On the Nature of the Scholar/Lecture 5

lectures which I now resume have been begun under many unfavourable circumstances. In the first place, I have had to contemplate my subject from a point of view much higher than the common one,—from an elevation to which every Student may not have been prepared to rise. A newly-installed teacher in a University cannot be well acquainted with the extent to which scientific culture is really to be found there; and yet it may naturally be assumed that the means of such culture long notoriously in existence have been already brought into use. But could I have known, even to certainty, that the public as a whole were not sufficiently prepared' for such views, yet I must have treated my subject precisely in the way in which I have treated it, or else have never touched it at all. No man should linger about the surface of a thought, and repeat in another form what has been said an hundred times before: he who can do no more than this had better be silent altogether; but he who can do otherwise will never hesitate to do so. Further, the individual parts of what is in itself a systematic whole, have been necessarily broken up by intervals of weeks; and in these public lectures, I could not well adhere strictly to the practice which I have generally adopted in all purely philosophical instruction, i.e. before every new lecture to recapitulate the substance of the previous one in its connexion with the subject at large, and thus conduct the hearer once more over all that has gone before, and enable him again to grasp the spirit of the whole. Lastly, in these lectures my discourse is not, as in my other lectures, entirely free, descending to the familiar tones of conversation; but is deliberately composed, and delivered as it is written down. This too, I conceive, is demanded by propriety, that I should give these lectures all the outward polish which is possible in the only available time which I can spare from my other duties to devote to them. Public lectures are the free gifts of an academical teacher; and he who is not ignoble would wish to make his gifts the best which he has it in his power to bestow.

The two last-mentioned circumstances are unavoidable, and nothing remains for you but to change them into favourable conditions for yourselves. The first is already obviated, for such of you as attend my private course, by my last lecture upon the distinction between the philosophical and historical points of view; and I therefore consider you to be sufficiently prepared by that lecture for the reception of the views we shall now take of our present subject. To-day I shall, in the first place, survey the whole of that subject in the form to which you have been accustomed in the other course, and in that form exhibit and repeat it to you.

Any subject whatever which engages the attention of man, may be considered in a double aspect, and, as it were, with a double organ of sense; either historically, by mere outward perception alone; or philosophically, by inward spiritual vision;—and in this double aspect may the object of our present inquiries—the Nature of the Scholar—be surveyed. The historical view lays hold of existing opinions about the object, selects from among them the most common and prevalent, regards these as truth, but thus obtains mere illusion and not truth. The philosophical view regards things as they are in themselves,—i.e. in the world of pure thought, of which world God is the essential and fundamental principle,—and thus as God himself must have thought of them, could we attribute thought to him. Hence the inquiry,—What is the Nature of the Scholar?—as a philosophical question, means the following: How must God conceive of the Nature of the Scholar, were He to conceive of it? In this spirit we have taken up the question, and in this spirit we have given it the following answer:—In the first place, God has conceived of the whole world, not only as it now is, but also as it shall become by its own spontaneous growth; moreover, what it now is lies in the original Divine Thought as the germ of an endless development,—and that a development proceeding from the highest that exists in it, namely, from the rational beings, by means of their own freedom. If, then, these rational beings are to realize, by their own free act, that Divine Thought of the world as it ought to be, they must before all things comprehend and know this Thought. Now this comprehension and knowledge of the original Divine Thought is unattainable by them, except on condition of a second Divine Thought; this, namely, that they to whom it is given should comprehend the Thought. But those who are conceived of in the Divine world-creative Thought as in part comprehending that original Divine Thought, are therein conceived of as Scholars; and, on the other hand, Scholars are possible and actually exist, where they do exist, only through the Divine Thought; and in that Divine Thought they are those who in part comprehend God in his original Thought of the world; Scholars, namely, in so far as they have elevated themselves to that Divine Thought by the various means to the attainment of the highest spiritual culture which exist in every age through the Divine Thought itself.

That Divine Thought of man as a Scholar must now itself take possession of him, and become his innermost soul, the true essential life dwelling in his life. This can, happen in two ways, either directly or indirectly. If it lay hold of the man directly, it will form itself in him, spontaneously and without outward aid, into such a knowledge of the Divine Plan of the universe as can find a place in that individual; all his thoughts and impulses will of themselves take the most direct way to this end; whatever he does, prompted by this thought, is good and right, and must assuredly prosper, for it is an immediately divine act. This phenomenon we call Genius. In individual cases it can never be determined whether a man is, or is not, the subject of this immediate influence of the Divine Thought.

Or, the second and generally applicable case is when the Divine Thought of man as a Scholar lays hold of, inspires, and animates him indirectly. He finds himself necessitated to study by his position, which being determined without his assistance, he must regard as the purpose of God with him. He enters upon this vocation in consequence of the thought that it is the purpose of God in him and for him, with Integrity; for so we call the faith that God has a purpose in our being. By thus embracing his vocation not merely because it is his, but because it is made his solely by the Divine Thought and purpose, does his person as well as knowledge, which is his calling, become to him, before all other things, honourable and holy. It was this last-mentioned thought of which we treated particularly in our previous lecture, and which we purpose to follow out to-day.

This thought of the divinity and holiness of his vocation is the soul of his life, the impulse which produces all that goes forth from him, the aether in which everything around him is bathed. His conduct and doings in the outward world must then harmonize with this thought. He needs no conscious effort of his individual will to bring his actions into harmony with this Divine Thought; he needs not to exhort, urge, or compel himself to this harmony, for he cannot possibly act otherwise: were he to endeavour to act in opposition to it, then he would need to persuade, to urge, to compel himself to that course, but without success.

Keep this steadfastly in view while we now pass from the idea of the true-minded Scholar, to its outward manifestation. Our Morality,—if it be Morality which we now propound to you,—our Morality does not enact laws; like all philosophy, it confines itself to nature and necessity, and only describes what does and does not flow from these. Could this Morality permit itself an external wish, and hope for its realization, it would be to strike the hard and barren rock which confines the fountain of good, so that its waters might spontaneously gush forth in their original purity to enrich the inward juices of the tree; but it would never desire with idle art to engraft thereon foreign fruits which cannot grow from such a stock. Hence I shall not even touch upon many things which might seem appropriate in this place; and upon many others which T do touch, I shall speak with reserve,—not as if I did not know that these things have other aspects under which they must be spoken of with greater severity, but because I shall here judge the Actual only by the holiness of the Ideal, which must on no account be dragged down to certain depths of degradation. Let who will be teacher of external Morality, we shall not here come into contact with the vulgar who find their motives to action in impulses from without.

We have already said that the acceptance of his vocation by the Student as a Divine Thought, makes his own person holy and honourable to him. This view of his person will spontaneously manifest itself in his outward life, without direct thought and will upon his part, as sacred purity and freedom from all constraint;—not expressly recognised as such by himself, but because no other mode of life falls within his range of thought.

To describe his life in one word:—he shuns the contact of the vulgar and ignoble. Where these meet him, he draws back, like the well-known sensitive plant which shrinks from the touch of our finger. Where aught vulgar or ignoble is present, he is not to be found;—it has forced him away from it, before it came near to him.

What is vulgar and ignoble? So asks not he;—his inward sense prompts, in every case, an immediate answer. We put the question only that we may describe his higher life and delight ourselves in contemplating the picture.

Everything is vulgar and ignoble which degrades the fancy and blunts the taste for the Holy. Tell me what direction thy thoughts take,—not when with tightened hand thou constrainest them to a purpose,—but when in thy hours of recreation thou allowest them freely to rove abroad; tell me what direction they then take, where they naturally turn as to their most loved home, in what thou thyself in the innermost depths of thy soul findest thy chief enjoyment;—and then I will tell thee what are thy tastes. Are they directed towards the Godlike, to those things in nature and art wherein the Godlike most directly reveals itself in imposing majesty?—then is the Godlike not dreadful to thee but friendly; thy tastes lead thee to it,—it is thy most loved enjoyment. Do they, when released from the constraint with which thou hast directed them towards a serious pursuit, eagerly turn to brood over sensual pleasures, and find relaxation in the pursuit of these?—then hast thou a vulgar taste, thou must invite animalism into the innermost recesses of thy soul before it can seem well with thee there. Not so the noble Student. His thoughts, when exhausted by exertion and toil, return in moments of relaxation to the Holy, the Great, the Sublime,—there to find repose, refreshment, and new energy for yet higher efforts. In nature as well as in the Arts, in Poetry and in Music, he seeks for the Sublime, and that in its great and imposing style. In Poetry for example, and in Oratory, he delights in the lofty voices of the ancient world; and, among the moderns, in that only which is produced and interpenetrated by the spirit of the ancients. Amusements in which the form of art is thrown around unmeaning emptiness, or even productions which appeal to the senses alone, and seek to please man by awakening and exciting his animal nature, these have no charms for him. It is not necessary for him to consider beforehand how hurtful they might prove to him; they do not please him, he can acquire no liking for them.

The man of mature age may indeed turn his thoughts to such perversions, that he may discover in themselves the evidence of their perversion, and so laugh at them: he is secure from their contagion. Not so the inexperienced youth; a secret voice calls him back from them altogether. The man of ripe years, who is no longer occupied in forming his Ideal, but now seeks to impress it on the actual world, he has to deal with perversion, and must pursue it through all its doublings and turnings, into its most secret haunts; and he cannot do this without contemplating it. Our hatred of the vulgar becomes weakened and blunted by time, by the experience that the foolishness of the world suffers no abatement, and that almost the only certain advantage which can be gained from it is a laugh at its expense. But the youth cannot thus contemplate life, he must not thus contemplate it. Every period of life has its peculiar calling. Good-natured laughter at vulgarity belongs to ripened age; the attitude of youth towards it ought to be that of stern aversion;—and no one will be able in after years to look on it, and to laugh at it, and yet remain truly free and pure from its taint, who does not begin in youth by avoiding and hating it. Jesting is not suited for youth, they know little of man who think so; where youth is wasted in sport, it will never attain to earnestness and true existence. The portion of youth in life is the Earnest and the Sublime; only after such a youth does maturity attain to the Beautiful, and with it to sportful enjoyment of the Vulgar. Further, everything is vulgar and ignoble which weakens spiritual power. I shall instance idleness; to mention drunkenness or sensuality would be below the dignity of our subject. To live without active occupation, to cast a dull and unmeaning gaze around us, will soon make our minds dull and unmeaning. This propensity to nonexistence, to spiritual torpor, becomes a habit, a second nature; it surprises us in our studies or while listening to our teacher, creates a chasm in what would otherwise be a strictly connected whole, interposes itself here and there between ideas which we should connect together, so that we cannot comprehend even those which are most easy and intelligible. How this propensity should seize upon youth, may remain unaccountable even to men of the deepest penetration and judgment; in most cases it would be no delusion to seek its cause in some secret infirmity or vice. Youth is the age of newly-developed power; everywhere there are still impulses and principles destined to burst forth into new creations; the peculiar character of youth is restless and uninterrupted activity; left to itself, it can never be without occupation. To see it slothful is the sight of winter in the time of spring, the blight and withering of a newly-opened flower. Were it naturally possible that this idleness should attempt to gain dominion over the true-minded and virtuous Student, he would never for a moment endure it. In the Eternal Thought of God his spiritual power has its source; it is thus his most precious treasure, and he will not suffer it to fall into impotent rigidity before it has fulfilled its task. He watches unceasingly over himself, and never allows himself to rest in slothful inaction. It is only for a short period that this exertion of the will is needful; afterwards, its result continues of itself, for it is happily as easy,—or even more easy because it is more natural,—for man to accustom himself to industry than to idleness, and after a time passed in sustained activity it even becomes impossible for him to live without employment.

Lastly, everything is vulgar and ignoble which robs man of respect for himself, of faith in himself, and of the power of reckoning with confidence upon himself and his purposes. Nothing is more destructive of character than for man to lose all faith in his own resolutions, because he has so often determined, and again determined, to do that which nevertheless he has never done. Then he feels it necessary to flee from himself; he can no longer turn inward to his own thoughts, lest he be covered with shame before them; he shuns no society so much as his own, and deliberately gives himself up to dissipation and self-abandonment. Not so the upright Student: he abides by his purpose; whatever he has resolved to do, that he does, were it only because he has resolved to do it. For the same reason, that he must be guided by his own purpose and his own insight, he will not become a slave to the opinion of others, or even to common opinion. It is doubtless of all things most ignoble, when man, out of too great complacency, which at bottom is cowardice and want of spirit, or out of indolence, which prevents him from thinking for himself and drawing the principles of his conduct from his own mind,—gives himself up to others, and relies upon them rather than upon himself. Such an one has indeed no self within him, and believes in no self within him, but goes as a suppliant to others, and entreats of them, one after another, to lend him their personality. How can such an one regard himself as honourable and holy, when he neither knows nor acknowledges his own being?

I have said that the true-minded Student will not make himself a slave to common opinion; nevertheless he will accommodate himself to established customs where these are in themselves indifferent, simply because he honours himself. The educated youth grows up amid these customs; were he to cast them off, he must of necessity deliberately resolve to do so, and attract notice and attention to himself by his singularities and his offences against decorum. How should he whose time is occupied with weightier matters find leisure to ponder such a subject? Is the matter so important, and is there no other way in which he can distinguish himself, that he must take refuge in a petty peculiarity? "No!" answers the noble-minded Student; "I am here to comprehend weightier things than outward manners, and I will not have it appear that I am too awkward to understand these. I will not by such littleness cause myself and my class to be despised and hated by the uncharitable, or good-naturedly laughed at by those of better disposition; my fellow-citizens of other classes, or of my own,—my teachers, my superiors, shall have it in their power to honour and respect me as a man in every relation of human life."

And thus in all its relations does the life of the studious youth, who respects himself, flow on—blameless and lovely.