The combination, however, of single notions into propositions, or complete systems of science, can not, in philosophy at least, follow a mathematical or any similar principle. For philosophy, we have seen, is a science of a higher life, derived from an internal experience. It rests, therefore, on the triple basis, inasmuch as the latter is given from within, from above, and from without. Consequently, the great object here is, naturally, not, as it is in mathematical science, to link together, in apparently rigorous connection, the several phenomena of these higher data, or (if, as some will have it, there be only one) its single momenta, and manifoldly to concatenate them as so many pure schemes and formulæ. The essential point is rather to gain a pure apprehension of the imparted data of this higher life; and rightly understanding them, to clothe them correctly in words, and by giving these again in correct grammatical coherence, to express them clearly and forcibly. But this would imply that the method of thought in this self-cognition of life, thus expressed in words, is of a thoroughly grammatical nature; and then the higher logic—if we must so speak, and isolate and detach the latter, as an elementary science, from its connection with the living whole—the higher logic would consist simply of the rules for this inner language, and be nothing but a correct grammar of living thought. And, in truth, I for my part do believe that it ought so to be treated. And it is from this point of view, and according to the idea thus advanced of such a higher grammatical correctness of thinking, that I shall proceed, whenever any point connected with the form of thought and the right method of science comes into question, or requires to be noticed in passing. An instance will place clearly before our mind the different points of view taken by these two modes of judging and doctrinal methods. In compliance with a similitude which accurately enough corresponds to the truth, let us consider a system of philosophy as a whole period of higher thought, or as a perfect proposition of science. Now, in that estimate of a period of this kind which observes the usual requisitions of mathematical certainty and mode of thinking, it would be said: “This system is wonderful, and quite perfect, for all its positions are rigidly demonstrated.” But even supposing the system were thus rigorously demonstrative in all its parts, still the whole system might be radically false; for it might originally have started from an erroneous principle, or, being devoid of any truly real and abiding subject-matter, be based on some empty phantom of scientific imagination, or the unsubstantial absolute of the reason. But the same system or period of thought being judged from the opposite position of what I have called a higher grammatical method, will be thus spoken of: “It is all empty words, without worth or substance, for nothing in it is taken from actual life, and nothing of the kind has ever been felt in man’s experience.” When, however, the subject-matter is real, and furnished by the realities of the inner life, there, in the special details, much may be wanting, here and there a word may be missing, the structure of the periods of the whole system may not be perfectly distinct, and the general arrangement not sufficiently lucid: occasionally also a faulty and inadequate expression may be met with, and yet the whole work may, nevertheless, constitute a great advance on the road to higher knowledge, and furnish a valuable contribution to truth. With the exception of the case of the total inanity and perversity of view, our judgment must never be indiscriminate or rigorous. Scientific thought in general, and especially in philosophy, consists of notions, intuitions, and judgments, if only the latter term be taken, in its usual logical sense, to signify the combining together notions or intuitions. Now, of the true mathematical mode of proceeding with notions according to the pure and simple acceptation of the Pythagorean mystery of numbers, and, secondly, of what in its inmost essence is a grammatical method—their combination in methodical thought—we have already spoken. As to the inward intuitions that we enjoy of that higher something which is in three ways imparted to us, the mathematical mode of procedure is plainly inapplicable to them. Even the grammatical one ceases to be fruitful here; at least it is unsatisfactory. Natural science, which is itself pre-eminently based on intuition, will perhaps most readily furnish a comparative illustration, calculated to throw light on and explain that perception of a higher something from which philosophy sets out. And this illustration will be best borrowed from those experiences in natural philosophy which appear to seize the fundamental phenomena of nature and her inmost life; even though the experiment itself set before our eyes these wonderful phenomena, and the secrets which are brought to light therein, in the greatly-diminished proportions of scientific abbreviation. Extremely trifling as the imitation of lightning by our electrical apparatus may appear, still that little spark has kindled a great and universal light in the domain of physical science. The magnetic needle, which at first sight was looked upon as an insignificant marvel of nature, taught man first of all to fix his position on this earth and to find it again after quitting it—and so, by leading him on to the discovery of the New World, founded thereby a great epoch in the history of the human mind. Not merely does it point to the terrestrial north-pole, but it also guides the thoughtful observer to the inmost center of nature, where, in this mystery of living attraction, the universal key of interpretation seems to lie hidden. And who would mock or despise the thoughtful naturalist who delights, by the prismatic analysis or division of the elementary colors of light, to produce or copy in miniature the rainbow which spans the heavens?
Now, in these first simple and elementary phenomena, external nature, as it were, spontaneously presents to us beautiful emblems for still higher phenomena belonging to another and internal region. They enable us metaphorically to express the divine phenomenon of truth, and its vivid apprehension and intrinsic adoption, till it becomes a fixed and imperishable knowledge, and to narrate intelligibly the intrinsic genesis of truth and true knowledge. For the following is, if we may so speak, the history of the growth of living science in the human mind, whenever the latter is capable of it, and is raised or raises itself to the height thereof.
The beginning is made by the first kindling spark of truth, which works like the electric shock—by the first ray of knowledge, which afterward gradually expands into the nourishing flame of love.
The second step of further progress is formed by the magnetic attraction of the soul, which from the first contact to the ultimate union, strives still to penetrate more profoundly, and more accurately to investigate the object of its love. In this remark, I proceed on the hypothesis (which hereafter will still oftener be spoken of) that no living cognition is possible or actual without a previous vital contact and union between the knowing and the known.
When, lastly, the moment of completion arrives, then the close of this pursuit of a highest knowledge will be made by that full expansion of divine light which often, like a heavenly token of peace and reconciliation, shines forth in the very midst of the clouds of discontent, and dissolves all doubts before it. But now philosophy, according to the original sense of the beautiful Greek word, does not by any means signify the highest wisdom, the everlasting truth itself, or the perfect science. It denotes rather the pure longing, the love of a genuine knowledge of divine truth, which spiritually conquers and triumphs over every difficulty in the way of its attainment This, then, implies that this science does and must set out from love as its basis. For the indication of this foundation of true knowledge, in its characteristic features at least, natural science has furnished us with the adequate symbols.
LECTURE VII.
“FEELING is every thing,” I would again repeat; in words only does there lie a possibility of misconception. When philosophy sets out from the false semblance of necessary thought, it must always have a similar result. It can not extricate itself from its own subtile web of scientific delusion. Abstract phrases, i.e., words deprived of their living significance (if ever they possessed any) and reduced to empty, lifeless formulæ, are easily found, or, rather, have long since been found, for this seeming knowledge, which as such does, in truth, remain ever identical with itself.[73] And if, from time to time, it changes its expressions and assumes quite a different terminology, this is only done for the sake of appearing new, whereas fundamentally it is still the old error which continues to be propagated in a changed form and dress. Sometimes, no doubt, it is done with an honest intention, under the persuasion that truth and science will, perhaps, in the new magical form be more easily seized and comprehended than was possible in the old one, whose unintelligible obscurity and intricacies were deeply felt, and which it is hoped are avoided in the somewhat altered arrangement of the ideas. But the unintelligible obscurity lies, not in the words and phrases or the terminology, however strange and barbarous the latter may sound. It arises entirely from a defective point of view, and the perversion of thought involved in the very theory of identity; and no phraseology or skill of composition, however unparalleled, will ever be able totally to remove it. Quite otherwise is it when philosophy sets out from the feeling of that which it desires, and which from the very first it has propounded and sought as its proper object. In this case the difficulty does not lie in the thing itself, or in the view on which it is based. For the latter, inasmuch as it results from life itself, and man’s inmost feelings and experiences, is as obvious and intelligible as the visible shape and phenomenon and as the pure consciousness of life itself. At least it is sufficiently clear for all the purposes of life, and sufficiently intelligible for the kindred feelings on which it rests. But in this, as in every other case of profound internal emotion, it is extremely difficult to find the very right word for it, the exact appropriate term which happily seizes and vividly expresses its essential character. Accordingly, in philosophy—so long, at least, as it proceeds from this fundamental principle of life and a living feeling—I think it best not to shackle our thoughts and notions by the fetters of a rigidly-fixed and unchangeable terminology. For such sciences as are distinctly limited to a particular sphere, this method may be profitable and salutary. Indeed, it may not only appear but actually be indispensable. But in the present case it would be inappropriate. We must seek, on the contrary, the greatest possible variety of expression, availing ourselves of all the riches of language in the copious diversity of scientific, and even of poetical and figurative diction, and not refusing to borrow the terms of society or any sphere of life. For our first endeavor must be to keep our exposition vivid throughout. Continually advancing with a living movement, we ought to avoid, above all things, that propensity to using stiff and dead formularies, which almost seems to be inborn and hereditary in rational science. For as the living philosophy is a higher and clearer consciousness, or self-conscious knowledge—a sort of second consciousness within the ordinary one—it requires for its indication and exposition, as it were, a language within language; only the latter can never be a system of lifeless formulæ, but must even be in the highest degree vivid and flexible. The philosophy of life may, in short, borrow its terms from every sphere, but principally from life itself; and even, the fugitive terms and evanescent forms of conversational language will often supply it with the happiest and most pertinent modes of expression. Such, too, it may occasionally borrow from all the subordinate sciences. Even the obsolete and cumbrous terminology—the barbarous school phrases of a recent German philosophy—might furnish many a valuable contribution to that rich copiousness of expression which is indispensable to the philosophy of life. An occasional phrase or term borrowed from this source, but differently applied, or employed in quite a new sense—and thereby for the time rendered intelligible, may often serve to express most happily and most pertinently what before seemed to be almost inexpressible and to elude all the powers of language.
But, above all things, we must remember that its exposition must not be a mere dead framework of fixed terms—a system of empty formularies. This is a point which appears to me to be most intimately connected and mixed up with the very essence and spirit of scientific truth. On this point my feelings are so strong, that if, in that attempt which for some years I have been making to give a new development of philosophy, I could consider it allowable to adopt the course which has so often been followed in German literature and its several school-systems, of detaching some single notion from its general connection, in order more rapidly to gain for it, like small coin, a wider circulation, even though by so doing its peculiar stamp of intrinsic truth is quickly abraded and lost—if, I say, I could bring myself to adopt such a course, I should confine myself to opposing, and using every means to counteract, this killing of the spirit by words which in and by themselves have no signification. If it were possible, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see all the old and customary terms rejected and dropped, and new and different ones found for the same theme.
The philosophy of life—one, i.e., which sets out in its speculations from life itself and the living consciousness—neither can nor desires to be all-comprehensive; not at least in the same sense that that philosophy does which proceeds from the assumption of a necessary connection of thought. It does not presumptuously suppose that it possesses the power of measuring the whole sum of all that is conceivable or possible, and of setting it down as an unalterable result forever. It does not arrogate to itself such omniscience. But in one sense the philosophy of life may justly be called an all-comprehensive science; and that is in so far as, keeping in contact with the center of life, and, consequently, of thought also, and of knowledge, it attempts to seize and rightly to apprehend them. And so long as it does not lose sight of this center, but is constantly returning to it, it may be allowed many liberties. Around this center it may revolve in circles, now narrower now wider, with the view of contemplating it more advantageously, so long as it does not rest too soon in any definite focus of thought. While it refuses to confine itself to any fixed form of language, it may, with unshackled choice, select from the whole range of life and thought whatever expressions appear the most significant and happiest for indicating that fullness of feeling which is so difficult to give words to, and which indeed can never be adequately comprised in language. Nor in such a case will it ever be made an objection if, in the succession of its ideas and its manifoldly varied turnings, it avails itself of the same liberty, frequently coming back to the same starting-point, though always presenting it in some new light and relation. The test of the scientific correctness of a true method of thought, which must ever be living and vivid, is an internal one. It is independent of all such little and external matters, and it can even exist unimpaired alongside of many apparent irregularities. Here the case is nearly the same as with actual conversation. In both alike, when we would express ourselves on any grave point of feeling, and clothe it in such language as is likely to gain the concurrence of others, or, by making it clear, to enforce it upon the general conviction, we feel it perfectly allowable to follow whatever course may seem most convenient. At one time we preliminarily advance some question more or less remotely bearing upon it, or we take up a narrative or simile which will serve to introduce it. Or, it may be, by explanation we try to clear away some possible misconception, or, perhaps, to limit and determine some preconceived opinion on the matter, in the hope of removing or solving some apparent or troublesome difficulty. Some or all of these means we freely make use of in order that the desired result of our discourse may finally stand out clear and distinct before the mental eye of our auditors. I shall, therefore, I think, be justified if I follow the same course in these Lectures which it is my wish should leave on your minds the impression of an internal dialogue. In the seemingly rhapsodical flow of its thought I shall assume the same liberty. Far from abstaining from episodical matters, when they suggest themselves, I even think it essential often to introduce them; and by frequently recurring, under many a variation of expression, to the same leading idea, it will be my endeavor to place it in a still clearer light. By this course, in spite of its seeming tediousness, I shall be able ultimately, in a few simple ideas, to set the whole matter more distinctly and intelligibly before you. And, at the same time, I trust that the rules of internal language for the correct composition of the whole, the right arrangement of the words (if I may so call it), that internal grammatical order of living thought, of which I previously spoke, will be found to be duly observed, even though in the details many a term may appear imperfect and inadequate, and many a happier expression might have been found. The most vivid diction, even the best and most felicitous, falls always far short of feeling. “Feeling is every thing”—the full center of the inner life, the point from which philosophy sets out, and to which it invariably returns. We might call it, if such an every-day expression would not sound and strike us as strange, the quintessence of the consciousness. However, in its original sense (which, in truth, arose out of a very superficial and meager view of ancient philosophy), as used to denote the essential fifth over and above the four opposite poles of inward existence, or the four divergent directions of reality, which, like the mind, is also divided into quadruple dissension, the term quintessence is not inappropriate for this center of the consciousness. For feeling is, unquestionably, such a fifth, both in relation to the four great fundamental energies of the inner man, as the latter are manifested to us by experience, and also to the four faculties of the second order, which are composed of or derived from the former. But it is not only difficult to find an adequate expression for the full central feelings of the inner life, but especially to indicate accurately in words all the more delicate perceptions, with their shades of difference and distinction, which spring from it, and rigorously to keep them as distinct in the expression as they were in the actual emotion. Clearly, too, and accurately as the inner sense may distinguish between a genuine and a spurious manifestation of the higher feelings, it is not so very easy in language to keep them separate, or so precisely to characterize them as to exclude every false accompaniment, and to prevent the possibility of confounding the spurious and the genuine. How great, for instance, is the difference between the two kinds of irony which we meet with in the philosophical dialogue, either as introduced by the Socratic school, or as similarly employed in modern dialectic. The one kind, overflowing with skeptical shrewdness, makes illimitable doubt the end of its dialogical expositions, and is that acrid and biting irony which is based on universal negation. The other species, more amiable and benevolent, is intimately allied to a lofty enthusiasm for the divine and the true, being almost one with, or, at least, inseparable from it, since it arises from a sense of its own incapacity to comprise in any form of words the plenitude of divinity, as the spirit discerns it in truth. And yet, notwithstanding such differences in the expressions and turns of the dialogue, they often border close upon and nearly resemble one another; whereas the inner purpose, the spirit, the design of the line of thought, is often thoroughly distinct in the two cases, and almost directly opposed. In the same way, true artistic genius and its mere imitation are even in their external manner and productions easily detected by the feeling. And yet we often find words fail us when we attempt characteristically to indicate their differences, and to pass a discriminating judgment upon them. So, too—to illustrate this topic by the instance of wit—a forced humor, with its wearying repetitions and mannerism, or the ceaseless straining and empty play of an artificial wit, is very different from the overflowing fullness of genuine poetical wit, in which the lively genius of a sportive fancy is every where welling forth, and a profound poetical enthusiasm shines through the coat of ever-shifting hues which its motley humor puts on. But still, even here it is extremely difficult to explain one’s self, and to distinguish the different impressions they make. Accordingly, in a general judgment upon them, many mistakes and misconceptions are both possible, and are frequently made.
Now, in the sphere of feeling, the mere counterfeit, in particular cases at least, is frequently in its language so deceptively similar to the true and genuine, that at last the judgment can find no other words suitable to itself than the simple ones, “I feel it to be true and profound,” or “I feel it to be spurious, intrinsically vain, a mere counterfeit, and a cheat.” Again: faith, hope, and love or charity—(those three states of the soul-springs of life—those inward organs of the moral sense—those decisive acts and diversified forms of manifestation of one common sentiment, directed to the good and the divine—or by what other terms they may be expressed)—this sisterhood of spiritual qualities often mentioned together, and, in fact, closely allied and united, are presented to us as forming a complete scheme and all-embracing and significant symbol of a higher life. When they are felt and regarded in this light, they do, indeed, become such for all higher thought and science, in so far as the latter ought to be living and to have their foundation in life. Too frequently, however, and that not merely in the poems of an æsthetical piety, but also in many a dull work of edification, we see this triple symbol of a higher life degraded into the commonplace of a morbid fancy, which, in the gratification of an idle vanity, trifles with the best and holiest feelings of our nature. Even here, therefore, as elsewhere, a strict separation between the genuine and the spurious is very necessary, calling for and claiming all our watchfulness. But the counterfeiture lies not in the tone of solemn earnestness and depth of pathos with which men broach these subjects, or generally touch upon them; on the contrary, the affectation mostly announces itself in a certain external pomp of word and phrase. But now, if this symbol of an internal religious triplet contains at the same time (so to speak) the fundamental harmony of that higher life which is devoted to the good and directed to the divine, then must this apply not only to the inner but also to the outer life. In short, this scheme of the fundamental moral ideas must be again met with in the ordinary relations of actual life. In such a case it is clearly most agreeable to truth to speak of this internal and better life simply and unpretendingly in a perfectly natural manner, while a holy reverence for what is most exalted in humanity is best testified by an intrinsic delicacy in the mode of treating it, by the absence of all pedantry of sublimity, or affectation of a sentimental formality.