Of the fine arts, therefore, which, employing a material medium for their representations, possess an ideal and symbolical significance, music is the art of the soul, and sculpture is that of corporeal form, and of the manifestation of the true idea of organic beauty. But among the three sister arts, painting is the true spiritual one. As the light, with its ceaseless variety of tints and hues, is the most spiritual element of nature, and as the eye is the most spiritual of man’s senses, so painting, as concerned about these, is the most spiritual of the arts, and the one with which the symbolical spirit readily associates itself. Painting directs itself wholly to the eye, whereas sculpture appeals indeed to the eye, but only as the necessary medium for satisfying the corporeal sense and feeling.

It appears sufficient if we assume that there are only three symbolical arts for the higher manifestation of the beautiful. For architecture, although in various ways bound and modified by the conditions of some ulterior design, is, nevertheless, in its principal features closely related to sculpture, and stands on the same line with it. For beauty of structure, correctness of proportion, and grace of symmetry, which form the fundamental laws of the plastic art, constitute also the ideal of architecture. Accordingly, among the Greeks and Romans, where the latter attained to its highest and richest cultivation, its principles, relations, and forms approximate to those of organic figure, to which they are not indeed outwardly in their structure, but in a certain degree and according to their internal constitution, similar and correspondent, or at least related.

Egyptian architecture, with its predominantly mathematical character, and the tree-like Gothic aspiring to heaven, with its slender shafts and floral decorations, form the two extremes of this organic character which belongs to architecture, and which constitutes it one and the same art with sculpture. For the structures of the former environ and surround the creations of the latter. And it is only consistent that that which supplies the legitimate sphere and the natural medium for the other properly exhibitive art of sculpture and its statues of the gods, should even possess or acquire a similarity of character with it. As to the Egyptian and Gothic architectures, the remark readily suggests itself that the symbolical character displays itself predominantly in them: purity of form, however, is the prevalent feature of the antique (or Grecian), but even here in its proportions the symbolical principle may be traced, although it is more recondite, not to say concealed.

Poetry owes in every instance its first creative beginning to some great and singular ray of light from symbolical tradition, which, at the same time, illuminates the noble and memorable past, and points forward to the dark and mystical future. For it would be difficult to produce one among the great epic poems of antiquity that does not contain this poetico-prophetic element, and does not touch upon the profound mysteries of both worlds. The next and middle step is occupied by the poetry of sentiment and feeling—that music of the soul or poesy of song in which the calm deep longings and the wild tearing passions of the moment, once plunged and glorified in that immortal element, become eternal. But the height of perfection in the organic development of poetry is marked by the drama. This third and highest form of poetical art has for its subject-matter the whole struggle of human life, which in its vivid representations it aims to realize, and, as it were, to bring bodily before our eyes.

There exists an obvious analogy between the several constituents, as well as the different species or kinds of poetry and the three material arts of the beautiful. As the latter are symbolical throughout in the subject no less than in the manner and design of their manifestations, so also, but in a far higher degree, is poetry, as the art which embraces all the three in its own sphere. And this was the end to which I wished to arrive, inasmuch as the symbolical significance of the whole of life is the very point which at present claims our attention. For it bears intimately on the conclusion which I attempted to establish in my last Lecture. It was there my endeavor to prove that the supreme science, which is essentially identical with a divine faith, may be actually applied to life, be really brought in unison with it, and become transformed into a living and real existence. But this can only be accomplished by a symbolical process, or in other words, the symbolical signification of life is either itself the basis, or else an indispensable condition of, and inevitable transition-point toward, such a union and its accomplishment.

It can easily be shown that education as well as art is essentially symbolical. Such, indeed, must be the character of the education, whether public or private, of the whole rising generation, unless it is to degenerate into an ordinary mechanical system. And it is even in this quality principally that we are disposed to place the distinction between an unspiritual education, which, even though in the sternness of its morality it may defy censure, yet eventually proves barren and mortal, and one more solid and more conformable to human nature, which, less pretending in the outset, is even the more lasting in its effects.

And, indeed, the earnestness, the labor, and the sterner part in this whole business and matter of education, as mixed and composed of two opposite elements, of the serious and the sportive, is highly capable of receiving so spiritual a reference and vital a significance. And if all education be nothing else than a preparation for the future, and the state of this preparation, then it must be self-evident that too many or enough of such vivid references and spiritual allusions to a future life, either generally or to any particular phase of it that may chiefly be had in view, can not be introduced into education and its serious and sportive elements and pursuits. For it is only by this method that the susceptibilities of youth and the youthful fancy can be vividly excited and thoroughly impressed with the fundamental design and significance of the whole of life—a result which no mere dry definition of the future state, or generally of any “destination of man” on the dusty road of logic, will ever attain to.

Man, at the beginning, was placed on this earth as its first-born son, in the midst of the telluric universe, or, in other words, in the center of a planetary world akin to and similar to his own. Now, whatever may be the case, or whatever it may be allowable to think of any other of the starry spheres—though in the invisible world of spirits all perhaps is more immediately full of and instinct with essence, and is not veiled in material emblems, this is not the case with this earth. Terrestial nature, in all its organic productions and warring elements of life, is throughout symbolical. Man, therefore, viewed from this position of his earthly habitation, is surrounded by a symbolical world of sensuous emblems. And if we can, or, rather, if we will, believe the grand intimation with which revelation opens, the first and highest destination of man is even symbolical—to be the Divine image.

If, now, all the natural wants and properties of man are symbolical—if such be his present state in the midst of creation—his whole position in the mundane system, and his high and heavenly destination, can we, or, rather, ought we, to wonder if even religion presents itself for the most part clothed in a symbolical garb? For this is the case, not merely with that which was the wild upgrowth of a poetical and purely imaginative heathenism, but also the old, original, and pure religion of nature—as the first love devoting itself for sacrifice—the second revelation of God. And so we find it to have been in the old world, or, as it is otherwise called, the old covenant. Here the first twilight of faith was yet studded with all the starry splendor of the whole symbolical creation, as it were with the brilliant diadem of nature’s most glorious images. And even the new era of the ascending and brightening dawn still bears on its front the glittering morning-star of art.

The divine origin of art is easily proved by its history every where, and indeed is so manifest that it can not well be doubted. High art, indeed, can not and never will surrender its claim to a divine power and sanctity: it must insist upon the recognition of this its high sanction. If we could conceive an age or country where religion should entirely cease and be forgotten—where not only all positive faith and revelation, but even the universal belief in a Divinity above them, should die away and perish among men—the light of all higher and heaven-directed thoughts and aims should become extinct—that echo of eternity and of eternal love which the inmost feelings of the human soul spontaneously gives back, should be hushed forever—then and there at the self-same moment would all high art be withdrawn and disappear.

In this respect the present age may be likened to a noble house, fallen from its primitive wealth and magnificence into decay and ruin. Its revenues dissipated by misfortunes, mismanagement and extravagance; its mansion and domains mortgaged or encumbered with debt, nothing remains to it but the family jewels. These time-honored heirlooms of better days are all that it still retains of its former opulence. And even in these many a false stone has been introduced among the old genuine diamonds; much spurious metal has been substituted for the sterling gold of antiquity. Apparently, however, the whole are still preserved as the last relic of a former splendor, and of a wealth which once seemed inexhaustible. In the same way the present generation supports its inner and higher life on the mere external treasures of art, while the great capital of ancient faith, to which among other excellent fruits that ornament of beauty owed its existence, has by the great majority been long squandered on the “spirit of the age.”

But the symbolical dress that religion every where assumes constitutes but one half of its external form. The other consists in the vital and intrinsic union of all the members and professors of the common faith. Religion can not by any means be isolated and solitary. It is impossible to think of it as existing only for the individual. In a word, there is no such thing as religion in a proper sense without a community. Two or three must at least be united in a common faith, that its power and efficacy may be visible among them. And this association is one vital throughout—an inmost bond binding souls together by a spiritual attraction, and, as it were, enchainment of the several members.

One remark, however, seems particularly called for in this place. It appears, from what has been already said, that even revelation and the true religion itself invariably puts on and is invested with that symbolical garb which is so consonant and agreeable to the state and nature of humanity. This being the case, it becomes extremely difficult to form a general standard by which we may unfalteringly determine what symbols are not essential, as only serving for the external garb of religion and an intelligible vehicle of its communications. For this, it is evident, must be governed by the diversity of individual wants and peculiarities, and must consequently assume a variable and personal character. If, however, a symbol proceeds immediately from God, then it must necessarily be essential. It is not only a type, but an actual substance. To suppose otherwise would be even almost parallel to presuming to regard the eternal Logos, who is the source of light and life, of all knowledge and of all being, as a word merely, without innate energy and substance.

Properly, indeed, our Ego is no such (a), and can not be defined as such in the wonderful algebraic equation of our inmost life and highest pursuit. For nowhere does man feel himself to be a first; all things prove him to be secondary and derivative, wherever it may be that he is to take or seek his beginning. And not only does the alphabet of our life carry us beyond itself and toward its end in this incomprehensible (x), but it is also defective at its commencement, and wants a beginning and the first (a), which ought to form its very opening. And even the (b) (could this satisfy us) is nowhere distinctly and clearly to be found such as it is in and by itself, or such even as it was originally. It is invariably mixed and involved with something else equally unknown. We have, therefore, in this equation of our life, to do with two wholly unknown magnitudes—with the incomprehensible (x), and with the (y). For by the latter sign we will at present designate that which every where meets and opposes us. For the fact of such an inborn and connatural obstacle every one will admit, even though he may refuse to explain it by the evil principle and may be unwilling to receive the explanation which revelation gives of it.

Of the languages of Western Asia, at least, and of the alphabets derived therefrom, the Hebrew, viz., the Phœnician and the Greek, it may without hesitation be asserted, that they were derived from hieroglyphics, and are, without exception, of hieroglyphic origin. This can not be asserted as decidedly of the Indian alphabet, which differs so totally from all those previously mentioned. Still I shall not allow myself, simply on this account, to come over hastily to any conclusion as to the comparative antiquity of the Hindoo and the Egyptian modes of writing.

Now, according to all that we know of the hieroglyphical mode of indicating objects, it rests on a very simple principle. The discovery which was in so remarkable a manner reserved to our own age, is not indeed complete, and leaves much still to be explained. The fundamental principle, nevertheless, is well established. From this it appears that the hieroglyphic system of Egypt, although entirely symbolical, contains, notwithstanding, the germ of alphabetical writing. As the principle of hieroglyphical writing is equally applicable to modern languages as to the Egyptian, a German word will serve us as well for an example, and for the purposes of our illustration, as any other. Preliminary, however, it is necessary to observe, that in this mode of notation the leading characters and essential elements of the radical sound are alone indicated; such vowels and consonants as are quiescent, or servile, are omitted, and being without any special signs are left to be mentally supplied.

Now, from this example, which I have purposely chosen, it will appear that this hieroglyphical mode of notation and writing, while it was fundamentally alphabetical, had, nevertheless, at the same time, a symbolical significance. For a light, or light-giving flame, the tree with its growth, as well as the flowing stream with its waves or ripples, aptly express and typify the intrinsic character of life, with its several characteristics and elements. And it is even this addition of symbolical coloring and signification which in the otherwise equivocal, and, consequently, inconvenient, representation of objects by an hieroglyphical alphabet, constitutes the peculiar difficulty, but, at the same time the mental attraction of this kind of writing.

This mode of hieroglyphical representation is not, however, the most difficult to be understood. Another, so far as it has as yet been found out, and as progress has been made toward deciphering it, appears to be far more abstruse and enigmatical. For to understand or to interpret the latter in any degree, it is almost indispensable to know beforehand what is the object indicated or intended. In this mode of hieroglyphical notation the image of an object is made to stand for any other whose name begins with the same letter, as the word does that designates the former. Thus, to employ the same instance as before, the picture of a flaming light would by itself stand for the word and idea of life. This is, if we may so say, a bold play with algebraic equations, between enigmatical emblems, which are at most but imperfectly indicated, and which nothing but the intelligence of one well versed in the system can ever hope to comprehend. Any other, even with the greatest pains, will scarcely be able to decipher it with any degree of certainty. And this leads me back again to our former and still unsolved equation, involving the riddle of human life, and which this simile of the hieroglyphics was intended to help us to solve.

But however we may attempt by means of this or any other scientific or figurative illustrations to apprehend or to express the ineffable, the fact, and above all, a living faith in that great verity, that the divine (x) has become a human (a)—that the eternal Logos actually and really took upon Him the nature of man, and still retains it, is the point from which a new and higher life commences. It is the ring which holds together the whole human family—the first link in the chain of spiritual life, to which all must be referred and from which all is to proceed.

And because the application of Christian truth and of the fundamental idea of Christianity is in general so greatly mistaken, I have thought it necessary to remount somewhat higher in my investigations, to draw from a deeper source, and to connect them with a higher principle, in order to arrive more steadily and more certainly at the result which I had in view. And this result may be thus summed up: The Christian state is nothing less than symbolical, and even thereby historically sanctified—whereas the mere polity of nature or that of reason, which, however artistical and consummate in its constitution, remains all the while false and unsanctified, is either purely dynamical or else absolute.

As for the spiritual and priestly power: wherever religion recognizes the priest in his true character—i.e., not simply as the preacher and promulgator, but also as the living channel for dispensing and communicating the divine grace, he is, in so far as his office is concerned, and in the discharge of his sacerdotal functions, a vicegerent of God—not so much, perhaps, of the everlasting Father, the Creator and Lawgiver of nature, as of the Son who came down into the world to ransom and redeem the human race. The priestly or spiritual power, therefore, has a divine foundation on which it ultimately rests. But inasmuch as that bond of communion which unites our souls with God must be sought and attained by faith and in the spirit of faith, so this authority, however holy in itself, is, nevertheless, by its very nature, confined to the province of spirituals.

Further, we may observe, all these sacred offices possess a certain analogy and affinity one with the other. This fact, however, does not in any way militate against the essential and necessary duty of preserving a precise and accurate separation of their several functions. The privacy of home, the family circle, and the relations of domestic life, are by the laws of most nations regarded as a sanctuary which the external power of the state ought not lightly and without grave necessity to violate or profane. On the other hand, in ordinary language paternal titles are ascribed to the other two powers. But as regards spiritual personages, this is a mere mark of respect, while, as applied to the head of the state, it serves to indicate a special character of goodness and clemency in the government. It is not by any means applicable generally to the functions of government as marking its specific nature and essence. For it may not be, nay, perhaps, we should rather say it can not in all cases be simply and purely paternal.

The proper and de facto, or personal division of power, is essentially a republican principle. In notion, however, or in idea, it is perfectly legitimate to make a distinction between the several functions and elements of the whole sovereign authority. Now, in such a case, the judicial power—the supreme judicial power we would emphatically say—is pre-eminently the characteristic sign and specific distinction of sovereignty, from which all its other prerogatives and properties are originally derived or flow from it as its necessary and natural consequences. The noble prerogative of pardon and mercy, for instance, is, as it were, the natural attribute of the supreme judicial power.

With respect to legislation, however, and the legislative authority, an important co-ordinate power may, according to the existing constitution of a particular state, be vested in the other correlative members of the body politic. The preliminary deliberation, the first sketch or the initiation of a law, may not, perhaps, proceed in every case from the supreme head of the community. In other states, again, the law must emanate from the free choice and individual will of the monarch, or at least the introduction of it, since he can not of himself alone make and carry out the whole. This is a point, consequently, on which it is extremely difficult to draw the boundary line, which must in no case be transgressed or deviated from—in so far, that is, and so long as there is no question about any thing more than a simple co-operation or co-ordinate deliberation upon the proposed laws. But still in every case the final sanction, by which a law becomes properly the law, or by which it is annulled or repealed, must be reserved to the royal prerogative, otherwise the monarch ceases at once to be supreme.

The usual insignia of the kingly dignity, the scepter and the throne, are only the signs of judicial power, as it were, promoted one degree higher, and can be historically traced up to the judge’s bench and staff. The crown alone remains as the peculiar and exclusive symbol of the highest earthly dignity. And rightly is it called a splendid burden. For while it exalts him who is called to wear it above all earthly dependence and responsibility, and exempts him from all the ordinary relations of human life, the heavy weight of this splendid ornament reminds the wearer of the grave reckoning and the strict account he will have to render to God, as the Supreme Judge of all—who is the source and sum of all justice and righteousness. For this serious and solemn responsibility is received from God, together and at the very same time with the crown.

To this ancient idea of a Christian empire we shall again have occasion to revert in the further examination of the idea of a political state and its Christian community. We shall meet with it once more in that section of our inquiry which will be occupied with the ruling principle of right and polity in a system of states as a body, and also in the mutual relations of its several members. In this section we shall also show that this principle must be either absolute, that is, one where one or more of the several members of the union exercises a superior and preponderating influence, or one artificially constituted and dynamical, i.e., a system of the so-called balance of power. And here will naturally arise the question whether, for such a confederacy of moral and civilized societies and nations, a less imperfect and higher, but common principle of Christian justice might not be found and established? For any system of mutual confederation, whether absolute or founded on the artificial relations of the strength of its respective members, is in any case defective and imperfect, whatever may be the ground of union, whether founded on the internal constitution of the states, or derived from the physical consideration of their geographical position and neighborhood.

However, it is not every famous author or every brilliant political speaker that can in this sense be justly regarded as historical characters. Besides that energy of talent which creates an epoch, and which is, indeed, the primary and essential condition, certain other properties of character are required, certain sentiments and principles vividly carried out and realized in life and action. But this is a combination which is rarely found. A peculiar sphere of practical influence does not form an immediate, nor, indeed, a necessary qualification of such a character. Still it is evident that a writer who truly merits such an appellation must be something more than a mere man of letters or an artist. The effects he produces on the minds of men must be both truly national and historical. Such alone are truly and properly the historical representatives of a people—the men of their nation.

Not only would it be an exaggeration, but even a gross error, were we to regard the republican polity as excluded from the Christian principle, that all sovereignty is of God, or as irreconcilable with it and even as directly contradicting its spirit. On the contrary, the duty of obedience and the actual dependence on the existing and de facto head of the state, is not less binding on all who, through the accident of birth or their own free choice and voluntary obligation, belong to such a community, than on the subjects of an hereditary monarchy. The utmost that can be safely asserted is, that the Christian state principally inclines to the latter form of polity, without, however, formally rejecting, or unconditionally excluding the former. Historical experience has shown this, and the whole of modern history will furnish abundant testimony to its truth. When the responsibility of the supreme political authority is in an endless circle shifted from point to point of a mere human sphere, then the sacred character of the divine foundation of the state exhibits itself with least distinctness. It is more immediately manifest in an hereditary monarchy, where, by a single point, as the first link which holds together the whole community, this responsibility is attached immediately to God and the divine justice, before whose tribunal it has alone to answer. And this more immediate manifestation forms the ground of that preponderating tendency and preference of the monarchical constitution by the Christian principle.

Now, it is true that the providence of God extends to all events and circumstances of the world. Every permission, therefore, of evil, whether in a greater or less degree, every misfortune and calamity that happens to us, must, from this point of view, be regarded either as a well-merited punishment or as a severe trial, as a wholesome pang and conflict or as a painful transition to a higher degree of perfection. This, at least, will be our feeling, in proportion as we entertain and faithfully follow a religious view and estimate of our own life and fortunes, as well as of all mundane events, in a firm and unshaken faith in the Divine Omnipotence and Wisdom. Even for the preservation and health of his physical life, man stands in need of pain and privation, but still more so for his moral improvement.

The Christian view, then, of the world, and of the state, as we have already remarked, does not exclude or reject any form of political existence. On the contrary, it recognizes whatever possesses an historical cause and foundation, and allows it to stand in its proper place, and in its true and original significance and rights. Accordingly, it admits the validity as such even of the dynamical form of polity, even though it feels it impossible to agree with partial and enthusiastic admirers in considering it as perfect. Nay, it does not reject even an absolute despotism, notwithstanding that it sees clearly enough all its imperfections and great inferiority. It is only by a complete view of history that their existence can be explained and understood. And in this they will appear either as a necessary evil in its mildest form, i.e., as the less pernicious and dangerous, under existing circumstances, or as a remedy for some more fearful disorder, by which alone the social frame can be restored to a more healthy condition.