“THE history of the world is the world’s tribunal,”[48] says one of our most famous poets. If by these words he meant to convey an opinion that no other tribunal of judgment is to be expected than that which is even now set up in the history of the world, then such an opinion, implying that the human race is to live forever in its present state, and in this particular terrestrial life, would be even as groundless as that of the fanciful conceit that the human race had existed from all eternity, if, in sooth, any of the philosophical dreamers of antiquity had ever fallen on such a fancy, or, in modern times, any of the antipodes to the usual current mode of thinking should ever stumble upon it. The poet himself, as dramatist and artist, would but have taken it ill had any one laid before him a great drama, composed of several acts and scenes, from which, however, the beginning was torn off, and which, ever going on, untied the existing perplexities only to fall again into new and fresh complications; or like a poor journal ever referring to a continuation, had no true end, no conclusion or proper termination. But unquestionably a better sense is also contained in the poet’s words. He may have merely meant to say that the mind which rules the course of mundane affairs is a mind that inflicts retribution on the world; and that all the great epochs and incidents of history have a retributive character and vindicatory significance.[49] Such an interpretation of the words, which indeed suits well with the author’s serious mind and character, would bring them in perfect unison with my own sentiments, and adequately express the truth which forms the theme of our present consideration on the divine order in the history of the human race.
The human race, then, as it had a beginning, so also will it have an end; it will not continue forever in this present form, but must eventually come to a termination. But, to speak according to the measure of a divine chronology, where a thousand years are but as one day, who can say, who shall dare, off-hand, to decide whether six or seven of these great days of God are fixed for its duration? Enough to know that we stand on the borders of the fourth age, and on the passage from the third to the fourth. And not unimportant is it, on the other hand, for the clear understanding of the whole, to form a right conception of each of these, its great divisions and epochs. The first age is made up of the twenty-five centuries of obscure primeval history. The second, which we called the age of preparation, is formed by the fifteen hundred years which we reckon from the end of the first up to the center and turning-point of the history of the world as known to us, and from which modern history takes its commencement. Even in the oldest traditionary history of the Gentile nations of antiquity we do not meet with any statements that can be relied upon, or any tenable data beyond, if indeed so far back as, the fifteenth century before the epoch of the commencement of modern history. The fifteen centuries which follow this epoch form the third age, in which this principle of a new life in the spiritual, moral, and political world had to develop and completely to unfold itself. In the last Lecture I also reckoned in this period the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries of our era. But if it seems to any more advisable to consider these as the introductory portion of the fourth and subsisting age, there is nothing positively to condemn such a mode of reckoning; only, for my part, I can not but regard it as less correct and more inaccurate than the one which I have proposed. In one case as well as the other the same important consideration will be involved. Reckoning from some point or other within these last forty years, we have, it must be acknowledged by all, entered upon a grand and decisive epoch in the history of the world; and our attention can not be too often or too strongly directed to the fact, that we stand at the critical point of transition from one great period to another.
Now one of the most characteristic signs by which such important moments of general revolution in the history of the world are, for the most part, known and distinguished, is a number of great events pressed closely together and following each other in rapid succession; or, in other words, the accelerated course of time. It is no new remark, that, in the political history of our own age, modern Europe has, in the short space of two-and-twenty years, ran through all the epochs of the old Roman world, from the first party struggles of the republic, and its long wars with Carthage, that mistress of the seas, up to the imperial rule of the Cæsars, in the first reigns mild and indulgent, but at the last so fearfully oppressive and cruel; and even up to the final immigration of the northern nations. Such a simple remark is alone sufficient proof that another law now rules in the history of the world—a quicker life pulsates in its arteries than beat in the calmer days of old. Whether, however, this life be thoroughly sound, or, on the contrary, sickly and feverish, that is quite another question.
But not only in the political world, but also in the intellectual domain of science has the same accelerated course been noticeable. Only, as compared with that of antiquity, the course or direction pursued by modern science is altogether different. We have traveled with equal celerity, but in quite an opposite course to the ancients. Starting from the last term, we have reversed the series of their mental progression. First of all, in the last decades of the preceding century, the Epicurean cast of thought, or one very nearly resembling it, was the one chiefly predominant in the philosophical world. And then, together with but subordinate to it, came scholastic subtilties and hair-splitting distinctions, similar to those of the later Greek schools, not unaccompanied, perhaps, with the same patient industry of research and extensive erudition, and exercising altogether on the minds of men an influence no less wide, nor less pernicious, than did the most brilliant of the sophists of Greece. All the erroneous systems which it was possible for the human mind to embrace, and which are grounded in its essential qualities, or which could possibly originate in any (so to speak) of its inborn misconceptions, which it took the Greeks several centuries to evolve in slow succession, our age has rapidly, and almost simultaneously, run through in as many decades. And in this fact, if I do not greatly deceive myself, there is much ground of consolation. It encourages me to hope that this inverse progression is leading us back again to the truth—that in this ascending line we are gradually coming nearer to the better times of the first great philosophers of Greece—of a Plato, a Socrates, and a Pythagoras. It must be self-evident, that in this case, and still more so in that analogy of political history which I have so recently noticed, as generally, in all such historical parallels, nothing more is intended to be asserted than a general resemblance, which, however, as such, is eminently remarkable. It would not, perhaps, be difficult anxiously to work out the general resemblance into points of detail, but such an overwrought assimilation could only lead to false conclusions and results.
Now that the conflict which our age has to go through is eminently intellectual is implied simply in the prevailing notion of a public opinion and its influence. But, at the same time, we must observe, that in the very notion of opinion, and in the word itself, there is involved a certain character of extreme vagueness and uncertainty. No doubt that which man can properly be said to know is extremely limited and confined. Of very much all that we can have is merely an opinion, and with that must we be content to put up. Nay, inasmuch as all scientific certainty admits not of being imparted to all men, very much of that which we do properly and certainly know is best and most beneficially set forth to others merely as an opinion, in order that we may not seem to force their minds to the admission of this higher certainty. And what is there that the passions of a prejudiced or excited multitude can not be made to adopt as an opinion, which, if presented to them as a sober conviction of reason, would never make an impression? So devoid are they, generally, of that intelligence and accurate knowledge of men and things which are essential and necessary to the formation of a right judgment. If, instead of public opinion (which, unquestionably, is a great power, but which, if it takes a wrong direction, is also a very dangerous one), the appeal were to be made to a public conscience, this would be, to my mind, far more impressive and serious. To illustrate my meaning:—the impression which the events of 1793 made on the general feeling of all Europe, and the universal movement of discontent which, among all European nations, preceded the great political catastrophe of our own days, are instances to which the old maxim, vox populi vox Dei, may, without hesitation, be applied. Such feelings are founded on a true and higher judgment—often on a correct presentiment of evil and wrong—even though, as we must admit, that in their utterance more or less of passion and exaggeration reveals itself, and that individual prejudices are not unfrequently mixed up with them. But now seldom, in the ebbing and flooding tide, in the ever-changing course of the stream of public opinion, flows there aught that truly deserves to be called a public judgment. And yet public opinion is even that on which, in this respect, and relatively to the theme of our present Lecture, every thing mainly and principally turns.
In discussing the theory of consciousness a chasm remained, or, rather, was intentionally left open, and the present seems the appropriate place for filling it up and supplying it. The power, or, rather, the faculty of judgment has not, as yet, had its place assigned it. The reason, with its immediate subordinates, memory and conscience—the fancy, with its subordinates, the senses and inclinations, form six faculties of the inner man, with which the understanding and will make together eight. The ninth is the living, loving, feeling soul, which, although it be the center of the whole consciousness, must, nevertheless, be counted as an independent and peculiar faculty. As for the heart [Gemuth]—as some peculiarly designate the collective sum of the tender, moral emotions of the soul, and which, at any rate, must be carefully distinguished from the conscience, and also from love—it is, however, a kind of application of the triple relation and function of the soul rather than an independent faculty. But the tenth faculty, which completes the whole cycle and theory of the human consciousness, and which may be regarded as its crown and perfection, is the judgment, or, in other words, the judging mind [geist].
But now, if this term judgment be understood purely in a logical sense, as that process of thought which forms combinations and deductions, and by means of which we ascribe to a subject A a predicate B, this would fall very far short of the signification in which I here intend it to be taken. Moreover, it would be, in truth, quite a superfluous task to separate this cogitative relation, or this relative cogitation, from the other logical functions of the understanding, and to make of it a special and independent faculty. The judgment is something higher than this mere coupling in the thought of some special A with some general B. Understanding is the cognition of spirit and of that which it has uttered; and judgment is the decision between two things understood, or the “discerning of spirits.” Of how great a multitude of intellectual relations does a scientific or even an artistic judgment imply the coincidence and concurrent action! And yet these are merely private judgments, which involve an assenting feeling in the individual, but beyond that can not pretend to any valid authority. In practical life the judicial function in the state alone furnishes an adequate standard for estimating the high rank which the faculty of judgment holds as the center of the human consciousness. For, in the deliberative sentence of the judge there is comprised both the mature art of the understanding—which has taken due cognizance of the matter, and impartially discerned between two objects equally well understood—and also a determination of the will: for, though the actual carrying into effect—that which properly and peculiarly constitutes a willing—belong not to, but is independent of, the judge’s office, still the conclusion of a positive judgment implies the existence of the first determining motive of the will. In this one act of judging, therefore, there is contained both functions of the mind [geist], understanding and willing; and as the loving soul is the center of the consciousness, so the judging mind, or spirit, is the highest of all its operations.
In the Book of Truth there is a sentence which admits of application here. “There is none good,” it is there written, “but one, that is, God.” However harsh and severe this judgment may sound at the first hearing, still, upon a little reflection, we shall see ample cause to admit its justice. Man is not wholly and purely good; at the very best he is not free from faults, and more or less of imperfection cleaves to all that he does or is. And even granting that a man might be found devoid of all admixture of imperfection, and quite faultless and thoroughly good, still he was not so always and from the first. And even if any should here urge that the angels, who have continued such as they were originally created, were good from the beginning, we must remember that, at least, they are not good in and by themselves, but that, that they are good, comes from God, who is the source of all goodness. Now, just in the same sense can we also say, Who judges rightly? There is none that judges rightly but one, i.e., God. He is Himself the truth; and, therefore, He alone has the standard of truth in Himself, and all truth has its ground and principle in Him alone. Every individual judgment and decision, in all important matters, has its ground, either mediately or immediately, in this divine basis, and its rectitude must be estimated according to this standard. But this latter condition need not make us foolishly anxious, for nothing impossible is required of us by God; and this requisition, like every other which He lays upon man, is modified by, and adjusted to, the measure of human finiteness. The conscientious judge, who, after a patient investigation of the cause as it is laid before him, and after a careful weighing of all the possible reasons and motives, nevertheless errs, or is deceived by a rare coincidence of circumstances, stands, nevertheless, exonerated, even though he should have passed an unjust sentence, and have had the misfortune to condemn the innocent. Although, when he becomes aware of it, the thought must be painful enough to his own feelings, yet who, in justice, can reproach him merely because he was not omniscient? He who, in thought, in science, and in faith, adheres to this divine foundation—the best and most certain that he can find, or that is any where offered to him, may rest calm and composed; he has done the utmost that lies in his power. He alone, who makes a bad use of what he has and what has been given to him, like an unjust steward, need fear to give an account of his stewardship.
This reference of all judicial sentences to, and their foundation in a divine authority, is an idea which was not unknown even to the republican states of antiquity, as is evident from the way they expressed themselves on the irrefragable sanctity of the laws and the inviolability of the supreme judicial power, and also in the maxims which they practically advanced on this subject. They honored herein a higher and a diviner principle, of which, however, in theory they possessed no clear and perfect knowledge, though in practical life they were taught by a correct feeling of sound reason and the natural conscience accurately enough to recognize and steadily and distinctly to respect it. With us still more generally is it become an admitted doctrine that all sovereignty and kingly power is of God, and that all obedience to the laws and to the supreme authority in the state rests ultimately on a divine foundation and sanction. If very recently men were for a while disposed to argue that political institutions must be founded on the reason and its unconditional liberty, yet bitter experience quickly convinced them of their error, and it was soon fully refuted by the convincing argument of actual fact. And, accordingly, theory has for the most part reverted to a right principle, and recognized the divine authority as the true foundation of political authority.
But the principle being thus generally recognized, it is, I think, still necessary to distinguish with care and accurately to define in what sense the supreme ruler of the state is the vicegerent of God. The indefinite titles which are assumed by Eastern despots have always been alien to the habits of the West. But it is not enough to avoid such exaggerated titles of honor, if, nevertheless, the appeal to divine right be made so very vaguely, and simply in general terms to God himself. In His absolute essence, God is wholly inconceivable; it is only in his operations on man and nature, and in His relations to the human race, that we can at all think precisely of Him. It is only as Creator of the world, as the Lawgiver of nature, or as the Benefactor and Redeemer of mankind, and so forth, that we can form a clear and distinct notion of the Godhead.
Now, is the supreme ruler of the state God’s deputy as Creator of the world? Who would venture to assert any thing of the kind? It is true that the paternal rule of the earthly parent, and the universal feeling among all peoples and nations of the sanctity of a father’s authority, rests on a resemblance—which is, however, only symbolical—between his relation and that of our unseen Father which is in heaven. And it is no less true, also, that the reign of a truly paternal monarch over his people may be regarded as a mere amplification of the father’s government of his family; a good king is the father of his people. But such remote, although most significant analogies, furnish us with no precise notion of right; and it is on such alone that the whole question here turns. No doubt when a people is governed well and wisely—which is even the same as to say, paternally governed—it exhibits a wonderful power of natural development; productive industry flourishes, population increases, and its physical and mental cultivation advances rapidly. Unfavorable seasons may undoubtedly check this tendency, and it will be entirely stopped as soon as the subject refuses to follow with loving confidence the guiding hand of the paternal monarch. Whenever they whose duty it is to obey seek to be supreme, then are the natural energies of a great people transmuted into a fearful element of universal desolation.
If now we inquire in the next place how far it is allowable to compare the highest authority in the state to the Lawgiver of nature, we shall find that even in this respect the difference is so very great that analogy almost entirely fails us. Holy, unquestionably, are the laws of every political community in respect to the duty of obedience which they suppose and require; but this is not paid spontaneously and naturally, but needs to be enforced and maintained by pains and penalties. And not to speak of the stem laws of retributive justice, but rather of those mild and equitable enactments designed for the general benefit and the improvement of the whole community; these are still more subject to the imperfection and manifold changes of human things. Suppose, for instance, a measure promulgated in any country with the design of balancing in some degree the agricultural and the manufacturing interests—however wisely designed, it is found within a few years to have totally failed; under it misery has but increased on both sides, and the law must be repealed or modified. But it is not so with the laws which God has implanted in the system of the universe: they never fail of their intended effect.
Do we further ask in what, if in any respect, the earthly sovereign is the deputy of God, as Redeemer, Emancipator, and Liberator? A notion of grace and mercy does, we must admit, attach itself to our idea of supreme authority; and in this respect it presents a sort of analogy and resemblance to the idea of the Godhead. Properly speaking, however, the exercise of grace and mercy forms an exception to the general rule of man’s sovereignty, and belongs to him only in his special function as administrator of justice. Moreover, the most paternal and beneficent of earthly rulers can at most provide only for the physical happiness of his people. He may alleviate or avert heavy calamities, or procure many temporal blessings and advantages for his subjects; but the unhappy soul can be helped by One alone. The distinction I have just made will become more apparent by means of a contrast. Wherever the clergy are not regarded merely as teachers of the people, but as is the case in the greater part of Western and of Eastern Christendom, as priests speaking with a divine authority, this their public vicegerency relates primarily and immediately to the Redeemer; its judicial functions over the conscience ought to shun a visible publicity, and to be left entirely to the conscience and guarded by its seal of secrecy. And in this respect lies the distinctive peculiarity of the relation subsisting between the supreme authority in the state and God, which, however, refers pre-eminently to His attribute of justice. And here it is no mere remote analogy and weak resemblance, dependent on the principle of human weakness and imperfection; but it is a true and real vicegerency, publicly admitted and recognized, and exercising consequently a great public influence. And therefore it is, that among the divers elements or branches of the supreme political authority (which, however, fundamentally and in its essence is one and indivisible), a special sanctity is, as I have already remarked, ascribed to its judicial functions. In a word, the earthly head of the state is the dispenser of the divine justice, the vicegerent of the Judge of the world; he is a divine functionary, and, so to say, the supreme judge in the world’s tribunal. And this is the point of view from which all matters and questions connected with this subject may most fully be answered and most correctly determined. But that this exalted dignity of the earthly ruler may not be interpreted too literally, I must here observe, that the divine Judge is one who allows mercy to take the place of justice, not merely occasionally, and by way of exception, but always and invariably; so long, at least, as it is in any way possible. And here comes in the application of the principle which we previously advanced:—That God is in nowise absolute, but that on the contrary His justice is in every case limited by His love and grace; while the latter again is restricted and modified by His justice, and both, indeed, reciprocally by each other. Whoever has formed in his heart the least vivid notion of God will not entertain the slightest doubt of this union of justice and of mercy in the divine essence.
When, however, we speak of kings being the dispensers of divine justice, we mean it in quite a different sense from that in which, during the great immigration of the northern hordes of Asia, the barbarian conqueror proclaimed himself the scourge of God. By assuming this title he merely meant to terrify his adversaries by the thought of having to encounter in himself a fearful and destructive power of evil, whom, in order to chastise a degenerate world, the Almighty had permitted to do as he pleased and to let loose his fury on the nations of the earth. And phenomena of this kind are not confined to the period of the great migration; for the true notion of the representation of the divine Judge of the world by the supreme power in the state combines together with the sternest severity of justice, which in this respect is both wholesome and necessary, the greatest clemency—for where is there, or can there be, a clemency greater than the divine? But most especially does this idea imply that which is here pre-eminently requisite, and insists with a prominence proportionate to its great importance on the strictest conscientiousness in the discharge of the duties of this vicegerency. But the superior excellence of this idea over many other explanations of a similar kind, but laboring under the defect of extreme vagueness, consists even in this, that it comprises and inseparably combines those two important conditions, both that the supreme governor is responsible to God alone, and, as following therefrom, that he is unquestionably responsible to Him, and that it also determines in what sense and in what way he is so.
Every great and remarkable event which marks an epoch in the political history of nations and the world, may, perhaps, be regarded as a dispensation of justice. If, then, such an event, however partial and confined to a single people or empire, or at most extending to an entire age, may be looked upon as a sign of judgment already commencing, or at least of a retribution threatening, but mercifully suspended, the same mode of consideration may, with as good reason, be applied to every resolution of the political world on the grave questions of peace and war: for the power of making war and peace is, at all events, the peculiar and characteristic prerogative of the supreme authority in the state. Now, the simplest standard, perhaps, of judging of the justice of either is, if we may so speak, to ask, Is the proclamation of war or the treaty of peace so entirely founded on truth, so perfectly correspondent to the righteous and judicial character of God, that man need not fear to lay them before the Judge of the whole world for His ratification? If such be the case, then most assuredly are they right and righteous, whatever be their consequences, or whatever be the judgment that men may pass upon them. But, otherwise, if the manifesto of war contain nothing but shallow and specious pretexts painfully raked together, or of fine-colorable phrases which even the eye of the world can see through, if a light touch of truth be only thrown over it in the hope of concealing the conqueror’s lust of aggrandizement, or the equally destructive principle of an old national feud or jealousy—if, in the pacification, under ambiguous terms and cunningly-devised phrases, the seeds of a future war be carefully sown, and thus the worst disease of the political world be propagated and multiplied from generation to generation, then most assuredly the guardian eye of Eternal Justice has not watched over its completion, and bestowed on it His blessing, but another and a very different coadjutor has had his hand in the game—the spirit of untruth, viz., and of corruption, of strife and ruin, whom no name so exactly describes as that of a “liar from the beginning.”
Now, as not only the annihilation of the race of giants in the universal deluge, with which our sacred history opens, and to which the ancient traditions of almost every people allude, more or less directly, but also the partial overthrow of a single nation, the tragical closing catastrophe of particular ages, is, as it were, a prelude of the final judgment of all nations and peoples of the earth at the end of time; so, on the other hand, the original corruption of the primal lie is propagated as an hereditary evil from millennium to millennium, and from century to century. For even now, may many a fertile spot, the seat of a happy and united community in the midst of prosperous times, and of peace unbroken at home or abroad, be considered, if not a garden of innocence, still the blissful dwelling of peace and quiet. But into these happy precincts the evil spirit of untruth and discontent ever and anon steals, to repeat over again in the history of the human race the same scene of temptation which marked its commencement. Upward and downward, and in a twofold direction, does the lying spirit of strife ply his seductive arts. Now, on the one side, he whispers in the ear of the rising generation, “That is the true knowledge and the real science which men are most anxious to withhold from you; but seek first of all to be free—shake off this unworthy spirit of slavish obedience, then shall all that is noble and intellectually great be at once yours. In this way, and thus only, was it attained by the great and good in ancient times.” But, on the other hand, he directs himself to the individual invested with authority; and if the potentate be unrighteous, his ear is already more than half open—and even if he be upright, still, as a man, he is not always inaccessible to such whisperings. “Why,” he insidiously asks, “dost thou draw back so fearfully before that which the people call their rights? These are nothing but childish notions which the school-boy may do well to declaim about, but practically they are worthless and unreal; no one means them seriously—the whole world puts no faith in this comedy. Rule your subjects with an iron hand, that is all they know how to respect; nay, they even admire the bold spirit that defies them, and they will suppliantly reverence thy greatness of mind and strength of character if, betraying no infirmness of purpose, you boldly and sternly encroach upon or disregard all their pretended rights and privileges. If only your sovereignty be solidly established from within, and well rounded from without, then, besides a great name with posterity, you will also secure to yourself the present enjoyment of very great and solid advantages.”
In this wise, from the original source of the one lie, is the inheritance of the old evil transmitted from generation to generation in the political world, in the two opposite forms of popular anarchy, and the despotic lust of power and aggrandizement. These two forms of evil are more closely allied than at the first look they appear to be in reality; but history, the great teacher of truth, gives its sure witness to their affinity. Nothing is more common in great republics, than for the discord of the citizens to be put an end to by some victorious general, whom all parties, weary of their dissensions, hail as the benefactor of the whole community. But how seldom is the pacificator content with the glorious title of the restorer of domestic peace, and does not go a step farther, and become the scheming tyrant and the aggressive conqueror. The whole history of the world is, in short, little more than the continuous struggle between the purifying fire of the divine retribution and this spirit of political lying, which is ever renewing itself in these twofold forms of anarchy and despotism.
Moreover, while we acknowledge the divine authority invested in the supreme ruler of the state, we must take heed how we mix up with our conceptions on this head the notion, so highly dangerous and so pregnant with fatal errors, of the absolute and unconditional, which, as we have already remarked, can not be applied even to the Godhead without giving rise to misconceptions. If, therefore, in any country a party—for now-a-days even justice is made a party matter—if any where a party of otherwise well-disposed men call themselves “absolutists,” such a designation is of itself sufficient to excite our apprehension, lest, with so absolute a way of thinking, some spark of evil be slumbering beneath the ashes; inasmuch as one absolute, i.e., one unconditional element of destruction invariably calls forth another.
Absolute, if this pernicious term must be used, the supreme power of the legitimate sovereign of a state may indeed be called in so far as he is responsible to God alone. For were the supreme ruler responsible to man, then the only difference would be, that instead of one, the many to whom he is answerable would be absolute. But in another sense, it is impossible to call the supreme power, wherever lodged, absolute or unlimited; for it is limited in many ways. Its exercise is checked and controlled by the treaties subsisting between it and other powers—by the laws which it finds in existence from the times of his predecessors, and which are still in force by the family laws of succession, and all matters pertaining to or connected therewith. If he who is invested with the highest power in the state, is determined to interfere with all these institutions, and violently to subvert existing customs and compacts, then is there, in such a case, no one really justified or entitled either to make objections to his measures or to oppose them. By such arbitrary and violent proceedings, however, he is himself undermining the very foundation of his own power. And a regard to and consideration of the possible consequences of such injustice will in most instances furnish the necessary and salutary check. Lastly, if we look a moment from the right itself to its actual exercise and influence, how often and how greatly are the latter limited by adverse circumstances and evil times. Nothing, in short, is more at issue with and opposed to nature and to life, than the very notion of unlimited power, and generally all that is absolute or destructive.
But there is yet another side on which the supreme political power is essentially checked and controlled. It is bound to consider and pay respect to the principles of religious society, which rests no less than itself on a divine authority. For the church, although very different in its nature, and flowing from a wholly different origin from that of the state, is, nevertheless, equally inviolable. If, however, the civil and political ruler, not content with a co-ordinate jurisdiction and the revision of ecclesiastical affairs—with a joint authority and influence, should attempt to make the religious polity also entirely subject to his own arbitrary will, no one perhaps will be able to oppose force to force, and probably no one would be justified in so doing. But by such an attempt, as indeed by every act of religious oppression, the supreme civil power would most fatally undermine the very basis of its own authority. If, for instance, the ruler of a great nation places the third estate in the painful alternative of making, what in any case must be most pernicious, a choice between divine and human authority—or, rather, to speak more correctly, between two claims to its allegiance equally divine, he does but smooth the road which must lead at last to his own ruin.
And here, too, in the spiritual community of the faith, in the same way as in the political body, man’s patrimony of original evil branches out into two directions. In the one it turns longingly back toward the past, and in the other it tends restlessly forward into the indefinite future. Both of these aberrations are wholly independent of the outer form as well as of the subject-matter of belief. They are consequently to be found in the old covenant, as the first grade of divine revelation, no less than in the second. The first of these hereditary faults of man’s nature is deadness, or, in a somewhat different phase, lukewarmness—manifesting itself outwardly in a close and literal adherence to the old in its mere external forms. In a word, it is spiritual death. For though in the abundance of His love, God may have made a revelation of His will to man, and even died to make an atonement for him, still it is left to the free will of the individual to receive it or not; and its retention and observance is the trial of his goodness, and, consequently, in this point, as in others, his hereditary and inborn spiritual death strongly manifests itself. The second of these hereditary faults, or, rather, the same in a different form, is the spirit of innovation, or a false semblance of life, by which, in fact, this inner death is merely propagated.
On both these faults and erroneous ways of thinking on religious matters, Revelation expresses itself equally in the tone of stern reprobation, though perhaps its language with regard to the former is even still more severe. As regards the spirit of innovation, all changes in this domain, which are merely human, and not visibly and manifestly of a divine spirit and origin, must simply on that account be opposed and condemned. Now, in both the parties into which the faith is unhappily divided, there are many who are captivated and led away by this spirit of change. For among those who were originally seduced by it not a few are now animated with a sincere and profound respect for whatever is old and sterling, while of the innovation-mongers of our days, many are to be found in the ranks of those who originally strove to stem the tide of alteration and change. Oh that all who are pervaded by this evil spirit, and are ever casting their views forward into the future, would only advance a little farther still in their thoughts, so as to take in the end and conclusion of all. In the knowledge of the final judgment of the world (and what is this philosophy of revelation but such a reminiscence of death and the end—in which light philosophy was even in olden times explained—not, indeed, in a narrow-minded limitation to ourselves, but in a far wider sense, embracing in its universal sympathy the final catastrophe of the whole human race), in the warnings and allusions to this last day of account, so long and so often given, men will find all the information that they seek, and will no longer need any human innovations, since by this key all that is old and eternal shall receive a trebly-exalted significance and a doubly-new life.
But besides the political body and the religious community, the world of letters forms a third society. Though numerically smaller, yet in its effects on the minds of men, whether it moves freely and diffuses itself without the rigid restraints of form, or is narrowly confined to the formalism of the school, it is, perhaps, as great as either. Spiritual in its matter and in its dissemination, it either renounces a divine sanction, and stands under the protection and supervision of the state—such, at least, is the predominant relation in recent times—or, as was formerly the case, it grows and flourishes beneath the shelter and through the fostering care of ecclesiastical institutions. Holding an intermediate place between the two other bodies of human society—in its subject-matter more akin to the one, but deriving from the other its external support—it is also of a mixed nature and partakes of both. But the inborn and original sin of science is exactly similar to that which infects political life. Manifesting itself in a twofold aberration, it either assumes, in the spirit of anarchy, an hostile position toward all that exists from without, or is given to men from above, or, perhaps, comes forward in a predominant love of system or scientific sectarianism, which not unfrequently is as fanatical as the political party-spirit with which, moreover, it is often very nearly and closely allied.
The nature of the divine order which rules the history of the world, and its stern, retributive law, must, in all essential points, be now apparent from the preceding remarks. It is an all-pervading alternation between the purifying fire of God’s punitive justice and the inheritance of the old evil, which breaks out, now in anarchy, now in despotism—at one time in spiritual deadness and lukewarmness of faith—at another in the pernicious lust of innovation and change. This purifying fire, it must also be clear, while, confining its immediate operation to single nations or to marked and distinct epochs of history, it gives them a new shape and form, invariably gains for itself a wider extension, so as, at last, to embrace the whole world. Moreover, every one must feel that, in investigating the fiery track of this judging spirit in its stern course through centuries, we must reverently follow at a respectful distance to learn from it what it is and how it manifests itself, and take good heed how we presume to confine it within any narrow law, or reduce it to any precise and rigorous definition. We can not be too carefully on our guard against ascribing to Providence in its guidance of mankind many and subtile designs, which, after all, perhaps, are nothing but the mere fancies and conceits of man. In general, however, it may safely be said that the subordinate views and higher ends which are visible in the leading catastrophes of nations and empires, or even of entire ages, have especial reference to that gradation in the divine revelation which I explained to you in the previous Lecture as having a regard to, and comprising the whole human race in, its comprehensive design. By way of exemplification, and as an instance of the right application of the ideas here advanced, I will now, in conclusion, add a few words on those events and catastrophes of universal history, which, in this respect, seem the most important.
The universal deluge, of which the whole surface of our globe presents so many and so great traces and proofs, forms a partition-wall, sternly separating the earliest races of men from the subsequent generations. Of the former it is only probable that they were very different from the latter, not only in their manner of life, but also in their physical and intellectual powers and endowments, and likewise, perhaps, in the nature and mode of their moral corruption and depravity. My remarks, therefore, may well be confined to this side of that great partition-wall. The next great catastrophe, which is both expressly given out as a divine retribution (and, as such, can be proved from profane history as much, though not so universally, as the former), is the so-called Babylonian confusion of tongues and the dispersion of nations. This, and that which is so inseparably connected with it, the confusion of mythical ideas and legends, is rather hinted at than fully and clearly detailed. The time, too, is not given, though the locality is expressly mentioned. It is the same one which, according to all other historical statements, was the very spot of Western Central Asia, where that contagious malady of the lust of conquest first arose, or, if we may be allowed the expression, where this unhappy invention was first made. This dispersion of nations, however, was its natural punishment, since every unity which is either politically false or intellectually untrue, must terminate in chaotic dissolution. This historical fact is distinctly traceable in the world of the ancients among the West Asiatic, South European, and North African nations which dwell around the shores of the Mediterranean. Here we can scarcely find our way out of the labyrinth of traces of reciprocal relationship which abound, in their medley of cognate languages and their chaos of legends, so remarkably agreeing, and yet frequently so inconsistent in their ideas of nature, their far-reaching theogonies, and the divine origination of their heroic families. These chaotic contradictions, however, in which the poetry of heathendom indulged without restraint, gradually undermined the old popular belief, and led, consequently, at a later period, to a very favorable result.
For by this means the Greeks—to whom our present remarks apply especially and pre-eminently—gained free space for the unshackled development of a philosophy which, though it may have run and wandered through many systems of error, yet in so far as it was an honest and sincere search after truth and certainty, served and deserves to be considered as a preparation and introduction to a higher knowledge and the adoption of revelation. For because of this intellectual development (and the fact serves to prove that a pure sensibility to the beautiful, and a clear and pregnant thought on human life and on nature, is ever highly pleasing to God), the Greeks were chosen as the second people of the world, to be the medium and the instruments of the further diffusion of revelation in the course of the development of humanity.
In political life, the erroneous tendency of the Greek mind was to the abuse of liberty and to anarchy. When this evil had been carried to its wildest extreme, it was overtaken by its natural penalty (which inwardly follows close upon its track), in the armed supremacy of Macedon (which, however, was only a brief paroxysm), and the final subjugation of Greece to the Roman yoke. Among the Romans both forms of political evil met together, and were closely connected with each other. To escape from domestic anarchy, they entered on a victorious career of foreign conquest and aggrandizement; and when intestine dissension had reached its greatest height, a perfect despotism was established, both at home and in the provinces.
We recently remarked that the whole of that mixture of ideas, confusion of legends and traditions, and that continual alternation between anarchy and despotism, which in the olden times of heathendom ran through its whole course of development, from the first dispersion of nations to the establishment of the Roman empire over the world, immediately applies to and is only to be understood of the West Asiatic and South European races. In the East of Asia, two great nations or empires, which together make up a third, if not the half, nearly, of the population of the whole earth, have remained in a great measure free from and uninfluenced by it. It would almost seem as if the Almighty, with some special design, had kept and reserved them unto these last times. For three if not four thousand years India has preserved unchanged its institution of castes, and all its essential customs and laws. The very fact that this ancient empire, so extensive, so abundant in riches, and so singular in its nature, and with a civilized population equal to that of the whole of Europe put together, should be now conquered and held in subjection by the sea-ruling isles of Britain, which the ancients named the Cassiterides, or Tin Islands, and described as the ultimate limits of the habitable world, is one of the most remarkable signs of our days. That in such great historical events, and such singular juxtapositions, there rules some grand and mysterious design of the Mind which regulates the course of human affairs, we can not but feel; only we shall greatly err if we precipitately determine its particular nature. The wiser and the safer course is to look forward with attentive expectation to its further development. Already has this remarkable approximation of the extreme East and West led to important consequences. The enlargement of our historical information, by the sources discovered in the East, has alone been so considerable as to give greater coherence and consistency to our knowledge of the earlier, and, indeed, of the very earliest times, and of the origin of mankind, and to have afforded a growing testimony and a strong confirmation of the truth of the sacred narrative.
The Celestial Empire too, with its monosyllabic language, remained until very recently within its walls separate from and never mixing with the rest of the world. Although China has been several times subjugated by northern conquerors, it has, nevertheless, continued in all essential respects the same. But now, in these modern times of universal ferment and of change throughout the political world, China, too, has been set in movement, and has become so far a conquering power, that she who in the earlier centuries of Christianity was only known by name, through fable, has become the immediate neighbor of two great European powers.
The close of the ancient history of the Eastern world, in its westerly regions, is formed by the tragic overthrow of the Jewish people and the fearful destruction of Jerusalem; events which are properly described, as also they were long previously announced, as a partial judgment on an individual nation. And in this light and in similar colors they are, moreover, depicted even by heathen writers. Few things in the whole course of history furnish so singular and striking a phenomenon as this total dissolution of the Jewish nation. The dispersion over all parts of the earth, for so many centuries, of a people that has exercised so great and so decisive an influence on the progress of ideas and the higher cultivation of the human mind, both naturally and scientifically, makes a sad and melancholy impression on our minds. With so much the more of reason, then, may we regard it as a sign of the times, and one, too, full of good promise and of bright and cheerful hope, if this long and cruelly-oppressed people seems suddenly to be aroused again or awakened from its degradation, and in manifold ways evincing an intellectual, moral, and social activity, begins to partake of a more liberal development and culture. And on one account the fact appears still more consolatory. Such a reawakening of this long ill-treated and degraded race is, in their oldest prophecies, fixed for the last decisive days of the world’s history.
In the medieval period of modern history we meet with all the elements of the Christian state. The idea of a pure monarchy also was here carried far higher toward perfection, and much more manifoldly developed than in heathen antiquity. But the civil and spiritual powers soon came into collision, and in their mutual conflict were alike guilty of despotic encroachments on each other. In this sad dissension the whole state of things fell more and more into a new kind of anarchy. And in the same way, in our own times, after a great part of the Christian world had, in sentiment at least, reverted to heathenism, then as a natural consequence of the ruling tone of thought and opinion, there was a great relapse into the double evil of a wild and fatal popular anarchy, and of a still more destructive military despotism. And the whole history of the old heathen world is nothing but one continual alternation between these two evils.
In the Christian West, indeed, both now and in the middle ages, the predominant tendency to error inclined toward the side of anarchy. Among the Mohammedan nations, on the contrary, from the very earliest days of their religion, the despotic lust of conquest has been, as it were, an inborn and homebred hereditary failing. It was indeed fed and encouraged by their national creed. But here also the greatest changes have taken place. The largest and most powerful of all the Mohammedan empires, that, viz., in India, is entirely overthrown, and scarcely a vestige of it remains in these times. By a natural revolution of things, the first irresistible conquerors are now themselves conquered and brought under the yoke of others. And so, too, on the other and western side of their once wide rule, they who formerly threatened the existence of civilized Europe are now dependent upon, essentially mixed up with, and owe their political existence to, European policy and the balance of power. This total change of the relative position of the Mohammedan states in general belongs undoubtedly to the characteristic signs which so peculiarly mark and distinguish our own age.
In the three centuries of modern history which fill up the interval between the middle ages and the revolutionary epoch of our own days, the moral constitution of the monarchy has been far more fully and clearly developed than in any previous era. But the most striking event of this period of history is furnished by the sad and melancholy phenomenon of the religious wars. These were the lamentable consequence of the schism in the faith, not indeed by any indispensable and necessary law, nor even as its natural, but still its perfectly explicable, result. In those lands where, as in England and France, there existed a weaker party of either side, which had either been fully conquered or was kept under by oppressive civil disabilities, this unhappy phenomenon assumed the most revolting appearance. But the same state of things took a very different turn in Germany. Here the religious disputes terminated in a higher and a nobler result. In a long and fruitless struggle of thirty years, which wasted and consumed the best energies of the nation, the two contending parties were taught, that with so nicely-balanced strength, no decisive result either way was to be expected. Coming at length to a wiser mind, they acknowledged their respective rights, and by a peaceable compromise they agreed to live together in the same social community. This great and famous religious peace, which, considered merely in the light of a treaty of general pacification, is a master-piece of policy, without equal or parallel, and serving for the basis for all subsequent treaties and questions of peace, is become for Germany a species of inborn national necessity, and, as it were, a second national character. She finds in it a full and perfect compensation for many disadvantages she labors under as compared with other lands, while she has acquired from it a great and important position in the world of the future. Considered with regard to the whole world, one can not well avoid ascribing to this indestructible religious peace in Germany a still higher importance, however little it is commonly understood or regarded in this light. Indeed, we can not but look upon it as the precursor, with hopeful promises, of a far greater and completer religious peace—a peace, I mean, which shall reconcile not only all differences in the faith, but also that more universal and more pervading dissension between faith and unbelief; the quarrel between science and faith being first adjusted, and unity restored thereby between them, and, consequently, also to life. But to effect this object, God, who wills nothing but peace and unity, must take the upper hand and be stronger than man, who loves and desires strife, or, at least, without loving and seeking it, is still ever relapsing into it.
In such or some similar way a religious view of universal history, and of the divine order therein, admits of being developed; which, however, can not be truly done with too much of scientific rigor, or by violently introducing into its plans any arbitrary and, consequently, false designs and purposes.
My prescribed limits compel me to confine myself to these few hints, and in these I have wished principally to call attention to their reference to our own age, and to exhibit them in the light in which they appear of universal interest and to possess an eminent and remarkable destination. Comprised, then, in one result, the following are the characteristic signs of the present age: the two greatest heathen nations, which for thousands of years stood by themselves apart from the rest of the world, have lately come into the closest contact with Europe—the Mohammedan empires are every where falling into decay, more rapidly than men had been led to expect their fall—the Hebrew race is beginning to rise from its long degradation—in Christian states and communities there is here and there visible a strong inclination to the old evil of anarchy—and if the great human peace, which has now lasted twelve years, appears in some points insecure, or at least endangered from within, it is only because it is devoid of a firm foundation of the internal sentiment of men. What event, then, could be more happy for our age, what better turn could the present posture of affairs take, than by bringing about such a triple divine peace as we have already sketched, to give a new foundation and a firmer basis to the external peace of society? May not this, in God’s good purpose, be the theme which is to occupy the next era of the world?
THE philosophy of life can not be any mere science of reason, and least of all an unconditional one. For such does but lead us into a domain of dead abstractions alien to life, which, by the dialectical spirit of disputation connatural to the reason, is soon converted into a labyrinthine maze of contradictory opinions and notions, out of which the reason, with all its logical means and appliances, can not extricate itself. And life, consequently—the inner spiritual life, that is—is disturbed and destroyed by it. And it is even this disturbing and destroying principle of the dialectical reason that most requires to be got rid of and brought into subjection. In the mere form, however, of abstract thought there is nothing in and by itself opposed to the truth. There is nothing in it that it is absolutely and invariably necessary to avoid, or that never and in no case admits of application. It is, no doubt, most certain that every system of philosophy is on a wrong track which borrows its method exclusively from mathematics, and copies it throughout from beginning to end. Still, in the progressive development of philosophical ideas certain points may occur—there may be certain places in the entire system—where occasionally and by the way such formulas and abstract equations may be profitably employed. Such a case may happen in the present Lecture. But by thus employing them only by way of illustration, and episodically in passing, I hope to establish such a use of them, and to make it evident that the perspicuity of the exposition does not essentially suffer thereby.
Philosophy, as the universal science, embraces in its consideration the whole man. As, therefore, it evidently involves the occasion, so it is not unlikely that cases may occur where it can happily borrow, now from one now from another of the sciences, its external form and peculiar formularies. It can, in short, advantageously avail itself of all in turn. Only, such a use, to be profitable, must be free. And this freedom will best evince itself in the deliberate choice and the diversity of the images. The method of free speculation, i.e., of philosophy, must not resemble a coat of mail with its infinite number of little uniform chains and rings. It ought not, as is the case nearly with the mathematical method, to be composed, by mechanical rule and measure, of simple propositions scientifically linked together, and then formed again into higher logical concatenations. In short, the method of philosophy can not properly be uniform. The spirit must not be made subservient to the method; the essence must not be sacrificed to the form.
Philosophical thought and knowledge, with that diversity of illustration and variety in method which follows from its universality, is, in this respect, somewhat in the same case with poetry. Of all the imitative arts poetry alone embraces, and by its nature is intended to embrace, the whole man. It is, therefore, free to borrow its similes or colors, and manifold figurative expressions, from every sphere of life and nature, and to take them now from this, now from that object, as on each occasion appears most striking and appropriate. Now, no one would think of prescribing unconditionally to poetry, and compelling her to take all her similes and figures either from flowers and plants, or from the animal world, or exclusively from any one of the several pursuits of man—from the sailor’s life, for instance, or the shepherd’s, or the huntsman’s—or from any of his handicrafts or mechanical arts. For although all such similes, and colors, and expressions, appropriately, introduced, are equally allowable in every poetical composition, and none of them need be rejected, still the exclusive use of any one class of them as a law would hamper the free poetic spirit and extinguish the living fancy. In the same way, philosophy is not confined to any one invariable and immutable form. At one time it may come forward in the guise of a moral, legislative, or a judicial discussion; at another, as a description of natural history. Or, perhaps, it may assume the method of an historical and genealogical development and derivation of ideas as best fitted to exhibit the thoughts which it aims at illustrating in their mutual coherence and connection. On other occasions, perhaps, it will take the shape of a scientific investigation of nature—of an experiment in a higher physiology—in order to test the existence of the invisible powers which it is its purpose to establish. Or again, by the employment of an algebraic equation, or of a mathematical form (which, however, it regards as nothing more than a symbol and visible hieroglyphic for a higher something that is invisible), it will, perhaps, most conveniently attain to its loftier aim. Every method and every scientific form is good; or, at least, when rightly employed, is good. But no one ought to be exclusive. No one must be carried out with painful uniformity, and with wearying monotony be invariably followed throughout.
The philosophy of life, then, can not be any mere absolute philosophy of reason. And as little can, or ought it to be purely and absolutely a philosophy of nature; not, at least, an exclusive one, that is, exactly such and nothing more. Such a philosophy of nature may, indeed, in its physiological aspect, possess unequaled scientific wealth, and be full of profound and ingenious thoughts. But still the right principles and the regulative ideas of human life can never be deduced from it easily, and without having recourse to forced constructions. For even man is, in his life, something higher than nature; even he is something more than a mere physical being. Still less possible, then, were it, from such a philosophy of nature, to derive, establish, and to render clear and intelligible the idea and being of God—the pervading reference to whom, however, makes man what he is. The idea of God deduced from such a source alone would, and indeed could only be, some great final cause of the system of nature.
Neither the conclusions of sound reason, and least of all those of the conscience—no, nor even dialectic itself (so far as it is profitably employed, by the knowledge of it being made available for the detection of error), nor physical science, when cultivated in a noble and lofty spirit, ought in any way to be excluded from the borders, or even the very domain of philosophy. On the contrary, she may, in her own peculiar way, adopt them all, and, giving them a more extensive sense and spirit, employ them for her own higher aims. In its primary and most essential respects, the philosophy of life is a thoroughly human science. It is nothing less than the cognition of man. Now, even on this account, and because it is only by means of his all-pervading relation to God that man stands above nature and is something superior to a mere physical being, and something higher, too, than a mere rational machine, therefore is the philosophy of life actually and in fact a true philosophy of God. The philosophy of life attains this high dignity beyond a mere philosophy of reason, or of nature, simply on this account—that the supreme life and the ultimate source of all other degrees of life is even God. Now this Supreme Life, which has its life in itself, is the subject of my present disquisitions. For it is even with the correct and complete notion of this Supreme Life that the Spirit of Truth first enters the human consciousness; and then, in the inner world of man, which before was “without form and void,” that light begins to shine which never shall become darkness, and of which even this Spirit of Truth has said “that it was good.” This divine but initiatory illumination is the first step in that progressive development of the internal light and truth in human life and consciousness, and which, as starting from this point and passing through its successive stages of advancement, it will be our object to trace in the last seven of the present Lectures. In the eight preceding disquisitions I have endeavored, by advancing step by step, to arrive at this last end of all. We have now reached the culminating point; and the Supreme Life, which, according to what has been already said, is the primary source of all other life, and which has life in itself, is now, together with the full and true notion of this life, to occupy our common consideration. And then again, descending from this summit of light and truth—for which, in the mean time, I entreat your entire and closest attention—I propose, with hasty step, to retrace our way through all the grades of man’s spiritual enlightenment, to carry back your regards and mine into all the several spheres of life and consciousness.
But now, it has been said that the philosophy of life, in every case and instance, invariably ascends to the highest object of every sphere that it contemplates, and that that supreme object is God. From this, further, it has been argued that it is even and truly a philosophy of God. How, then, does it differ from theology?
At the very commencement of these Lectures I confessed that philosophy in general, and especially a philosophy of life, by reason of the common object which they both treat of, could not avoid coming into frequent and close contact with theology. But, at the same time, I asserted that the former, in its whole essence, is completely and materially different from the latter, and requires to be carefully restricted within its own limits. We must take heed lest it either violently encroach upon the proper domain of theology, or, on the other hand, become its servile handmaid at the sacrifice of its own peculiar character and destination. The true relation of these two kindred sciences, as occupied with a common subject, which is often entirely identical, and their, nevertheless, so strongly-marked and distinct limits, may perhaps be most clearly illustrated by a comparison with the mathematical sciences.
Dogmatic theology, or the science of positive belief, resembles pure mathematics. Its ideas and formularies can not be too strictly, or too simply, defined; nor, where it admits of demonstration, can its proofs be carried out with too rigorous and mathematical a precision. For in these matters it is impossible to give the least room or influence to individual caprice without hazarding the loss of all that is most essential in the positive articles of faith. Philosophy, on the other hand, in treating of such subjects—or, at least, that part of it which is occupied with these matters—resembles rather mixed geometry in its several applications, such as practical mensuration, or the science of fortification and the art of war. For philosophy is, if we may so speak, an applied theology. Adopting the universal ideas of the one living God and his overruling Providence, and, what is so closely connected therewith, of the soul’s immortality and man’s free will, it adapts them, in many valuable practical applications, to the whole and almost boundless field of historical knowledge and the development of the human race, as well as to all physical and experimental sciences, and even to the wide domain of scientific disputes and merely human opinion, with its several conflicting systems. In this course of practical application philosophy needs not, in its expressions and formularies, scrupulously to confine itself to the terminology of its sister science, or to repeat its words with a careful exactness. On the contrary, its best and wisest course is to move with freedom, changing and varying its expressions at pleasure. For inasmuch as it is not itself so rigorously tied up as theology is to authority, so it can not appeal to it with equal justice in order to enforce assent to its own teaching. In the same way, too, that in algebraic equations a mere hypothetical calculation is oftentimes introduced, which, moreover, afterward suggests many a valuable practical application, so, also, a similar hypothetical use of the theological magnitudes or axioms, if we may so speak, is quite open and allowable to philosophy in the pursuit of its merely scientific ends. It is only the most general articles of the faith that philosophy makes use of. At least, the minuter and sharply-defined determinations of a positive creed are not immediately and indispensably necessary for its object. Now, an overruling Providence, the soul’s immortality, and the freedom of the will, are articles of universal belief, which, although, perhaps, not couched in express words and definite notions, yet still as germs and vague feelings exist, however deeply they may slumber, in every human breast that is as yet pure and uncontaminated by that captious skepticism which frets and corrodes itself with its seeming perplexities. These, philosophy may safely take for granted. Nay, it is its duty so to do; and where it does so in the right way, then will it never, on that account, meet with any considerable obstacle or opposition. On the contrary, by pursuing this course it will the more surely arouse and awaken these universal feelings from their slumber in the human mind, and gradually shape and convert them into fixed and stable points from which to carry on the further progress and development of the principle of faith.
And it is even herein that philosophy will most display its art, or, rather, its intellectual power over the minds of men. It is in this, pre-eminently, that lies its vocation. But if, on the contrary, it makes this mission to consist rather in demonstrating, in a strictly scientific form, the existence of a Deity, with its natural train of those eternal verities—the immortality of the soul, and the freedom of the will, then at the very first outset it will lose sight of its true aim, and set up a false one. For, were such a demonstration possible, still nothing essential would be gained by its actual attainment. For, in such a case, the existence of God, and God himself, would naturally become dependent, in thought at least, on that from and by means of which the proof was established, and would, consequently, appear to us no longer as the first cause of all, but, rather, a secondary and derivative being. In such the primal essence would be made to depend on our human knowledge and science of reasoning, so to speak; the latter must, in the plenitude of its power, first confer upon and guaranty to the former its existence. This would, indeed, be a complete inversion of the true and natural order of things, such as, alas, has but too often occurred and manifested itself in actual experience.
These remarks, however, must be understood as applying to a strict demonstration of this great verity, or at least to all attempts of the kind. To point to this truth, to trace every indication of it, to elucidate it, to confirm it by analogy or other corroborative evidences, is quite a different matter. All this is perfectly allowable. But God does not allow his existence to be proved. By force of reasoning such a belief is not to be impressed on the mind of that man who is unwilling spontaneously to admit it. As life generally, so also this supreme life must be learned and concluded from every man’s own experience; it must be adopted with the vividness of a feeling.
Let us now, for a moment, revert to the old scholastic forms and the designations usually given in the schools to the several philosophical sciences, and compare with them the division on which our present disquisitions are based. We might, in this respect, say that the first five sections of our treatise have been exclusively devoted to psychology; though not indeed in the ordinary narrow sense of the word, but in one far more extensive, and embracing the whole universe. According to this wider extent and signification of psychology, we have considered the soul relatively, first of all, to the whole of philosophy and its several systems; secondly, to moral life; and, lastly, to revelation, to nature, and to God Himself. The three following Lectures were devoted to an examination of the divine order of things in the several spheres of existence, and to the indications of a ruling Providence discoverable therein. They constitute, therefore, a species of theology; but one, however, empirically conceived and historically worked out from observations in nature and in history, not only in the annals of the external world, but also in the spiritual history of the progressive terms in the development of truth. Such a theological essay exactly corresponds to that notion we so lately advanced, of an applied or mixed science of theology as the peculiar sphere for this part or branch of philosophy which concerns itself with the doctrine of the supreme essence, and the right understanding thereof.
Now if, in compliance with olden forms of division and a scholastic phraseology, it be necessary to deliver a scheme of ontology as the philosophical science and cognition of really existent things, and also of their true and real essence, it is clear that such is only conceivable and possible by means of such an applied theology. For how can things be truly real, and how can they as such be known in their inmost essence, except so far as they have their existence and determination in God, and, in this respect, admit of being known by us?
In any case, however, the name of natural theology, which ever and anon we still hear applied to the philosophical cognition of the Divine Being and His existence, ought carefully to be avoided. Such a designation is based on a thorough misconception and total inversion of ideas. Every system of theology that is not supernatural, or at least that does not profess to be so, but pretends to understand naturally the idea of God, and regards the knowledge of the divine essence as a branch of natural science, or derives the idea simply from nature, is even on that account false. Missing and entirely mistaking its proper object, it must, in short, prove absolutely null and void. Properly, indeed, this inquiry needs no peculiar word nor special division and scientific designation. The name generally of philosophy, or specially of a philosophy of God, is perfectly sufficient to designate the investigation into science and faith, and their reciprocal relation—their abiding discord, or its harmonious reconciliation and intrinsic concord. And this is properly the point which is here in question; it forms the essential part of the topic which we have at present to examine.
The internal schism in the faith itself I formerly excluded from our inquiry, as not lying properly within the limits of philosophy, and belonging to a higher tribunal. I at the same time expressed my conviction that God alone could universally and totally reconcile it. By this, however, I would not by any means wish to be understood as asserting that works on this subject, written with a thorough knowledge of historical facts, and in a luminous and instructive style, can not contribute much to the refutation of error. Works of this nature may, in their degree, tend to bring about a mutual approximation of sentiment. For they serve to elucidate and clear up points which, even though they do not involve the essential articles of positive belief; do, nevertheless, greatly and extensively co-operate in keeping alive a mutual spiritual alienation and estrangement of mind. The great merit of treatises of this kind, when composed with high intellectual powers and in that noble spirit which is at once just and desirous of peace, must not in any case be denied or depreciated. Nevertheless, it is idle to pretend that the influence of such essays, whether greater or less, is not confined to a limited sphere, extending to a few individuals, or at most to classes.
To judge by the usual course of the divine order in the realm of truth, a total conversion of the whole mind of the age, or a reawakening of entire nations, is only to be expected from a higher and universal impulse imparted from above. As a preparation, however, for that divine peace in a universal unity of faith, which so repeatedly and so many ways is promised most distinctly even to this life, nothing can be so effective as to remove, if possible, or at least to reconcile, that triple discord already described as dividing and distracting the inner man. And this is a matter which, as lying within the sphere of human consciousness and science, unquestionably belongs to the domain of philosophical investigation. And it is even the duty of philosophy, whenever it follows its prevailing mediatory and atoning tendency, to attempt scientifically to bring about the reconciliation of that strife, and, undiscouraged by repeated failures, still to labor to re-establish the perfect and profound harmony of consciousness and of life.
Now the first dissension, that, viz., between science and faith, whether actual or apparent, requires for its removal before all things a mutual understanding and compromise. The second dissension between faith in general, even a mere philosophical and natural faith, and that unbelief which is so general and prevalent in our age, can only end with the perfect triumph of the truth. For only by the full light of divine knowledge and truth—by the triumphant exposition of this true light, and by the magic power of such a display on the minds of men—shall doubt and infidelity be fully eradicated and destroyed. The third dissension, between both faith and science on the one hand, and life on the other, needs, for the removal of all misunderstanding, something more than a mere peace and compromise on the disputed points. For this purpose there is required a thorough union of both carried out into fruitful and practical application, by which the living faith and the living science may evince themselves as such, and manifest their true and wholesome influence on life, however at present estranged from and adverse to it.