So various, in short, and manifold are the observations on which such an artistic judgment depends, that they often furnish matter for a whole book, or, at least, for an essay. Whenever, however, it is really artistic discernment, and not merely historical knowledge, that is involved, we invariably meet with some one point or other which does not admit of mathematical demonstration, and on which the ultimate decision must be left to each man’s personal judgment, or that immediate perception which forms a feeling of art. Most justly, therefore, does our language closely connect the two expressions. For a true artistic judgment [Kunsturtheil] is itself nothing else than this intuitive feeling of art [Kunstgefuhl] applied to a special case or subject, and brought out in perfect clearness and comprised in a definite shape. Just so it is in the sphere of social life with regard to the judgment on what is proper—the feeling, in short, of propriety. Here, for instance, it is no uncommon question whether this or that word, spoken in some delicate posture of affairs, was really necessary, exactly what was right to be said and thoroughly suitable, or altogether ill-chosen and unseasonable. Or with regard to some step still in contemplation, it may be disputed whether such or such a method be the best and the most appropriate. How many little niceties and delicate considerations are here involved, which a fine feeling can alone enter into! What various and intricate contingencies, for which it is often difficult to find words sufficiently expressive, must such a judgment take into account, in its deliberation on such matters! And in social converse on such instances, is not the casting-voice generally left to the acute sensibilities and quick tact of woman?

For in all such cases the decision invariably depends upon an immediate feeling of propriety, which, though first called forth and developed by the social intercourse of life, is in truth original and innate. Such, indeed, it must ever be. For where it does not exist naturally, it can never be learned nor artificially acquired. The original want of this inward feeling can never be replaced by any varnish of external culture, however brilliant. And the case is also the same even in the sphere of science; for instance, in the shrewd, searching glance by which the skillful physician takes his diagnosis of disease; or in the clear, perspicacious sagacity which enables the judge, in some highly complicated suit or doubtful criminal trial, to seize the right point on which truth and justice hinge. For in judicial cases, with much that admits of demonstrative proof, or which, as matter of fact, is unquestioned, there is still more where nothing but this psychological penetration, long practiced in such matters, and to which past experience has given confidence in itself, can immediately see through all the sophistical wiles not only of the pleadings and the skillful advocate, but also of the litigant parties themselves, or of the crafty criminal.

The same remark applies also to a sphere, apparently, indeed, related to the one last mentioned, but, in fact, essentially different and widely remote from it. I allude to the unerring tact of the experienced statesman, by which he not only penetrates, through his knowledge of mankind, the political designs of others, but is also enabled to read the great events of the world and their tendencies, and infallibly to seize the right moment for action.

In all these instances (and many others might easily be added) it is upon an immediate perception or feeling of what is right that the decision finally turns. And this fact is almost confessed by such expressions as a “penetrating glance,” an “unerring tact,” and many similar ones to be found in our own and other highly cultivated languages. Such a judgment may, therefore, not inaptly be termed an intellectual feeling; for it implies the existence of intellect. And this not only as an inborn natural talent, for the special domain within which the judgment is to be exercised, but, moreover, a certain development of the understanding, strengthened by long practice, and confirmed by varied experience in the particular province. But still, with this intellectual element there is invariably mixed a feeling, or immediate perception, of what is right and just. It is this, in short, that properly decides and makes the opinion ultimately expressed to be a judgment. On this account I can not attribute the act of judgment exclusively to the understanding, for the former involves something more than the simple intellection of a single object. It comprises, at the same time, a rigorous distinction between two objects, or a decision between yes and no. Perhaps, therefore, the best and most perfect explanation of judgment would be to call it an intelligent feeling of a correct discrimination, comprised and expressed, and also communicated to others, in a general form. The last-mentioned quality, however, does not always belong to the judgment, since it often remains merely internal; at least, it does not form an essential or necessary part of it.

Thus, then, this digression (though, in truth, it is not properly a digression, since the question concerning the faculty of judgment, and the position it occupies in the whole soul, is essentially connected with the consideration of the latter) has again led us back to feeling, as the living center of the entire consciousness, where all its extreme tendencies converge and reunite. Here it is that the dull and unpromising state of calm, contemplative indifference meets together with the highest excitement of energetic activity, the lowest and most insignificant states of consciousness being found there, as well as the most exalted and most sublime—the enthusiasm that carries all before it, no less than the clear self-possession in the spirit’s feeling of a discernment of truth, or, as I called the judgment, an intelligent perception of what is right and just. In this advance of feeling in the mind or spirit [geistigen] up to that height of self-possession and clearness at which it receives the name of judgment, the former bears the same relation to the latter as the mere thought, in its first vague generality, does to the notion which I have defined to be a thought perfectly divided into its organic members, and mathematically measured both inwardly and outwardly—both, i.e., as to extent and comprehension.

Now, this inward feeling, taken in the full comprehensive sense of the word, is the same as what I previously called sense, when I spoke of the human consciousness as consisting of spirit, soul, and sense. In these places, however, you will remember, I reserved to a future opportunity the further and closer determination of the relation in which this general sense stands to the other two elements of the mind. But inasmuch as the notion of sense always carries us back to a special kind of sensation, limited and only open to a special sphere of objects, the expression of an inward feeling seems far more strictly appropriate to the third element of the mind. For the term feeling, by its vague generality, comprises all objects of consciousness, or, in other words, all kinds and species of a higher sense. Now, this higher and all-embracing internal feeling is the starting-point from which we must set out if we would hope to arrive at the complete reunion and living co-operation which marks the consciousness in its original threefold state. It is not, however, the key-stone of consummation. It is simply the foundation on which all the rest must be built, or it is the deep fountain out of which rich nourishment springs up on all sides for the other two elements of the mind, viz., the soul and the spirit. The latter two, in fact, constitute the whole essence of the inner man. Now, since the spirit is an active faculty, while the soul, though possessed of a creative vitality, is on the whole mostly passive, their undivided union and constant co-operation may, by way of figure, be designated as an inner intellectual union or marriage in the consciousness. Indeed, we might not inaptly explain man’s essence as consisting in the spirit being wedded to its soul, and in the soul being thereupon clothed with an organic body. But, to pursue the same metaphor: this marriage between spirit and soul is not always a happy and harmonious union. Whenever the soul, drawn off by every external impression and attraction, loses itself in the manifold ways and by-ways of the material world, or wanders to an unsafe distance with fancy, as she roams at liberty amid the things of sense; whenever the spirit, trusting to its own inherent powers, follows their dictates alone, and recognizes nothing above, and disregards all that is without, itself, then this marriage is invariably distracted by passionate discord and unquiet. Here, perhaps, as well as in the external world, the words apply: “What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.” A complete and total divorce is indeed scarcely conceivable, such is the coherence of the living consciousness. By death alone is it possible to be brought about, or perhaps also by that flaming sword of the Holy Word, which it is said pierces to the bone and marrow, dividing soul and spirit. Where the first bond of union was given by God, it must be maintained and continually strengthened by recurring to this supreme center, if it is to be permanent and to look finally for perfection. This is only possible where the spirit recognizes a divine standard above itself, and where, in all its thoughts, works, and deeds, it acts upon this exalted principle, and where also the soul seeks before all things this eternal center of love, and is ever reverting to it. In such a case both soul and spirit are united in God, or at least are ever yearning for such a union. And, in truth, nothing more is required of man than what has always and every where been required of him, though, alas! this requisition has seldom been fully realized. God, then, is the keystone which holds together the whole human consciousness; and this is the point to which our investigation has, step by step, been leading us. And now our notion of the whole scheme and delineation of the human mind is complete.