No More Learning

I give up the
Creator as soon as I believe in a God. Wherefore do I require a God, if
I suffice without the Creator?

You have robbed me of the thought that gave me peace. You have taught me
to despise where I prayed before. A thousand things were venerable in my
sight till your dismal wisdom stripped off the veil from them. I saw a
crowd of people streaming to church, I heard their enthusiastic devotion
poured forth in a common act of prayer and praise; twice did I stand
beside a deathbed, and saw--wonderful power of religion! --the hope of
heaven triumphant over the terror of annihilation, and the serene light
of joy beaming from the eyes of those departing.

"Surely that doctrine must be divine," I exclaimed, "which is
acknowledged by the best among men, which triumphs and comforts so
wondrously! " Your cold-blooded wisdom extinguished my enthusiasm. You
affirmed that an equal number of devotees streamed formerly round the
Irmensaeule and to Jupiter's temple; an equal number of votaries, with
like exultation, ascended the stake kindled in honor of Brahma. "Can the
very feeling," you added, "which you found so detestable in heathenism
prove the truth of your doctrine? "

You proceeded to say: "Trust nothing but your own reason. There is
nothing holy, save truth. " I have obeyed you: I have sacrificed all my
opinions, I have set fire to all my ships when I landed on this island,
and I have destroyed all my hopes of return. Never can I become
reconciled to a doctrine which I joyfully welcomed once. My reason is
now all to me--my only warrant for God, virtue, and immortality. Woe to
me if I catch this, my only witness, in a contradiction! if my esteem for
its conclusions diminishes! if a broken vessel in my brain diverts its
action! My happiness is henceforth intrusted to the harmonious action of
my sensorium: woe to me if the strings of this instrument give a false
note in the critical moments of my life--if my convictions vary with my
pulsations!




LETTER II.


Julius to Raphael.

Your doctrine has flattered my pride. I was a prisoner: you have led me
out into the daylight; the golden shimmer and the measureless vault have
enraptured my eye. Formerly, I was satisfied with the modest reputation
of being a good son of my father's house, a friend of my friends, a
useful member of society. You have changed me into a citizen of the
universe. At that time my wishes had not aspired to infringe on the
rights of the great: I tolerated these fortunate people because beggars
tolerated me. I did not blush to envy a part of the human race, because
there was a still larger part of humanity that I was obliged to pity.
Meeting you, I learned for the first time that my claims on enjoyment
were as well founded as those of my brethren. Now, for the first time, I
learned that, raised one stratum above this atmosphere, I weighed just as
much and as little as the rulers of this world. Raphael severed all
bonds of agreement and of opinion. I felt myself quite free; for reason,
as Raphael declared, is the only monarchy in the world of spirits, and I
carried my imperial throne in my brain. All things in heaven and earth
have no value, no estimation, except that which my reason grants them.
The whole creation is mine, for I possess an irresistible omnipotence,
and am empowered to enjoy it fully. All spirits--one degree below the
most perfect Spirit--are my brethren, because we all obey one rule, and
do homage to one supremacy.

How magnificent and sublime this announcement sounds! What a field for
my thirst of knowledge! But--unlucky contradiction of nature--this free
and soaring spirit is woven together with the rigid, immovable clockwork
of a mortal body, mixed up with its little necessities, and yoked to its
fate--this god is banished into a world of worms. The immense space of
nature is opened to his research, but he cannot think two ideas at the
same time. With his eyes he reaches up to the sunny focus of the
Godhead, but he himself is obliged to creep after Him slowly and wearily
through the elements of time. To absorb one enjoyment he must give up
all others: two unlimited desires are too great for his little heart.
Every fresh joy costs him the sum of all previous joys. The present
moment is the sepulchre of all that went before it. An idyllic hour of
love is an intermittent pulsation of friendship.

Wherever I look, Raphael, how limited man appears! How great the
distance between his aims and their fulfilment! --yet do not begrudge him
his soothing slumber. Wake him not! He was so happy before he began to
inquire whither he was to go and whence he came! Reason is a torch in a
prison. The prisoner knew nothing of the light, but a dream of freedom
appeared over him like a flash in the night which leaves the darkness
deeper than before. Our philosophy is the unhappy curiosity of Oedipus,
who did not cease to inquire till the dreadful oracle was unravelled.
Mayest thou never learn who thou art!

Does your wisdom replace what it has set aside? If you had no key to
open heaven, why did you lead me away from earth? If you knew beforehand
that the way to wisdom leads through the frightful abyss of doubt, why
did you venture the innocence of your friend Julius on this desperate
throw? --

If to the good, which I propose to do,
Something very bad borders far too near,
I prefer not to do this good.

You have pulled down a shelter that was inhabited, and founded a splendid
but lifeless palace on the spot.

Raphael, I claim my soul from you! I am unhappy. My courage is gone. I
despair of my own strength. Write to me soon! --your healing hand alone
can pour balm on my burning wounds.




LETTER III.


Raphael to Julius.

Julius, happiness such as ours, if unbroken, would be too much for human
lot. This thought often haunted me even in the full enjoyment of our
friendship. This thought, then darkening our happiness, was a salutary
foretaste, intended to mitigate the pain of my present position.
Hardened in the stern school of resignation, I am still more susceptible
of the comfort of seeing in our separation a slight sacrifice whose merit
may win from fate the reward of our future reunion. You did not yet know
what privation was. You suffer for the first time.

And yet it is perhaps an advantage for you that I have been torn from you
exactly at this time. You have to endure a malady, from which you can
only perfectly recover by your own energy, so as not to suffer a relapse.
The more deserted you feel, the more you will stir up all healing power
in yourself, and in proportion as you derive little or no benefit from
temporary and deceptive palliatives, the more certainly will you succeed
in eradicating the evil fundamentally.

I do not repent that I roused you from your dream, though your present
position is painful. I have done nothing more than hasten a crisis,
which every soul like yours has sooner or later to pass through, and
where the essential thing is, at what time of life it is endured. There
are times and seasons when it is terrible to doubt truth and virtue. Woe
to the man who has to fight through the quibbles of a self-sufficient
reason while he is immersed in the storms of the passions. I have felt
in its fulness all that is expressed by this, and, to preserve you from
similar troubles I could devise no means but to ward off the pestilence
by timely inoculation.

Nor could I, my dear Julius, choose a more propitious time? I met you in
the full and glorious bloom of youthful intelligence and bodily vigor,
before you had been oppressed by care or enchained by passion; fully
prepared, in your freedom and strength, to stand the great fight, of
which a sublime tranquillity, produced by conviction, is the prize.
Truth and error had not yet been interwoven with your interests. Your
enjoyments and virtues were independent of both. You required no images
of terror to tear you from low dissipation. The feeling for nobler joys
had made these odious to you. You were good from instinct and from
unconsecrated moral grace. I had nothing to fear for your morality, if a
building crumbled down on which it was not founded. Nor do your
anxieties alarm me, though you may conjure up many dark anticipations in
your melancholy mood. I know you better, Julius!

You are ungrateful, too! You despise the reason, and forget what joys it
has procured you. Though you might have escaped the dangers of doubt all
your life, still it was my duty not to deprive you of the pleasures which
you were capable of enjoying. The height at which you were was not
worthy of you. The way up which you climbed gave you compensation for
all of which I deprived you. I still recall the delight--with what
delight you blessed the moment when the bandage dropped from your eyes!
The warmth with which you grasped the truth possibly may have led your
all-devouring imagination to an abyss at sight of which you draw back
shuddering.

I must follow the course of your inquiries to discover the sources of
your complaints. You have written down the results of your thoughts:
send me these papers and then I will answer you.




LETTER IV.


Julius to Raphael.

I have been looking over my papers this morning. Among them I have found
a lost memorandum written down in those happy hours when I was inspired
with a proud enthusiasm. But on looking over it how different seem all
the things treated of! My former views look like the gloomy boarding of
a playhouse when the lights have been removed. My heart sought a
philosophy, and imagination substituted her dreams. I took the warmest
for the truest coloring.

I seek for the laws of spirits--I soar up to the infinite, but I forget
to prove that they really exist. A bold attack of materialism overthrows
my creation.

You will read through this fragment, my dear Raphael. Would that you
could succeed in kindling once again the extinct flames of my enthusiasm,
to reconcile me again to my genius! but my pride has sunk so low that
even Raphael's friendly hand can hardly raise me up again.



THEOSOPHY OF JULILTS.


THE WORLD AND THE THINKING BEING.

The universe is a thought of God. After this ideal thought-fabric passed
out into reality, and the new-born world fulfilled the plan of its
Creator--permit me to use this human simile--the first duty of all
thinking beings has been to retrace the original design in this great
reality; to find the principle in the mechanism, the unity in the
compound, the law in the phenomenon, and to pass back from the structure
to its primitive foundation. Accordingly to me there is only one
appearance in nature--the thinking being. The great compound called the
world is only remarkable to me because it is present to shadow forth
symbolically the manifold expressions of that being. All in me and out
of me is only the hieroglyph of a power which is like to me. The laws of
nature are the cyphers which the thinking mind adds on to make itself
understandable to intelligence--the alphabet by means of which all
spirits communicate with the most perfect Spirit and with one another.
Harmony, truth, order, beauty, excellence, give me joy, because they
transport me into the active state of their author, of their possessor,
because they betray the presence of a rational and feeling Being, and let
me perceive my relationship with that Being. A new experience in this
kingdom of truth: gravitation, the circulation of the blood, the natural
system of Linnaeus, correspond essentially in my mind to the discovery of
an antique dug up at Herculaneum--they are both only the reflections of
one spirit, a renewed acquaintance with a being like myself. I speak
with the Eternal through the instrument of nature,--through the world's
history: I read the soul of the artist in his Apollo.

If you wish to be convinced, my clear Raphael, look back. Each state of
the human mind has some parable in the physical creation by which it is
shadowed forth; nor is it only artists and poets, but even the most
abstract thinkers that have drawn from this source. Lively activity we
name fire; time is a stream that rolls on, sweeping all before it;
eternity is a circle; a mystery is hid in midnight gloom, and truth
dwells in the sun. Nay, I begin to believe that even the future destiny
of the human race is prefigured in the dark oracular utterances of bodily
creation. Each coming spring, forcing the sprouts of plants out of the
earth, gives me explanations of the awful riddle of death, and
contradicts my anxious fears about an everlasting sleep. The swallow
that we find stiffened in winter, and see waking up to life after; the
dead grub coming to life again as the butterfly and rising into the
air,--all these give excellent pictures of our immortality.

How strange all seems to me now, Raphael! Now all seems peopled round
about me. To me there is no solitude in nature. Wherever I see a body I
anticipate a spirit. Wherever I trace movement I infer thought.

Where no dead lie buried, where no resurrection will be, Omnipotence
speaks to me this through His works, and thus I understand the doctrine
of the omnipresence of God.


IDEA.

All spirits are attracted by perfection. There may be deviations, but
there is no exception to this, for all strive after the condition of the
highest and freest exercise of their powers; all possess the common
instinct of extending their sphere of action; of drawing all, and
centring all in themselves; of appropriating all that is good, all that
is acknowledged as charming and excellent. When the beautiful, the true,
and the excellent are once seen, they are immediately grasped at. A
condition once perceived by us, we enter into it immediately. At the
moment when we think of them, we become possessors of a virtue, authors
of an action, discoverers of a truth, possessors of a happiness. We
ourselves become the object perceived. Let no ambiguous smile from you,
dear Raphael, disconcert me here,--this assumption is the basis on which
I found all that follows, and we must be agreed before I take courage to
complete the structure.

His inner feeling or innate consciousness tells every man almost the same
thing. For example, when we admire an act of magnanimity, of bravery and
wisdom, does not a secret feeling spring up in our heart that we are
capable of doing the same? Does not the rush of blood coloring our
cheeks on hearing narratives of this kind proclaim that our modesty
trembles at the admiration called forth by such acts? that we are
confused at the praise which this ennobling of our nature must call down
upon us? Even our body at such moments agrees with the attitude of the
man, and shows clearly that our soul has passed into the state we admire.
If you were ever present, Raphael, when a great event was related to a
large assembly, did you not see how the relater waited for the incense of
praise, how he devoured it, though it was given to the hero of his
story,--and if you were ever a relater did you not trace how your heart
was subject to this pleasing deception? You have had examples, my dear
Raphael, of how easily I can wrangle with my best friend respecting the
reading aloud of a pleasing anecdote or of a beautiful poem, and my heart
told me truly on these occasions that I was only displeased at your
carrying off the laurels because these passed from the head of author to
that of the reader. A quick and deep artistic appreciation of virtue is
justly held to be a great aptitude for virtue, in the same way as it is
usual to have no scruple in distrusting the heart of a man whose
intelligence is slow to take in moral beauty.

You need not advance as an objection that, frequently, coupled with a
lively perception of a perfection, the opposite failing is found to
coexist, that evil-doers are often possessed with strong enthusiasm for
what is excellent, and that even the weak flame up into enthusiasm of
herculean growth. I know, for example, that our admired Haller, who
unmasked in so manly a spirit the sickly nothingness of vain honors; a
man whose philosophical greatness I so highly appreciated, that he was
not great enough to despise the still greater vanity of an order of
knighthood, which conferred an injury on his greatness. I am convinced
that in the happy moment of their ideal conceptions, the artist, the
philosopher, and the poet are really the great and good man whose image
they throw out; but with many this ennobling of the mind is only an
unnatural condition occasioned by a more active stirring of the blood, or
a more rapid vibration of the fancy: it is accordingly very transient,
like every other enchantment, disappearing rapidly and leaving the heart
more exhausted than before, and delivered over to the despotic caprice of
low passions. I expressly said more exhausted than before, for universal
experience teaches that a relapsing criminal is always the most furious,
and that the renegades of virtue seek additional sweets in the arms of
crime to compensate for the heavy pressure of repentance.

I wished to establish, my Raphael, that it is our own condition, when we
feel that of another, that perfection becomes ours for the moment during
which we raise in ourselves the representation of it; that the delight we
take in truth, beauty, and virtue shows itself when closely analyzed to
be the consciousness of our individual ennobling and enriching; and I
think I have proved this.

We have ideas of the wisdom of the highest Being, of His goodness, of His
justice, but none of His omnipotence. To describe His omnipotence, we
help ourselves by the graduated representation of three successions:
Nothing, His Will, and Something. It is waste and empty; God calls on
light; and there is light. If we had a real idea of His operative
omnipotence we should be creators, as He.

Accordingly, every perfection which I perceive becomes my own; it gives
me joy, because it is my own; I desire it, because I love myself.
Perfection in nature is no property of matter, but of spirits. All
spirits are happy through their perfection. I desire the happiness of
all souls, because I love myself. The happiness which I represent to
myself becomes my happiness; accordingly I am interested in awakening
these representations, to realize them, to exalt them; I am interested in
diffusing happiness around me. Whenever I produce beauty, excellence, or
enjoyment beyond myself, I produce myself; when I neglect or destroy
anything, I neglect, I destroy myself. I desire the happiness of others,
because I desire my own; and the desire of the happiness of others we
call benevolence and love.


LOVE.

Now, my most worthy Raphael, let me look round. The height has been
ascended, the mist is dissipated; I stand in the midst of immensity, as
in the middle of a glowing landscape. A purer ray of sunlight has
clarified all my thoughts. Love is the noblest phenomenon in the world
of souls, the all-powerful magnet in the spiritual sphere, the source of
devotion and of the sublimest virtue. Yet love is only the reflection of
this single original power, an attraction of the excellent, based upon an
instantaneous permutation of individuality, an interchange of being.

When I hate, I take something from myself; when I love, I become richer
by what I love. To pardon is to recover a property that has been lost.
Misanthropy is a protracted suicide: egotism is the supremest poverty of
a created being.

When Raphael tore himself from my embrace my soul was rent in twain, and
I weep over the loss of my nobler half. On that holy evening--you must
remember it--when our souls first communed together in ardent sympathy,
all your great emotions became my own, and I only entered into my
unvarying right of property over your excellence; I was prouder to love
you than to be loved by you, for my own affection had changed me into
Raphael.

Was it not this almighty instinct
That forced our hearts to meet
In the eternal bond of love?
Raphael! enraptured, resting on your arm,
I venture, joyful, the march towards perfection,
That leadeth to the spiritual sun.

Happy! happy! I have found thee,
Have secured thee 'midst millions,
And of all this multitude thou art mine!
Let the wild chaos return;
Let it cast adrift the atoms!
Forever our hearts fly to meet each other.

Must I not draw reflections of my ecstasy
From thy radiant, ardent eyes?
In thee alone do I wonder at myself.
The earth in brighter tints appears,
Heaven itself shines in more glowing light,
Seen through the soul and action of my friend.

Sorrow drops the load of tears;
Soothed, it rests from passion's storms,
Nursed upon the breast of love.
Nay, delight grows torment, and seeks
My Raphael, basking in thy soul,
Sweetest sepulchre! impatiently.

If I alone stood in the great All of things,
Dreamed I of souls in the very rocks,
And, embracing, I would have kissed them.
I would have sighed my complaints into the air;
The chasms would have answered me.
O fool! sweet sympathy was every joy to me.

Love does not exist between monotonous souls, giving out the same tone;
it is found between harmonious souls. With pleasure I find again my
feelings in the mirror of yours, but with more ardent longing I devour
the higher emotions that are wanting in me. Friendship and love are led
by one common rule. The gentle Desdemona loves Othello for the dangers
through which he has passed; the manly Othello loves her for the tears
that she shed hearing of his troubles.
There are moments in life when we are impelled to press to our heart
every flower, every remote star, each worm, and the sublimest spirit we
can think of. We are impelled to embrace them, and all nature, in the
arms of our affection, as things most loved. You understand me, Raphael.
A man who has advanced so far as to read off all the beauty, greatness,
and excellence in the great and small of nature, and to find the great
unity for this manifold variety, has advanced much nearer to the
Divinity. The great creation flows into his personality. If each man
loved all men, each individual would possess the whole world.

I fear that the philosophy of our time contradicts this doctrine. Many
of our thinking brains have undertaken to drive out by mockery this
heavenly instinct from the human soul, to efface the effigy of Deity in
the soul, and to dissolve this energy, this noble enthusiasm, in the
cold, killing breath of a pusillanimous indifference. Under the slavish
influence of their own unworthiness they have entered into terms with
self-interest, the dangerous foe of benevolence; they have done this to
explain a phenomenon which was too godlike for their narrow hearts. They
have spun their comfortless doctrine out of a miserable egotism, and they
have made their own limits the measure of the Creator; degenerate slaves
decrying freedom amidst the rattle of their own chains. Swift, who
exaggerated the follies of men till he covered the whole race with
infamy, and wrote at length his own name on the gallows which he had
erected for it--even Swift could not inflict such deadly wounds on human
nature as these dangerous thinkers, who, laying great claim to
penetration, adorn their system with all the specious appearance of art,
and strengthen it with all the arguments of self-interest.

Why should the whole species suffer for the shortcomings of a few
members?

I admit freely that I believe in the existence of a disinterested love.
I am lost if I do not exist; I give up the Deity, immortality, and
virtue. I have no remaining proof of these hopes if I cease to believe
in love. A spirit that loves itself alone is an atom giving out a spark
in the immeasurable waste of space.


SACRIFICE.

But love has produced effects that seem to contradict its nature.

It can be conceived that I increase my own happiness by a sacrifice which
I offer for the happiness of others; but suppose this sacrifice is my
life? History has examples of this kind of sacrifice, and I feel most
vividly that it would cost me nothing to die in order to save Raphael.
How is it possible that we can hold death to be a means of increasing the
sum of our enjoyments? How can the cessation of my being be reconciled
with the enriching of my being?

The assumption of immortality removes this contradiction; but it also
displaces the supreme gracefulness of this act of sacrifice. The
consideration of a future reward excludes love. There must be a virtue
which even without the belief in immortality, even at the peril of
annihilation, suffices to carry out this sacrifice.

I grant it is ennobling to the human soul to sacrifice present enjoyment
for a future eternal good; it is the noblest degree of egotism; but
egotism and love separate humanity into two very unlike races, whose
limits are never confounded.

Egotism erects its centre in itself; love places it out of itself in the
axis of the universal whole. Love aims at unity, egotism at solitude.
Love is the citizen ruler of a flourishing republic, egotism is a despot
in a devastated creation. Egotism sows for gratitude, love for the
ungrateful. Love gives, egotism lends; and love does this before the
throne of judicial truth, indifferent if for the enjoyment of the
following moment, or with the view to a martyr's crown--indifferent
whether the reward is in this life or in the next.

Think, O Raphael, of a truth that benefits the whole human race to remote
ages; add that this truth condemns its confessor to death; that this
truth can only be proved and believed if he dies. Conceive this man
gifted with the clear all-embracing and illumining eye of genius, with
the flaming torch of enthusiasm, with all the sublime adaptations for
love; let the grand ideal of this great effect be presented to his soul;
let him have only an obscure anticipation of all the happy beings he will
make; let the present and future crowd at the same time into his soul;
and then answer me,--does this man require to be referred to a future
life?

The sum of all these emotions will become confounded with his
personality; will flow together in his personal identity, his I or Ego.
The human race he is thinking of is himself. It is a body, in which his
life swims forgotten like a blood-drop, forgotten, but essential to the
welfare of the economy; and how quickly and readily he will shed it to
secure his health.


GOD.

All perfections in the universe are united in God. God and nature are
two magnitudes which are quite alike. The whole sum of harmonic activity
which exists together in the divine substance, is in nature the antitype
of this substance, united to incalculable degrees, and measures, and
steps. If I may be allowed this expressive imagery, nature is an
infinitely divided God.

Just as in the prism a white ray of light is split up into seven darker
shades of color, so the divine personality or Ego has been broken into
countless susceptible substances. As seven darker shades melt together
in one clear pencil of light, out of the union of all these substances a
divine being would issue. The existing form of nature's fabric is the
optical glass, and all the activities of spirits are only an endless play
of colors of that simple divine ray. If it pleased Omnipotence some day
to break up this prism, the barrier between it and the world would fall
down, all spirits would be absorbed in one infinite spirit, all accords
would flow together in one common harmony, all streams would find their
end in the ocean.

The bodily form of nature came to pass through the attractive force of
the elements. The attraction of spirits, varied and developed
infinitely, would at length lead to the cessation of that separation (or
may I venture the expression) would produce God. An attraction of this
kind is love.

Accordingly, my dear Raphael, love is the ladder by which we climb up to
likeness to God. Unconsciously to ourselves, without laying claim to it,
we aim at this.

Lifeless masses are we, when we hate;
Gods, when we cling; in love to one another,
Rejoicing in the gentle bond of love.
Upwards this divinest impulse holdeth sway
Through the thousandfold degrees of creation
Of countless spirits who did not create.

Arm-in-arm, higher and still higher,
From the savage to the Grecian seer,
Who is linked to the last seraph of the ring,
We turn, of one mind, in the same magic dance,
Till measure, and e'en time itself,
Sink at death in the boundless, glowing sea.

Friendless was the great world's blaster;
And feeling this, he made the spirit world
Blessed mirrors of his own blessedness!
And though the Highest found no equal,
Yet infinitude foams upward unto Him
From the vast basin of creation's realm.

Love is, Raphael, the great secret that can restore the dishonored king
of gold from the flat, unprofitable chalk; that can save the eternal from
the temporal and transient, and the great oracle of duration from the
consuming conflagration of time.

What does all that has been said amount to?

If we perceive excellence, it is ours. Let us become intimate with the
high ideal unit, and we shall be drawn to one another in brotherly love.
If we plant beauty and joy we shall reap beauty and joy. If we think
clearly we shall love ardently. "Be ye perfect, as your Father in heaven
is perfect," says the Founder of our Faith. Weak human nature turned
pale at this command, therefore He explained himself in clearer terms:
"Love one another! "

Wisdom, with thy sunlike look,
Awful goddess! turn thee back,
And give way to Love;
Who before thee went, with hero heart,
Up the steep and stormy path
To the Godhead's very throne;
Who, unveiling the Holiest,
Showed to thee Elysium
Through the vaulted sepulchre.
Did it not invite us in?
Could we reach immortality--
Or could we seek the spirit
Without Love, the spirit's master?
Love, Love leadeth only to Nature's Father,
Only love the spirits.

I have now given you, Raphael, my spirit's confession of faith--a flying
outline of the creation I have undertaken. As you may perceive, the seed
which you scattered in my soul took root. Mock, or rejoice, or blush at
your scholar, as you please. Certain it is this philosophy has ennobled
my heart, and extended and beautified the perspective of my life. It is
possible, my excellent friend, that the entire structure of my
conclusions may have been a baseless and visionary edifice. Perhaps the
world, as I depicted it, nowhere exists, save in the brain of your
Julius. Perhaps, after the lapse of thousands on thousands of years,
when the wiser Judge promised in the future, sits on the judgment-seat,
at the sight of the true original, filled with confusion, I should tear
in pieces my schoolboy's design. All this may happen--I expect it; and
even if not a vestige of reality is found in my dream, the reality will
fill me with proportionately greater delight and wonder. Ought my ideas
to be more beautiful than those of the Creator? How so? Could we
tolerate that His exalted artistic structure should fall beneath the
expectations of a mortal connoisseur? This is exactly the fiery
probation of His great perfection, and the sweetest triumph for the
Exalted Spirit, that false conclusions and deception do not injure His
acknowledgment; that all tortuous deviations of the wandering reason at
length strike into the straight road of everlasting truth; that all
diverging arms and currents ultimately meet in the main stream. What an
idea, Raphael, I form of the Great Artist, who, differently travestied in
a thousand copies, still retains identical features in all this
diversity, from which even the depreciating hand of a blunderer cannot
remove admiration.

Moreover, my representation may certainly be fallacious, wholly an
invention,--nay, I am persuaded that it must necessarily be so; and yet
it is possible that all results of this may come to pass. All great
sages are agreed that our whole knowledge moves on ultimately to a
conventional deception, with which, however, the strictest truth can
co-exist. Our purest ideas are by no means images of things, but only
their signs or symbols determined by necessity, and co-existing with
them.

Neither God, nor the human soul, nor the world are really what we
consider them. Our thoughts of these are only the endemic forms in which
the planet we inhabit hands them to us. Our brain belongs to this
planet; accordingly, also, the idioms of our ideas, which are treasured
up in it. But the power of the soul is peculiar, necessary, and always
consistent: the capricious nature of the materials through which it finds
expression changes nothing in the eternal laws, as long as this
capriciousness does not stand in contradiction with itself, and so long
as the sign remains true to the thing it designates. As the thinking
power develops the relations of the idioms, these relations of things
must also really be present in them. Therefore, truth is no property of
the idioms, but of the conclusion; it is not the likeness of the sign
with the thing signified, of the conception with the object; but the
agreement of this conception with the laws of thought. In a similar
manner, the doctrine of quantity makes use of cyphers which are nowhere
present, except upon paper, and yet it finds with them what is present in
the world of reality. For example, what resemblance is there between the
letters A and B, the signs : and =, +, and -, and the fact that has to be
ascertained? Yet the comet, foretold centuries before, advances from a
remote corner of the heavens and the expected planet eclipses the disk
at the proper time. Trusting to the infallibility of his calculation,
the discoverer Columbus plunges into unknown regions of the sea to seek
the missing other half of the known hemisphere--the great island of
Atlantis--to fill up a blank in his geographical map. He found this
island of his paper calculation, and his calculation was right. Would it
have been less great if a hostile storm had shattered his fleet or driven
it back? The human mind makes a similar calculation when it measures the
super-sensual by means of the sensible, and when mathematics applies its
conclusions to the hidden physics of the superhuman. But the last test
of its calculations is still wanting, for no traveller has come back from
that land to relate his discovery. Human nature has its proper bounds,
and so also has the individual. We will give each other mutual comfort
respecting the former: Raphael will concede this to the boyish age of his
Julius. I am poor in conceptions, a stranger in many branches of
knowledge which are thought to be essential in inquiries of this nature.
I have not belonged to any philosophical school, nor have I read many
printed books. It may quite well be that I occasionally substitute my
fancies in the place of stricter logical proofs, that I mistake the rush
of my blood or the hopes of my heart for sound wisdom; yet, my dear
friend, you must not grudge me the moments I have thus lost. It is a
real gain for universal perfection: it was the provision of the Wisest
Spirit that the erring reason should also people the chaotic world of
dreams, and make fruitful even the barren ground of contradiction. It is
not only the mechanical artist who polishes the rough diamond into a
brilliant whom we ought to value, but also that one who ennobles mere
ordinary stones by giving them the apparent dignity of the diamond. The
industry displayed in the forms may sometimes make us forget the massive
truth of the substance. Is not every exercise of the thinking power,
every sharpening of the edge of the spirit, a little step towards its
perfection; and every perfection has to obtain a being and substantial
existence in a complete and perfect world. Reality is not confined to
the absolutely necessary; it also embraces the conditionally necessary:
every offspring of the brain, every work elaborated by the wit, has an
irresistible right of citizenship in this wider acceptation of creation.
In the measureless plan of nature no activity was to be left out, no
degree of enjoyment was to be wanting in universal happiness. The great
Inventive Spirit would not even permit error to be wasted, nor allow this
wide world of thought to remain empty and chaotic in the mind of man.
For the Great Ruler of His world does not even allow a straw to fall
without use, leaves no space uninhabited where life may be enjoyed; for
He converts the very poison of man into the food of vipers; He even
raises plants from the realm of corruption, and hospitably grants the
little glimmer of pleasure that can co-exist with madness. He turns
crime and folly into excellence, and weaves out of the very vices of a
Tarquin the great idea of the universal monarchy of Rome. Every facility
of the reason, even in error, increases its readiness to accept truth.

Dear friend of my soul, suffer me to add my contribution to the great
woof of human wisdom. The image of the sun is reflected differently in
the dewdrop and in the majestic mirror of the wide-stretching ocean.
Shame to the turbid, murky swamp, which never receives and never reflects
this image! Millions of plants drink from the four elements of nature; a
magazine of supplies is open for all: but they mix their sap in a
thousand different ways, and return it in a thousand new forms. The most
beautiful variety proclaims a rich Lord of this house. There are four
elements from which all spirits draw their supplies: their Ego or
individuality, Nature, God, and the Future All intermingle in millions of
ways and offer themselves in a million differences of result: but one
truth remains which, like a firm axis, goes through all religions and
systems--draw nigh to the Godhead of whom you think!




LETTER V.


Raphael to Julius.

It would be very unfortunate, my dear Julius, if there were no other way
of quieting you than by restoring the first-fruits of your belief in you.
I found with delight these ideas, which I saw gaining in you, written
down in your papers. They are worthy of a soul like yours, but you could
not remain stationary in them. There are joys for every age and
enjoyments for each degree of spirits. It must have been a difficult
thing for you to sever yourself from a system that was entirely made to
meet the wants of your heart. I would wager that no other system will
strike such deep roots in you, and, possibly, if left quite to your own
direction, you would sooner or later become reconciled to your favorite
ideas. You would soon remark the weakness of the opposite system, and
then, if both systems appeared equally deficient in proof, you would
prefer the most desirable one, or, perhaps, you would find new arguments
to preserve at least the essential features of your former theory, even
if a few more doubtful points had to be given up.

But all this is remote from my plan. You must arrive at a higher freedom
of mind, where you no longer require support. I grant that this is not
the affair of a moment. The first aim of the earliest teaching is
commonly the subjugation of the mind, and among all the artifices of the
art of education this generally succeeds the first. Even you, though
endowed with great elasticity of character, yet appear destined to submit
readily to the sway of opinions, and even more inclined to this than
thousands; and this state of infancy might last very long with you, as
you do not readily feel the oppression of it. Your head and heart are in
very close connection. A doctrine is sweet to you on account of the
teacher. You soon succeeded in finding an interesting side in this
doctrine, you ennobled it according to the wants of your heart, and you
suffered your mind to be resigned to other points that must needs appear
strange to you. You regarded attacks on this doctrine as boyish revenge
taken by a slavish soul against the rod of its tutor. You played with
your chains, which you thought you carried by your own free will.

I found you in this situation, and the sight gave me pain--how, in the
midst of the enjoyment, of your glowing life, and while giving expression
to your noblest powers, you were hemmed in by narrow considerations. The
very logical consistency with which you acted according to your
convictions, and the strength of soul that made every sacrifice light to
you, were twofold hinderances to your activity and to your joys. I then
resolved to set aside these clumsy efforts by which it had been
endeavored to cramp a soul like yours in the measure of ordinary natures.
The result of your first exertions favored my intentions. I admit that
your imagination was more actively employed upon the work than was your
penetration. The loss of your fondest convictions was more than atoned
for by your presentiments, which gathered results much more rapidly than
the tortoise pace of cold scientific inquiry, passing from the known to
the unknown. Your kind of inspired system gave you your first enjoyment
in this new field of activity, and I was very careful not to destroy a
welcome enthusiasm which was very favorable to the development of your
excellent disposition. The scene is now changed. A return into the
restrictions of infancy is closed forever. Your way leads onwards, and
you require no further precautions.

You must not be surprised to find that a system such as yours cannot
resist the searching of a severe criticism. All essays of this kind,
equal in breadth and boldness to yours, have had no other fate. It was
also most natural that your philosophical progress began with you
individually, as with the human race in general. The first object on
which man's spirit of inquiry first attempted its strength was, at all
times, the universe. Hypotheses relating to the origin of the world, and
the combination of its parts, had occupied the greatest thinkers for
ages, when Socrates called down the philosophy of his day from heaven to
earth. But the limits of human wisdom were too narrow for the proud
intellect of his followers. New systems arose on the ruins of the former
ones. The penetrating mind of subsequent ages explored the immeasurable
field of possible answers to those ever-recurring questions, bearing on
the mysterious interior of nature, which could not be disclosed by any
human intellect. Some, indeed, succeeded in giving a certain coloring of
distinctness, completeness, and evidence to their views. There are many
conjuring tricks by which the pride of reason seeks to avoid the disgrace
of not being able to exceed the bounds of human nature in extending the
circle of its knowledge. It is a frequent conceit with men to believe
that they have discovered new truths, when they have dissected a
conception into the separate elements out of which it was first
compounded by an act of caprice. Not unfrequently an imperceptible
assumption lies at the basis of a chain of consequences, whose breaks and
deficiencies are cunningly concealed, while the false conclusions are
admired as sublime wisdom. In other cases, partial experiences are
accumulated to found a hypothesis, and all contradictory phenomena are
either ignored, or the meaning of words is changed according to the
requirements of the reasoning. Nor is it only the philosophical quack
who employs these conjuring tricks to deceive the public; without being
conscious of it, the most upright and the least prejudiced thinker uses
analogous means to satisfy his thirst for knowledge directly that he
issues from the only sphere where reason can legitimately enjoy the fruit
of its activity.

After what you have heard me say on former occasions, Julius, these
expressions must cause you no little astonishment; yet they are not the
product of a sceptical caprice. I could lay before you the foundations
on which they rest, but this would require, as prelude, a somewhat dry
examination into the nature of human knowledge,--and I prefer to reserve
this for a time when you will feel the want of it. You have not yet
arrived at that state of mind when humiliating truths on the limits of
human knowledge can have any interest for you. Make a first essay with
the system which has supplanted your own in your mind. Examine it with
the same impartiality as severity. Proceed in the same manner with other
theories with which you have recently become acquainted; and if none of
them can fully satisfy your requirements, you will ask yourself if, after
all, these requirements are reasonable.

Perhaps you will tell me this is a poor consolation. You will infer that
resignation is your only refuge after so many brilliant hopes had been
raised. "Was it worth while," you will say, "to challenge me to a full
exercise of my reason in order to set bounds to it at the very moment
when it was beginning to bear the noblest fruit? Was I only to become
acquainted with a higher enjoyment in order to feel with a double
keenness how painful it is to be thus bounded? "

Nevertheless, it is this very feeling of discouragement that I expressly
wish to banish from your soul. My aim is this: to remove all that places
an obstacle to the free enjoyment of your being, to bring to life in you
the germ of all lofty inspiration--the consciousness of the nobility of
your soul. You have been awakened from the slumber in which you were
rocked by the slavery of others' opinions; but you would never reach the
degree of grandeur to which you are called if you dissipated your
strength in the pursuit of an unattainable end. This course was all
proper up to the present time; it was the natural consequence of your
recently acquired freedom. It was necessary that the ideas which had
most engaged you previously should give the first impulse to the activity
of your mind. . Among all possible directions that your mind could take,
is its present course the most fertile in results? The answer would be
given, sooner or later, by your own experience. My part was confined to
hastening, if possible, this crisis.

It is a common prejudice to take as a measure of the greatness of man
that matter on which he works, and not the manner of his work. But it is
certain that a superior Being honors the stamp of perfection even in the
most limited sphere, whilst He casts an eye of pity on the vain attempts
of the insect which seeks to overlook the universe. It follows from this
that I am especially unwilling to agree to the proposition in your
papers, which assumes that the high destiny of man is to detect the
spirit of the Divine Artist in the work of creation. To express the
activity of infinite perfection, I admit that I do not know any sublimer
image than art; but you appear to have overlooked an important
distinction. The universe is not the pure expression of an ideal, like
the accomplished work of a human artist. The latter governs despotically
the inanimate matter which he uses to give a body to his ideas. But in
the divine work the proper value of each one of its parts is respected,
and this conservative respect with which the Great Architect honors every
germ of activity, even in the lowliest creature, glorifies it as much as
the harmony of the immeasurable whole. Life and liberty to all possible
extent are the seal of divine creation; nowhere is it more sublime than
where it seems to have departed most widely from its ideal. But it is
precisely this highest perfection that prevents us from grasping the
limits in which we are at present confined. We embrace only too small a
part of the universe, and the explanation of most of its discords is
inaccessible to our faculties. Each step we climb in the scale of being
will make us more susceptible of these enjoyments of art; but even then
their only value will be that of means, and to excite us to an analogous
exercise of our activity. The idle admiration of a greatness foreign to
ourselves can never be a great merit. A superior man is never wanting in
matter for his activity, nor in the forces necessary to become himself a
creator in his sphere. This vocation is yours also, Julius; when you
have recognized this you will never have a thought of complaining of the
limits that your desire of knowledge cannot overstep.

When you have arrived at this conviction I expect to find you wholly
reconciled to me. You must first know fully the extent of your strength
before you can appreciate the value of its freest manifestation. Till
then, continue to be dissatisfied with me, but do not despair of
yourself.






ON THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THE ANIMAL AND THE SPIRITUAL NATURE IN MAN.


"It behooves us to clearly realize, as the broad facts which have most
wide-reaching consequences in mental physiology and pathology, that all
parts of the body, the highest and the lowest, have a sympathy with one
another more intelligent than conscious intelligence can yet, or perhaps
ever will, conceive; that there is not an organic motion, visible or
invisible, sensible or insensible, ministrant to the noblest or to the
most humble purposes, which does not work its appointed effect in the
complex recesses of the mind, and that the mind, as the crowning
achievement of organization, and the consummation and outcome of all its
energies, really comprehends the bodily life. "--MAWDESLEY, Body and Mind.