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

by Friedrich von Schlegel

The latter is an important point; as to all else, the different ways, methods, and directions of thought belong to the outward form, rather than to the intrinsic essence of science. Essentially, there is but one law and standard for all ways and modes of thinking. The necessary thought of the reason, with its strict logical concatenation, no less than the possible thinking of the scientific imagination, with its generally symbolical dress, must, if it would not lapse into error, and become ultimately null and vain, adhere to the actual and real, and stand and maintain itself on the firm soil of experience. It is only when the necessary cogitation sets out from reality that it is truly necessary; and in like manner is it with the possible. If it does not rest on the firm basis of the actual, it is not really possible and actually attainable. Without this intrinsic gravity and point of rest, the mathematical method, with its pretended rigor of demonstration, no less than the most ingenious but arbitrary hypotheses, are perpetually oscillating through the wide realms of infinite space—like pure fictions—not, however, like good fictions based on realities, for such often possess a deep and profound significance, but like thoroughly unmeaning and aimless figments, and unsubstantial phantasms. Against the intrinsic reality of the mind’s experience and its science, which is built upon this foundation of a recognition and understanding of what is revealed and imparted to it, of an acknowledgment of what is spurious and false, and of a comprehension of the actual and real, all the doubts of skepticism avail little, or, properly speaking, nothing. If, however, we set out from the unconditional science of reason, holding it and considering it really to be such, then there is no longer any safeguard to keep us from falling headlong into the bottomless abyss of endless doubt. In such a case, the human mind may for a time be lulled into a calm, which, however, is any thing but a true and perfect serenity. Between that arbitrary faith which is the mere creation of the reason, and devised for the express purpose of filling the profound void which man must feel so long as his heavenward aspirations are unsatisfied, and the endless doubts of his intellect, there is at best but a temporary and passing truce: it is no true peace. It is like some “Concordat,” which, effected with the greatest difficulty, and ever on the point of being dissolved by the mutual jealousy of the contracting parties to it, does but leave each member to follow his own devices, so long as he engages to abstain from all hostile interference with the other. In such a case, a complete and harmonious co-operation of the mind’s hitherto divided and estranged faculties is not for a moment to be thought of. That, however, must be sought by a very different path.

LECTURE VIII.

IN the domain of art it is an old and established opinion, not only that a peculiar genius is required for its original creations, but also a special sense or feeling is indispensable for a correct appreciation and estimate of the works produced by the former. Indeed, we can hardly call it an opinion; its validity is so universally acknowledged, that it is acted upon as a principle. In the same way the Platonic philosophy assumes for its foundation an enthusiastic aspiration after divine truth and a higher knowledge of it. Moreover, as it sets out from a consciousness elevated and expanded by enthusiasm, so it looks to the same for access and adoption. And this is the source of that affinity between this species of philosophy and an artistic enthusiasm which is traceable in all ages and nations, however widely different in the general character of their minds, among whom the former has in any degree manifested itself, assuming, every where, if not the shape of dialogue, yet some other equally beautiful form of exposition. Hence, too, so far, at least, as this is possible in the domain of science, the point of view of this philosophy is predominantly artistic. The more, then, that in modern days, and especially among German writers, the school form has become prevalent in science generally, and especially in philosophy, the greater is the merit of those who have striven to give to philosophy this artistic elegance and structure, or, at least, to preserve it and restore it to favor. And even if any be disposed to set less value upon this artistic grace and enthusiasm for the beautiful in philosophy than, in my opinion, is due to it, they must, at least, admit that it tends to promote a more liberal and comprehensive culture of the mind. On this account it is surely to be defended, and deserves our most favorable judgment. This remark does not apply, exclusively, to our own German literature and culture, and that devotion to the arts of the beautiful which is so peculiar to our countrymen; it has a general reference to all modern nations. A more artistic feeling is a universal want of the times to counteract the prevailing school form, and the preponderating mathematical view of the world, or, at least, a predominantly mathematical cast of mind. Accordingly, Hemsterhuys, who, in philosophy, adopted a view similar to, if not identical with, the Platonic, though writing in the French language, which was not his vernacular tongue, has labored with a masterly hand to give to his style the exquisite beauty of art. But still, notwithstanding this common affinity and enthusiasm for the beautiful, a distinction exists, and must ever remain, between the scientific notion of beauty and the mere artistic conception of it, and that fanciful view of the world and things which is derived from and dependent on it. For, according to the latter, the highest beauty is to the poet and artist nothing less than the height of truth, as, indeed, it really is of poetic and artistic truth. But, to the view of science, between the divine and eternal truth and beauty, even the highest beauty, there is, and ever must remain, a certain degree of distance, which, if it do not amount to an interval, is yet, nevertheless, a line of demarkation. Eternal truth is even God himself. And if, occasionally, in the Platonic philosophy, the Prime Being is distinguished and designated as the archetype of beauty, this is but a loose way of speaking, not exactly consistent with scientific accuracy. For, according to the latter, the excellence of beauty is but a perfect mirror, or a pure reflection of eternal perfection, but not eternal perfection itself. Indeed, in order to express its perfect purity from all admixture, and from every the least stain of the sensible world, as well as from every mist of earthly delusion that otherwise might cling to and encircle it, I should prefer to call it the holy beauty, rather than the archetype of beauty, or even the height of beauty. For the latter shifts and varies with the subjective tastes of individuals. One man sees the standard of beauty in an Apollo, another in some other equally sublime and highly-finished god-form of ancient statuary.

What, then, is this beauty, according to the pure and original notion of it, and relatively to reality? For, according to the principle which the philosophy of life assumes, we must trace every thing back to the real and the actual—to the actual and the real of nature and of earth, or else to one that is higher and more spiritual, nay, even Godlike. What place, then, does beauty here hold? what is its relation to the rest of creation, or, still more generally, to the whole created universe and its author? What is it in and by itself, and in truth?

Now, in that sacred language which treats of holy things, and devotes to them well and carefully-weighed expressions and terms, mention is made of a wisdom created in the beginning, and before all time. As, therefore, it is said to be created, it is plain that by it is not meant, and that we must not confound with it, that uncreated and eternal wisdom who is elsewhere called the Almighty Word, by whom the whole system of nature, and all things, were created in their original beauty. Now this created wisdom, which, consequently, as such, is also a creature—what else is it than the thought, the image, the expression and impress of the hidden and internal essence of the Deity—wherein its inapproachable depth and unfathomable abyss are outwardly projected and rendered visible? Is it not, in short, the exact mirror and unsullied reflection of the divine perfections? But, however we may choose to name and describe it, the creature—even though its creation may have been before the whole world, and even before time itself—must always be kept distinct from the uncreated Being of eternity and omnipotence, who, moreover, called the former into existence. Now, if we were to apply to this created wisdom the expression of “a soul of God,” which was formerly employed by a few writers, but which was soon allowed to fall again into disuse, from a dread of the misapprehensions it might possibly lead to, it would give, perhaps, a good sense. It might thus serve to distinguish this, the first of all creatures, in its pure and original beauty, from a mere soul of the world, or of nature, however ideally conceived. Only, in that case, care must be taken to keep in remembrance, that such a mode of speaking can only apply to a creature, and that of such alone is it allowable so to speak. For—in correctness of language and in the true meaning of words—a soul, as being, on the whole, and predominantly, a passive faculty, can not be attributed to God, in whom all is infinite power and pure activity, and who, as such, ever worketh and never ceases in His infinite operations.

It is this, the first of all created things, which, with its pure splendor, lights up in brilliancy whatever in the rest of creation still retains aught of childlike innocence and blessed purity. It is the inner charm, the spiritual flower of nature, the hidden germ of that paradisiacal loveliness which, though veiled in this terrestrial shroud, still gleams forth occasionally. It is even that sacred beauty which fills to the full the true artist’s soul, even though he is never able fully and completely to realize it. It is that for which the thinker, in his inspired enthusiasm, seeks in vain for words and expressions. All the forms and terms of language fail to reach its high excellence. For, in fact, so long as man, holding it to be a pure ideal, regards it as nothing but a thought or notional relation, he can not but fail to seize and apprehend this mystery of love in all its living reality.

And here it is that I would apply the words, already quoted, of a great thinker. They were used by him in reference to his own system of science and philosophy; and though in my application they relate to a very different matter, it is, nevertheless, one which has an intimate bearing on the first science. Slightly modifying his words, then, I would thus say: whether the notion of beauty I have here advanced be for the artist absolutely the right one—i.e., whether it be perfectly satisfactory and sufficient, or whether in its special application to a particular branch of art, and in the actual execution of any given work, it requires several intermediate notions and means of transition, and whether, moreover, several elements equally essential must concur therein—that I know not, or at least I make no assertion about it. And indeed, I see clearly enough that even for art and its perfect realization, something else is wanting besides the pure idea of beauty alone. This, however, I do know and am quite certain of, that, viz., the notion of beauty which I have here advanced, and besides which scarcely another will be found, is the true and right Christian notion, of which all the statues of heathen gods, all fantasies of nature, all mental ideas, are but single rays, faint memorials, corporeal images, or mere scattered and mutilated fragments.

The thought, too, of that blissful state in the infancy of creation—when sorrow had as yet no existence, and evil, with its many woes, was not—is a notion not insignificant, but full, rather, of rich influences for the higher and more spiritual aim of art, and especially for the deeper and profounder essence of poetry. I have, indeed, already alluded to this notion; and I revert to it because I feel it is one which does not deserve to be so totally neglected as it usually is. Now, the higher poesy was termed, in consideration of that Godlike idea of eternal hope which predominates in it, the dawn of an uprising morn in the world of intellectual culture and poetic fancy; but at the same time I remarked that it was accompanied by a mournful recollection of a great foretime, long since passed away and departed. Not that this sad backward looking to a lost infantine happiness of the first times is in discord with or in opposition to the hopes of the rising dawn. Rather must it be regarded as in harmony with it. For this feeling is, as it were, the reflection of that hope—the same light thrown back from yet another side—even as the lovely hue of the sky at eventide, and the bright rays of the breaking dawn, make a kindred impression on the fancy. In this respect we might almost venture to say of poetry and its inmost essence, that it is but the spiritual echo of the soul—a sorrowful remembrance of a lost paradise. I do not mean that the latter and its history, such as it is transmitted to us, or even as it has been handled by the English poet, is the only fitting or even a particularly happy subject for poetry. I allude rather to that paradisiacal state of universal nature throughout the whole globe—creation’s state of infantine happiness, before it was ruined by revolt from God.

A note of these paradisiacal remembrances, a sorrowful memento of this heavenly innocence and primal beauty of a new-born world, seems like an inward and animating soul to breathe in—or as a thread of higher and intenser life, to run through—all the songs and exquisite delineations of a more than earthly poesy. Not that this ray of light ought or ever could form by itself the subject-matter of the finished work of any true poet. His subjects are generally, and indeed must be, somewhat more corporeal, being drawn for the most part from history and from life. What I formerly said of divine hope applies here also. Even while the picture of reality which is set forth is worked out most elaborately, with accurate observation of all its little and nicest traits, this purely spiritual and almost unearthly tone ought, nevertheless, to be present. It must be found there as the inner soul of the whole, however veiled beneath the outer world that is portrayed in the story. No work, however, in which this inner thread of life is totally wanting, is or ever will be in its essence more than simple prose, even though in form it be verse. Art it may have unquestionably, and wit, a story, and irony; all in short, that can be wished—any thing but poetry. For, except where its true notion is either already lost or fast disappearing, the idea of poetry can not possibly be separated from that of enthusiasm. The calm, cold poetry of the head, if such can for a moment deserve the name, is to the true inspired poetry of enthusiasm in the same relation that the spurious faith of the pure reason stands in to the living faith of the full feeling which springs out of a profound personal conviction and love.

Now, the full essence of this enthusiasm, which, according to the Platonic notion of it, takes in all things in its embrace, is in the Christian harmonic triad of faith, hope, and love, dissolved, as it were, into its three time-forms. For though faith has its root in the present, still, in every case, it looks backward to some past, whether of an extant or still earlier revelation, which at the same time it embraces and adopts into itself. And even in that faith which admits the revelations of history, or that practical faith which, in the ordinary transactions of life, places its trust in human testimony and the recorded facts of experimental science (since even out of the domain of religion faith is inseparably mixed with all that man thinks or does)—in all these kinds of faith a similar reference to the past might easily be pointed out. To the future it is that hope directs itself, while in love there reigns a full and intense feeling of the present. And even so of God’s everlasting love—this, too, has ever been and always must be understood as a full, intense, and abiding feeling of a never-ending present, which, without beginning and without end, goes on forever in abiding felicity. Besides this subdivision into three branches or elements, species or forms, there is yet another character by which these three fundamental Christian feelings are essentially distinguished from the single and all-embracing one of enthusiasm. To this distinction I have already alluded, and it consists in this, that whereas enthusiasm indicates nothing more than a passing state of a more intense consciousness, the three categories above mentioned contain not merely a transient but a permanent enhancement of it, or, in other words, a consciousness which has really become higher and more intense, and as such, endures in full self-possession and inward enlightenment. Accordingly, when we are speaking of the relation of faith to knowledge, this scheme of the fundamental feelings of Christianity seems in the highest degree appropriate to that philosophy which undertakes to show the connection between knowledge and faith, and the passage from one to the other. For it is in truth well calculated to lead to this end, even more rapidly and more surely than the Platonic fundamental principle of enthusiasm, notwithstanding the profound and essential affinity which subsists between these two views of the world and things.