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

by Friedrich von Schlegel

But before entering on this field of our labors, I would premise one general remark. It refers to the nature of that certainty which we have to look for and may expect in philosophy, according to the idea of it which we have made the basis of our speculations, as being the noblest and highest manifestation of man’s desire of knowledge. And here the examination of the words of a great and famous thinker, with regard to his own system, will best serve me for the introduction and exposition of my own views. The system of Spinosa—for I allude to him—is, it is true, in ill repute for its obscureness and unintelligibility. The remark, however, to which I refer, is wholly unconnected with his system. It is an estimate of his own knowledge, and is quite clear and intelligible to all, as every one will admit when I come to quote the words. And, perhaps, the obscurity of his system arises chiefly from the matter, and the position taken up, rather than from the author’s method, and the form of exposition. For, if only we can once bring ourselves to allow that the mathematical method is suitable to philosophy, we must pronounce Spinosa’s style most excellent. It is, in fact, remarkable, not only for the rigor and precision of its definitions and proofs, but also for the structure of its sentences and general composition, so far as excellence was attainable in the modern Latin of the schools, to which, however, Spinosa has succeeded in giving a wonderful evenness and uniformity of expression, having handled it with a facility never before paralleled.

As to the system itself, and the rank which, according to the position here assumed for the philosophy of life, ought to be assigned to it, it will hardly be necessary to enter into a particular review. Generally we have already expressed our opinion, and the judgment we should pass upon it may be deduced from the remarks which I formerly made when distinguishing between the two directions or views which, in its search after truth, present themselves to the reflecting mind for its choice between faith or doubt. One of these views of the world and things is based on the idea of the living triune God, whom faith embraces, love desires, and in whom all our hopes are centered. Now, this hypothesis implies, by a necessary and inevitable consequence, that the world is not self-existent, but, as we have all been taught, had a beginning, having been created by God out of nothing. According to the other theory (and to one of these every profound and truly scientific system of philosophy must in its essential principles belong), the world had not a beginning, but is eternal, being one with God—or, indeed, speaking absolutely, all is one, and necessary thought and necessary existence are not properly and essentially distinct, but only so many different forms or aspects of the one eternal and necessary essence. Now, of the latter system, according to the opinion of all competent judges, either of his own or our times, the work of Spinosa is the ablest and most consistent exposition that science has ever yet produced. But between these two systems and views of the universe, the philosophy of life can not long hesitate. Seeking to arrive at a clear insight into all that is divine, so far as it is traceable within the higher life and inward consciousness, and adopting and regarding it as an imparted fact of an internal, no less than of an external revelation, she can not be at a loss to decide between faith in a living God and that idea of one necessary essence which is at the same time both God and the world—an idea which, making thought and being identical, proceeds to give to all else correspondent arbitrary definitions. Indeed, the question can hardly arise for the philosophy of life, or if it does, it may at once set it aside. Now, this general observation on all such systems of necessity implies, of course, the condemnation of that of this great and famous thinker. It too must be at once rejected as fundamentally false. Such a censure, however, does not involve any thing of personal vituperation. All such feelings need not to be mixed up with it. For, in truth, it often happens that the greatest and most richly endowed minds, and the most single and straightforward characters, if they once take a wrong direction, fall into the profoundest, or, as they have been termed, the most violent errors. But in every case it is but equitable to make a distinction between the author and his system, however severe may be the judgment we pass on the latter. In the case of Spinosa, too, we must bear in mind that he was by birth and education a Jew. As such, he was not only without the pale of Christianity, but even regarded it with strong national prejudices. If, therefore, his system is not consistent with the truths of religion, or, rather, if it even violently clashes with them, he is scarcely obnoxious to reproof. At least, he is not half so much open to censure as those who, not having this palliation to urge, assume a hostile position toward religion, while their animosity is not relieved by any splendor of great talents, but marked throughout by the meanness and narrowness of their views and the ordinary character of their scientific theory and system.

The expression of this great thinker to which I have alluded, relates to his own self and the object he had in view by his literary labors—to his work, in short, or system. It is contained in a letter to one of his most intimate friends, and runs as follows: “Whether my philosophy be the very best, I know not; at least I do not wish to decide that point; that, however, I have discovered the true philosophy, I have not the least doubt.” All this sounds modestly enough; and in all probability it expresses his real sentiments and opinion. It sets up, however, a pretension which I can not by any means admit. Spinosa here takes the term philosophy in a different sense from its old and original signification. Among the Greeks, the Sophists alone derived their name from a pretension to perfect wisdom and science. But the followers of a true wisdom, from Socrates’s time at least, explained philosophy to be what its name imports—a desire of the highest knowledge, and a pursuit of divine truth. And this is the essential point which, involving a total difference of opinion, has divided the minds of men through centuries and tens of centuries, and is as yet far from having attained to a satisfactory solution. And herein the Socratic idea of philosophy, which is also my own, receives a species of historical confirmation which that other mathematical notion of it stands still in need of. But to return to our author. By philosophy, as indeed is clear from his very system, he understands a perfect science and absolute truth. Now this perfection of knowledge does not, it is true, pretend to extend to and embrace all individualities. Still it is at least intensively an omniscience—which by the further development and expansion of what it possesses within itself unevolved, would in its external comprehensiveness embrace every particular case. And can such infinite knowledge and omniscience be ascribed to any other being than God? If we at once acknowledged this, it would surely be more agreeable to truth to consider man in this life as being merely in a preparatory state, where at most it is permitted him, step by step, to approximate still nearer to the height of knowledge. If that degree of knowledge which is conceded to and is attainable by man, really suffices for the wants of life, we might, or, rather, to speak more properly, we must be content with it. Probably even that which it is allowed to man to reach, has never yet been actually attained to by any individual. And why in any case are we unwilling to wait, if, as it undoubtedly remains forever certain, that when this period of preparation shall have closed in that eternity which is really life, man will in one way or another arrive at perfect certainty and clearness of insight into the nature of himself, the world, and the Deity, and will also fully understand the now inscrutable relation of God to man and the universe?

Now, while we regard the last half of the judgment which this great thinker has passed upon himself, as a pure self-delusion naturally arising from, and, indeed, closely connected with, his whole system, we must also qualify the first half, and subject it to many essential limitations. The best philosophy that of Spinosa most assuredly can not be called, and this for two reasons. On the one hand it sets out with the pursuit of mathematical certainty and precision—an end not attainable in this branch of human inquiry; on the other, it commences with a principle fundamentally false, starting from the imaginary notion of absolute necessity as the original first and last illusion of the reason. Better, however, it most unquestionably is than many others, which, no less false, are with their superficial dullness, their half compromise and jumble of inconsistent principles, still more pernicious. Violent errors, to use an old phrase, are those which serve to give a new impulse to science, and arousing it from its stationary point of imperfect development, excite it to advance one step nearer to the truth. They serve to accelerate a whole crisis of movement and transition. In this respect, accordingly, a system of philosophy which is far from good in itself, may, nevertheless, be pronounced good in a relative sense. In other words, it is one the study of which may occasionally prove salutary and profitable. It will benefit those individuals, or even a whole nation or age, who are in the very crisis of transition, and capable of digesting such strong meat, are healthy enough to elaborate such a system of error into the sound elements of truth. That this opinion is by no means unduly lenient, or overtolerant, but that its justice is not unsupported by historical experience, is proved by the history of our national philosophy in these later days. Thus, on the German philosophy of nature, in the first stage at least of its development, the system of Spinosa exercised a great and decided influence, which, however, has now altogether ceased. All the most original, too, of our thinkers, whether they belonged to the older or later schools, who stood aloof from all system or party, have also paid his works great attention. For this they riveted by their wonderful simplicity and rigor of consequence, and their loftiness of scientific thought, even while they failed to win a general, much less a complete adhesion to his theory. But this feeling is quickly fading away. A great internal victory has been gained over its seductive charms, which is of inestimable importance to the cause of truth. It is fast quitting the field of human thought and inquiry; and if it still holds its place in a few minds, it forms there alone the last remaining obstacle to the complete triumph of the science of life and revelation—the last lingering mist of mental darkness and demoniacal illusion before the rising sun of a newly breaking day.

It may perhaps appear inappropriate, and indeed highly objectionable, to have spoken of a pernicious system of metaphysical error before such an audience as the present, especially as from the first I expressed my unwillingness to enter at large into its details. But I have, I think, a full and complete justification. A very similar, or, rather, the same view of the world and things as that which it propounds, and whose essential peculiarities I have, I think, correctly characterized as one of the leading branches of human error, still prevails, and is not confined in its manifestations to a metaphysical form. It meets us every where in still more accessible and highly-attractive shapes—in every form and dimension—in the interesting but simple tale, and in the magic creation of poetical pantheism. And since so many poets and other popular writers are a kind of half or whole, conscious or unconscious, Spinosists—to use this name in a wide and general sense—it would be to affect an unscrupulous delicacy, which would neither be in measure nor in season, were I to abstain from all notice of what is otherwise so notorious. If the philosophy of divine experience, with its totally different form and spirit, were but carried out as perfectly and completely as this silently-reigning system of rationalism, with its consistency of error, then should we at last be able fully to comprehend, and, to our great amazement, discern all that is meant by this its dangerous rival, and how very much it involves.

My object has not been to make a polemical attack, and to give a complete refutation of this system. Such a design neither lay within my prescribed limits, nor could it be other than useless and superfluous in a philosophy which took its position from life, and especially the inner and higher life. What I had chiefly in view was, to establish a precise and rigorous distinction between the Socratic notion of philosophy, as a gradual approximation to eternal truth and the first science, and that false mathematical conception of it which sets up a claim to absolute knowledge, and by a rigid observance of system, pretends to the attainment of omniscience. And this was a distinction which, both from personal considerations and with regard to the present undertaking, it was incumbent on me to insist upon, in order to avoid the slightest misconception. Having myself long since recognized the three categories of an elevated consciousness—faith, hope, and love—to be also the essential elements and primary foundation of all higher thought and knowledge, so far at least as the latter, having life for its matter and subject, must take life for its starting-point and foundation, I have therefore publicly advanced this doctrine. Still, nothing could be more foreign to my whole mode of thinking and feeling, or so directly opposed to it, as the design of forcing adhesion to my theory of faith, hope, and love, by the might of logical demonstration, or even the thought of constraining, by the weapons of science, the convictions of any one. Nay, even if I were gifted with magic powers of persuasion and irresistible eloquence, so as to be able to win the whole world over to my own way of thinking, or, rather, conviction on these matters, still I should have no wish to accomplish such a general concurrence in this manner. Such a method would not be appropriate to this domain of philosophy, and, above all, it would not be the true and right one; for philosophy must ever be the fruit of one’s own personal reflection, and invariably spring from an immediate feeling of a want and defect within, otherwise it can scarcely exist in reality. All teaching, therefore, or communication of philosophy, has properly no other end and aim than to furnish a vivid impulse to self-reflection. Beyond this it can only serve to suggest the limits of a right and lawful exercise of such meditation, and, by pointing out the road that leads most directly to this end, to warn against the devious by-ways of error which branch out from it at every point of its path. Every one who is in earnest in the pursuit of truth has, moreover, already within himself a principle [Anfang] of faith, hope, and love, in some shape or other, and not merely a principle, but a very system of them, even though it do not always manifest itself exactly in a scientific form. If every one who in any degree lends a sympathizing ear to my present discourses feels himself in any degree confirmed by them in that principle of a higher faith and love that is as yet in any degree developed in him—if he feels himself moved by them to still more lofty aspirations after the highest end of hope—if what to him is the center of love and life has been more fully and more clearly evolved by them—if his thoughts have taken from them a clearer and more distinct order and arrangement, then will the first wish and principal object of my present labors be perfectly realized, and attain to their fullest and completest gratification.

We would, therefore, for our parts, remit to God and the future all properly unconditional and absolute knowledge. For, irrespectively of the delusive phantom of a pretended mathematical method and rigor of demonstration, which is both fundamentally false, and, moreover, totally inapplicable to the present sphere of inquiry, such an absolute science, merely as claiming to be positive, trenches ultimately on omniscience. We therefore prefer modestly to acquiesce in pretensions more suitable to man’s position in the world. If, therefore, we confine ourselves within the prescribed limits, and are content with a gradually but steadily advancing approximation to perfect truth, as it is in God, we shall soon find that even within these boundaries a legitimate idea of science may be set up and advanced. And this science, it will quickly appear, not only contains within it a stable foundation of irrefragable certainty, sufficient for all the wants and requisitions of life, but also opens a wide space for the further exercise and development of all time, thought, and cognition, and the most ample field for all genuine spiritual hopes and pure wishes of a higher nature. In its free development it is by no means subject to the narrow limits of earth; while, as resting on the firm basis of experience, it is little affected by doubt, which, though plied with all its acuteness and with its endless refinements to the very height of subtilty, shall never undermine or essentially injure it.

I said an idea [Idee] of science. I did not employ the term notion [Begriff], as in the case of the consciousness; for the latter, in all its completeness, is given to us by internal experience and the observation of our own minds. In the case of the consciousness, consequently, the only point is to set it forth in a well-ordered and fully comprehensive term, as completely as it is revealed to us in reality. But of science there can not be more than one idea. An ideal standard may be set up to guide us in our attempts to attain to it, and to indicate the degree, measure, and method of its possible acquisition. And this idea and standard can only be derived from the highest idea of all—that of God, who is the eternal truth itself. It is thither that it must go, as to its first source. Now this idea of science, after the complete notion of the consciousness which I have already established, is the second result to which our inquiries have brought us. It is the second step of progress in our present development of thought.

Now this idea of science, which points to it as possible and actually attainable, and which also in fact leads us to it, rests on two assumptions. It implies, in the first place, that man must continually advance to a fuller understanding of a given truth, and, having the capacity, is also able to do so, if only he has a real and abiding wish for it. How, indeed, can it in general be doubted, that we are not absolutely incapable of understanding any given truth, when the very fact of its being given implies it in some degree at least, however limited, and when the very apprehension of the given matters forms a beginning, it may be a very imperfect one, of understanding? But, in the second place, the idea of an actually attainable science rests on the assumption that we are in a condition to recognize as such, and in its true light, the error which springs up every where in the human mind, and by so doing to emancipate ourselves, if not from every trace of its former influence, yet, at least, from its absolute dominion and tyranny. And since in this field of human errors we are at least at home, there can be no obstacle to our taking a full and complete survey of them, and taking the exact measure of their shallowness. This requisition, as well as the possibility of its accomplishment, is fundamentally involved in that old Grecian maxim, “Know thyself,” when interpreted in its more scientific sense. And in truth there is no ground to doubt its possibility, if only a firm footing—the ποὑ ςὡ of Archimedes—can be found for us out of ourselves and of the ordinary state of the human consciousness. And such a stable point is actually found and provided for us in the revelation of a higher truth than man’s. That a recognition of error as such is possible, and thereby the emancipation of the mind from its slavery may be facilitated, will be best and most clearly evidenced by actual experiment. We must, then, try to assign to each single faculty of the consciousness, in its present degraded and distracted state, the essential scientific error which peculiarly clings to and besets its exercise, or at least to point out the tendency thereto which is deeply rooted therein. And such an experiment may be made successfully, if we take up our position in the high point of view furnished by a consciousness restored again to unity and harmony in God. Now, from this point of view it is, no doubt, impossible, as we have already remarked, to assume or concede the existence of innate ideas—at least, not in the usual and literal sense. Innate errors, however, may well naturally be assumed to exist in the first degraded state of the human mind. Not, indeed, that there rules in them any blind inevitable necessity, but, rather, a false tendency—an evil habit become a second nature—which is only in appearance an original imperfection. And such have been often enough recognized in the illusions of imagination and the narrow limits of the reason; only the recognition has not been complete and total enough, and, consequently, not sufficiently explanatory. Indeed, the notion of scientific error, as innate in the human mind, must be taken exactly in the same light as the moral weakness and frailty of man in his present condition—as being, in short, peculiar to the whole race, and transmitted, as an inheritance, from generation to generation.

Now, to the knowledge of error, as such, is opposed the recognition of truth—the higher, that is, divinely revealed truth. And this perception it is that furnishes the stable point of intrinsic certainty to every species and form of human cognition. But here the question might arise naturally enough: How can man recognize a truth, which, nevertheless, is revealed to him from without, making himself thereby, as it were, at once its master and its judge? How, in other words, can he, as it were, know again that which is now first given to him, and which previously he was not in possession of. In this matter the case stands almost exactly the same as it does with innate ideas, which are not to be understood literally as involving the hypothesis of a pre-existence of the soul—and as it does with that eternal memory which, as connected with the theory of innate ideas, rightly and more correctly interpreted, is both justifiable and tenable. If man is to be declared totally incapable of this recognition of divine truth, then must he be first stripped of all the high prerogatives which the Almighty has bestowed upon him above the rest of the natural creation. The very last trace and vestige of the divine image that is in him must be erased and destroyed. Among these endowments, that which we may well call the dangerous privilege of free will holds neither the last nor the lowest place. God created man free, and free he is even in his relation to God. It is left to man’s choice, whether he will or not acknowledge the Deity above him. But this being the case, this free and unconstrained acknowledgment, so far as the choice is rightly made, by no means involves any exaltation of man’s judgment above the law of God. On the contrary, it is nothing more than a free and voluntary assent to the divine. However, it is the inward experience that we have here to consider. For the facts and external data of mere experimental sciences can only so far belong to our present consideration, as they bear upon the inner experience of the consciousness and the knowledge of human nature—as well upon that more exalted experience (which is indeed contained in the former) of a higher destination imported and announced to man by God. And this is the case with history or language. It is exactly in this relation that a scientific knowledge of either stands to our present subject. But not only language, but every object also in the whole domain of human inquiry—in the vast realms of art and nature—belongs thereto, or may be made a part of it, if only it stands in or admits of being brought into this relation to the inward and higher experience. Now this understanding of the truth that is above man, which is ever growing in clearness and brightness—this perfect recognition of whatever is erroneous and false—this ever-advancing comprehension of the actual, so far as the latter lies within its limits, form the three grades or spheres of science which, even according to this idea of it, may unquestionably be regarded as possible, and founded also on the actual and real.