II
HAECKEL, “THE RIDDLE OF THE
UNIVERSE,” AND THEOSOPHY
[Delivered as a lecture, Berlin, 5th October, 1905.
Authorised translation from the third German edition.]
IN
selecting such a theme as the one I propose for to-day,
“Haeckel,
The Riddle of the Universe, and Theosophy,”
I am aware that to a student of spiritual
life it is fraught with difficulties, and that the statements I
am about to make may possibly give offence to so-called
materialists and theosophists alike. And yet there seems to me
a necessity that this matter should, once in a while, be
approached from the theosophical point of view, since from one
standpoint the “gospel” derived from Haeckel's
researches has been made accessible to thousands upon thousands
of mankind by means of his book,
The Riddle of the Universe.
Ten thousand copies of this work were sold within
a very short time of its appearance, and it has been translated
into many languages. Seldom, indeed, has a book of serious
purpose found so wide a circulation.
Now, if theosophy is to make clear its aims, it is but right
that it should take into account so important a publication
— one that concerns itself with the most profound
questions of existence. Theosophy should deal with it
comprehensively, and seek to express its attitude with regard
to it. For after all, the theosophical conception of life is
not combative but rather conciliatory, desirous of
harmonising opposing views.
Furthermore, I myself am in a very peculiar position with
respect to Ernst Haeckel's conception of the universe,
for I know well those feelings and perceptions which, partly by
reason of a scientific consciousness, and partly from the
general conditions of the world and the usual conceptions
thereof, draw men as though by the power of some fascination
towards such great and simple paths of thought as those from
which Haeckel has constructed his conception of the universe.
And here I may say that I should hardly have dared to speak my
mind thus openly were I in any sense an opponent of Haeckel, or
were it not that I am intimately acquainted with all that can
be experienced in the process of adapting oneself to the
wonderful edifice of his ideas.
The
very first thing that anyone bringing his attention frankly to
bear upon the development of spiritual life is bound to
recognise, is the moral power displayed in Haeckel's labours.
For years past this man, imbued with an enormous amount of
courage, has fought for the acceptance and the recognition of
his conception of the universe — fought strenuously,
having again and again to defend himself against the manifold
obstacles that impeded his progress. On the other hand, we must
not be unmindful of the fact that Haeckel's great powers of
comprehensive expression are balanced by equally
comprehensive powers of thought: the very qualities in
which many scientists are deficient happen to be those with
which he is very highly endowed.
In
gathering together the results of his researches and
investigations under the one comprehensive title of a
conception of the universe, he has boldly departed from those
tendencies of scientific thought which have for several decades
opposed any such undertaking; and this very departure
must be recognised as an act of special significance.
Another fact to be noted is, that I am placed in a singular
position with regard to the theosophical conception of the
universe when I speak about Haeckel; for anyone acquainted with
the process of development through which the theosophical
movement has passed will be aware of what sharp words and what
opposition, not only on the part of theosophists in general,
but on the part of the founder of the theosophical movement,
Madame H. P. Blavatsky, were directed against the deductions
which Ernst Haeckel draws from his work of investigation. Few
publications touching cosmogony have been so violently opposed
in the
Secret Doctrine
as that of Haeckel.
You
will understand that I speak here without prejudice, for I
think that in parts of my book,
Haeckel and his Opponents,
as well as in my other work on
Cosmogonies of the Nineteenth Century,
I have to the fullest
extent done justice to what I take to be the real truths
contained in Haeckel's conception of the universe. I believe
that I have sifted from his labours that which is fruitful, and
that which is enduring. Consider the general attitude towards
the conception of the world in so far as it is based upon
scientific reasons. During the first half of the nineteenth
century a totally different spiritual attitude prevailed from
that known in the second half. Haeckel's appearance on the
scene coincided with a time in which it was an easy thing for
the new growth of so-called Darwinism to be subjected to
materialistic interpretations. If, therefore, we realise how
insistent was this tendency, at the very time when Haeckel was
a young and enthusiastic student entering upon the pursuit of
natural science, to reduce all discoveries in that domain of
learning to a materialistic issue, the consequent bent towards
materialism may well be understood, and may therefore
lead us into a path of peace rather than of conflict.
If
you will consider those men who, about the middle of the
nineteenth century, set themselves to confront the great riddle
of humanity with calm, unprejudiced eyes, you will find two
things: on the one hand, a state of absolute resignation in
relation to the highest questions concerning a divine ordering
of the world, such as immortality, freedom of will, origin of
life — a resignation, in short, with regard to all the
actual riddles of the universe. On the other hand you will
discover, co-existing with this attitude of resignation,
remnants of an ancient religious tradition, and this even among
students of natural science. Bold adventuring towards
investigation of such questions from the scientific point of
view was, during the first half of the nineteenth century, to
be met with only among German philosophers, such as Schelling
and Fichte, as well as Oken, who, by the way, was a pioneer of
freedom without equal, not alone upon this subject, but in many
paths of life.
All
attempts made by men in the present day towards the
fundamentalising of world-theories are to be found in still
bolder outline among the works of Oken. And yet all this was
animated by a certain subtleness — a breath, as it were,
of that old spiritualism which is clearly conscious that,
behind and beyond all that our senses can perceive, all that
can be investigated by means of instruments, there still
lurks something spiritual to be sought for. Haeckel has again
and again told us how distinctly the mind of his great teacher
— that deep student of natural science, Johannes
Müller, of imperishable memory — was tinged with
this subtle breath. You can read in Haeckel's own writings how
he had been struck (it was at the time when he was busy at the
Berlin University and studying the anatomy of men and
animals under Johannes Müller) by the great resemblance
apparent not alone in outward form, but also by that similarity
which compels attention in the evolution of form. He tells us
how he had remarked to his master that such resemblance as this
must hint at some mysterious kinship between man and beast, and
that the answer made by Johannes Müller, who had searched
so deeply into Nature, had been: “Ah! he who lays bare
the secret of species will indeed have reached the highest
summit.”
What we have to do is to attune ourselves to the spirit, the
motive, of such a seeker; of one who assuredly would never have
halted had he beheld a prospect of entering into possession of
that secret. On one other occasion, when teacher and pupil were
travelling together on some journey of investigation,
Haeckel again referred to the close relationship existing
between animals; and Johannes Müller once more replied
very much to the same effect. In alluding to this I only wish
to draw your attention to a certain attitude of mind.
If
you will look back among the writings of any well-known
naturalist belonging to the first half of the nineteenth
century — for instance, to those of Burdach — you
will find that, in spite of all the careful and elaborate
minutiae appertaining to natural science, whenever the kingdom
of life comes to be considered, the suggestion is ever present
that here no mere physical and chemical powers are in
operation, but that something higher has to be taken into
account.
When, however, improvements in microscopes made it
possible for man to observe, to a far greater extent than
heretofore, all those curious formations which serve to
distinguish living creatures, showing that we have to do with a
fine web of the minutest animalcules, and that this actually
composes the physical body — when, as I have said, so
much was made visible, the attitude of the scientific mind
underwent a change. This physical body, which serves plants and
animals as their garment, now resolved itself, so far as the
scientist was concerned, into a tissue of cells. This discovery
as to the life of these cells was made by naturalists about the
end of the third decade of the nineteenth century, and, seeing
that it was possible to ascertain so much about the lives of
such animalcules by the exercise of the senses, assisted by the
aid of the microscope, it required but a step further for that
which acts as the organising principle in these living
creatures to be lost sight of, because no physical sense,
nothing external, proclaimed its presence.
At
that time there was no Darwinism, yet it was owing to the
impression made by this great advance in the domain of
practical research that we find a natural science grounded in
materialism coming into vogue during the 'forties and 'fifties.
It was then thought that what could be perceived by the senses,
and thus explained, could be understood by the whole
world. Things that now seem puerile created then the most
intense sensation, and became, so to speak, a gospel for
humanity. Such words as “energy” and
“matter” became popular by-words, while men like
Büchner and Moleschott were recognised authorities. It was
considered an evidence of childish fancy, belonging to earlier
epochs of the human race, to suppose that anything that could
be minutely examined with the eye was possessed of aught
beyond what was actually visible.
Now, you must bear in mind that, side by side with all
discovery, feelings and sensations play a great part in the
development of mental life. Anyone who may be inclined to think
that cosmogonies are the result of bold calculations of
reason makes a mistake: in all such matters the heart is
active, and the secret sources of education also contribute
their share. Humanity has, during its latest phase of
development, been passing through a materialistic stage of
education. The actual beginning of this stage is traceable far
back, it is true; nevertheless, it reached its apex in the time
of which we are speaking. We call this epoch of materialistic
education the age of enlightenment.
Man
had now — and this was the final result of the Christian
conception of the universe — to find his foothold upon
the firm ground of reality: the God whom he had so long sought
beyond the clouds he was now bidden to seek within his inner
consciousness. This had a far-reaching effect upon the entire
development of the nineteenth century, and anyone
interested in psychological changes and caring to study the
development of humanity at that time will be enabled to
understand how all the events and occurrences which then
followed upon each other, such as the struggle for
freedom in the 'thirties and 'forties, can but be classed
as separate storms and convulsions of the feelings which were
the result of that newly developed sense of physical reality,
and which were bound to run their appointed course. We have to
deal with a tendency in human education that sought in the
first place forcibly to eradicate from the human heart every
aspiration towards a spiritual life.
It
is not from natural science that those deductions, pronouncing
the world to consist of naught but what can be perceived by the
senses, have been drawn; they are a consequence of the
educational teaching obtaining at that time. Materialism had
become interwoven with explanations relating to the facts
of natural science. Anyone who will take the trouble to study
these things as they really are, bringing to bear upon the
subject a mind free from prejudice, will be in a position to
see for himself that the case is as I am about to set forth,
but it is impossible for me in the space of one short hour to
deal with the matter exhaustively.
The
whole of the stupendous advance made in the realms of natural
science, of astronomy, of physics and chemistry, due to
spectrum analysis, to a greater theoretical knowledge of heat,
and to that teaching concerning the development of living
organisms known to us as the Darwinian theory — all these
come within this period of materialism. Had these discoveries
been made at a time when people still thought as they did about
the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth
centuries, a time when a greater spiritual sensitiveness
prevailed, then these discoveries would have been so construed
as to furnish proofs positive of the working of the spirit in
Nature — indeed, by very reason of the wonderful
discoveries in natural science the supremacy of spirit would
have been deemed incontestably established.
It
is clear, then, that scientific investigations with
regard to Nature need not necessarily and under all
circumstances lead to materialism. It was merely because so
many leaders of civilisation at that time were
materialistically inclined that these discoveries became
interpreted in a materialistic way. Materialism was imported
into natural science, and naturalists, such as Ernst Haeckel,
accepted it unconsciously. Darwin's discovery per se
need not have tended to materialism.
Materialism points to Darwin's book,
The Origin of Species,
as its chief support. Now, it is clear that if a
thinker inclining to materialism approached these
discoveries, he would be sure to invest Darwinism with a
materialistic colouring, and it was due to Haeckel's
boldly materialistic attitude of thought that Darwinism has
received its present materialistic interpretation. It was
an event of great moment when Haeckel, in the year 1864,
announced the connection between man and the higher animals
(apes). At that time this could but mean that man was descended
from the higher animals. But since that day scientific thought
has undergone a curious process of development. Haeckel has
adhered to his opinion that man is the descendant of those
higher animals, they being in their turn the developments of
still lower types, reaching back finally to the very simplest
forms of life. It is thus that Haeckel constructs man's entire
genealogical tree — in fact, the lineal descent of all
humanity. By this means everything of a spiritual nature became
for him excluded from the world, except as a reflection of
already-existing material things.
And
yet Haeckel, having in the depths of his being a peculiar
spiritual consciousness working side by side with his
materialistic “thinking mind,” casts about for some
means of help, since these two parts of his being have never
been able to “come into line;” he has not succeeded
in bringing about a working partnership between them. For this
reason he comes to the conclusion that even the smallest living
creature may be accredited with a sort of consciousness, but he
does not explain to us how the complex human
consciousness is developed out of that which is latent in
the smallest living creature.
In
the course of a conversation Haeckel once said: “People
are always objecting to my materialism, but I don't deny the
Spirit, nor do I deny Life: I only want people to observe that
when you place matter in a retort everything in it soon begins
to work and effervesce — to ferment.” That remark
shows plainly enough that Haeckel possesses a spiritual as well
as a scientific mind.
Among those who, at the time of Darwin's supremacy, proclaimed
their adherence to the theory of man's descent from the higher
animals was the English scientist Huxley. He asserted the close
similarity in external structure between man and the higher
animals to be even greater than that existing between the
higher and lower species of apes, and that we could but come to
the conclusion that a line of descent existed leading from the
higher animals to man. In more recent times scientists have
discovered new facts, but even then those feelings which for
centuries past have educated the human heart and soul were
undergoing a change, a transformation. Hence it was that Huxley
in the 'nineties, not long before his death, gave utterance to
the following view — a strange one, coming from
him:
“We see therefore,” he observed, “that in
Nature life is conditioned by a series of steps, proceeding
from the simplest and most incomplete up to the
complicated and perfected. We cannot follow this continuity,
yet why should not this continuous line proceed onwards in a
region which we are unable to survey?”
In
these words the way is indicated by which man may, by the
pursuit of natural science, rise to the idea of a Divine being,
standing high above man — a being farther removed from
man than man himself is from the one-celled organism. Huxley
had once said:
“I would rather have descended from such ancestors,
ancestors similar to the brute, than from such as deny the
human intelligence.”
[See note to Readers, below.]
Readers who are unacquainted with Huxley's famous reply
may be glad to have it in extenso, as given by Edward Clodd in
Thomas Henry Huxley, published by William Blackwood &
Sons:
“At the meeting of the British Association at Oxford,
on 28th June, 1860, Owen emphasised the statement that ‘the brain
of the gorilla presented more differences, as compared with the
brain of man, than it did when compared with the brains of the
very lowest and most problematical of the Quadrumana.’ To this
Huxley, in polite English, gave the lie direct, and pledged
himself to ‘justify that unusual procedure elsewhere.’
Two days after, by mere chance, he was present at the reading of a
paper by Dr. Draper ‘On the Intellectual Development of Europe
considered with reference to the views of Mr. Darwin.’ In the
discussion which followed, Bishop Wilberforce, throwing a
glance at Huxley, ended a suave and superficial speech by
asking him ‘as to his belief in being descended from an ape. Is
it on his grandfather's or his grandmother's side that the ape
ancestry comes in?’ Huxley did not rise till the meeting called
for him. Then he let himself go. ‘The Lord hath delivered him
into mine hands,’ he said in an undertone to Sir Benjamin
Brodie. After showing how ill-equipped was the Bishop for
controversy upon the general question of organic evolution,
although it was an open secret that Owen had primed him for the
contest, Huxley said: ‘You say that development drives out the
Creator, but you assert that God made you; and yet you know
that you yourself were originally a piece of matter no bigger
than the end of this gold pencil-case?’ Then followed the
famous retort:
“‘I asserted, and I repeat, that a man has
no reason to be ashamed of having an ape for his grandfather. If
there were an ancestor whom I should feel shame in recalling it would
rather be a man — a man of restless and versatile
intellect — who, not content with success in his own
sphere of activity, plunges into scientific questions with
which he has no real acquaintance, only to obscure them by an
aimless rhetoric, and distract the attention of his
hearers from the real point at issue by eloquent digressions
and skilled appeals to religious prejudice.’”
Thus do precepts and concepts, all the soul thinks and feels,
alter in the course of time. Haeckel has continued his work of
research along the lines he first adopted. In the year 1867 he
had already published his popular work,
The Natural History of Creation,
and from this book much may be learnt. It
teaches the laws by which the living kingdoms in Nature are
linked one to the other. We can see through the veil shrouding
the grey past and bring what is existent into relation with
what is extinct, of which only the last remains may now be
found upon the earth.
Haeckel has recognised this accurately. That world-history,
here in a wider sense playing its part, I can only
elucidate by making use of an illustration. You may find it no
more accurate than are most comparative illustrations, yet it
fairly bears out my meaning.
Let
us suppose that a writer on art appeared upon the scene and
produced a book in which he treated with consummate skill the
whole period stretching from the days of Leonardo da Vinci to
modern times. He presents to our minds all that has been
achieved in the pursuit of art during that period, and we
believe ourselves enabled to look within at the development of
man's creative powers. Let us, then, go further, and imagine
that another person came along and criticised the
descriptive work, saying: “But, look here!
Everything this art historian has put on record never
happened at all! These are all descriptions of pictures that
don't exist! What use have I for such imaginings? One has to
investigate reality in order to arrive at the true method
of adequately presenting art in its historical bearings. I will
therefore investigate the remains of Leonardo da Vinci
himself, and try to reconstruct the body, and then judge
by the contours of his skull what brain he is likely to have
had and how it may probably have functioned.” In the same
way the events described by the art historian are depicted by
the professor of anatomy. There may have been no mistake. All
may have been correct. Well, then, in that case, says the
anatomist, we must “fight to a finish” against this
idealisation of our art historian; we must combat his phantasy,
his imagination, for it amounts to credulity and superstition
to allow anyone to attempt to make us believe that besides the
form of Leonardo da Vinci there was some “gaseous
vortex” to be apprehended as a soul.
Now, this illustration, in spite of its manifest
absurdity, really hits the mark. This is the position in which
everyone finds himself who chooses to assert his belief in the
Natural History of Creation
as the only accurate one.
Nor can this illustration be negatived by merely indicating its
weak points. They are there, perhaps, but that is beside the
point. What is of importance is that the obvious should for
once be presented according to its inner relationship; and that
is what Haeckel has done in a full and exhaustive way. It has
been done in such a manner that anyone wishing to see, can see,
how active is the Spirit in the moulding of the form, where, to
all appearances, matter alone reigns supreme. Much may be
learnt from that; we may learn how to acquire spiritually
knowledge as to the world's material combination, how to
acquire it with earnestness, dignity, and perseverance.
Anyone going through Haeckel's
Anthropogenesis
sees how form builds itself up, as it were, from the simplest living
creature to the most complicated, from the simplest organism to
man. He who understands how to add the Spirit to what is
already granted by the materialist may in this example of
“Haeckelism” have the opportunity of studying the
best elementary theosophy.
The
results of Haeckel's research constitute, so to speak,
the first chapter of theosophy. Far better than by any other
method, we can arrive at a comprehension of the growth and
transformation of organic forms by a study of his works. We
have every reason to call attention to the great things which
have been achieved through the progress of this profound
study of Nature.
At
the time when Haeckel had constructed this wonderful edifice,
the world was facing the deeper riddles of humanity as problems
without solution. In the year 1872 Du Bois-Reymond, in a speech
memorable for its brilliant rhetoric, alluded to the limits
placed to natural science and to our knowledge of Nature.
During the past decade the utterances of few men have
been so much discussed as has this lecture with the celebrated
“Ignorabimus.” It was a momentous event, and
offered a complete contrast to Haeckel's own development and to
his theory of the descent of man. In another lecture Du
Bois-Reymond has tabulated seven great questions as to
existence, questions which the naturalist can only answer in
part, if at all. These seven “riddles of the
universe” are:
-
The origin of energy and matter.
-
How did the first movement arise in
this quiescent matter?
-
How did life originate within this
“matter set in motion?”
-
How is it that so many things in
Nature bear the stamp of utility to a degree only met with
in such human achievements as are the result of intelligent
reasoning?
-
Assuming we were able to examine our
brain, we should find it to be nothing but a jumble of
little whirling spheres; how is it, then, that these same
little balls, or spheres, enable me, let us say, to
“see red,” to hear the tones of the organ, to
feel pain, etc.? Think of a mass of whirling atoms, and it
will be plain to you that it is not from them that you
derive the sensations expressing themselves in such words
as “I see red,” “I smell the scent of the
rose,” etc.
-
How do understanding, reason, and
speech develop in the living being?
-
How can “free will”
originate in a being so circumscribed that his every act is
the product of the whirling of these atoms?
It
was in connection with these riddles of the universe put forward
by Du Bois-Reymond that Haeckel gave his book the title of
The Riddle of the Universe.
His desire was to give
the answer to the questions raised by Du Bois-Reymond. There is
a specially important passage in the lecture Du Bois-Reymond
delivered on the “Limits of Inquiry into Nature,”
which will enable us to step across into the field of
theosophy.
At
the time when Du Bois-Reymond was lecturing at Leipsic before
an assembly of natural scientists and medical men, the spirit
of natural science was seeking after a purer, higher, and freer
atmosphere — such an atmosphere as might lead to the
theosophical cosmogony. On that occasion Du Bois-Reymond spoke
as follows: —
“If we study man from the point of view of natural
science, he presents himself to us as a working compound of
unconscious atoms. To explain man in accordance with natural
science means to ‘understand’ this atomic motion to its
uttermost degree.”
He
considered that if one were in a position to indicate the
precise way in which the atoms moved at any given place in the
brain, while saying, for instance, “I think,” or
“Give me an apple” — if this could be done,
then the problem would, according to natural science, have been
solved. Du Bois-Reymond calls this the “astronomic”
understanding of man. Even as a miniature firmament of stars
would be the appearance of these active groups of human atoms.
But what has not here been taken into consideration is the
question as to how sensations, feelings, and thoughts arise in
the consciousness of the man of whom, let us say, I perfectly
well know that his atoms move in such and such a manner. That
natural science can as little determine as it can the manner in
which consciousness arises. Du Bois-Reymond concluded with the
following words: —
“In the sleeping man, who is not conscious of the
sensation expressed in the words ‘I see red,’ we have before us
the physical group of the active members of the body. With
regard to this sleeping body, we need not say, ‘We cannot know’
— ‘Ignorabimus!’ We are able to comprehend the sleeping
man. Man awake, on the contrary, is incomprehensible to the
scientist. In the sleeping man something is absent which
is nevertheless present in the man awake: I allude to the
consciousness through which he appears before us as a
spiritual being.” At that time, owing to a lack of
courage in matters concerning natural science, further progress
was impossible; there was no question as yet of theosophy,
because natural science had, in concise terms, defined the
boundary, had set a barrier at the precise spot up to which it
wished to proceed in its own fashion. It was owing to
this self-limitation of science that theosophical cosmogony
had, about this time, its beginning. No one is going to
maintain that man, when he goes to sleep “ceases to
be,” and on re-awaking in the morning “resumes
existence.” And yet Du Bois-Reymond says that something
which is present in him by day is absent during the night. It
is here that the theosophical conception of the universe
is enabled to assert itself. Sense-consciousness is in abeyance
in the sleeping man. As, however, the man of science uses as a
prop for his argument that which brings about this
sense-consciousness, he is unable to say anything concerning
the spirituality that transcends it, because he lacks precisely
the knowledge of that which makes of man a spiritual being.
By
the use of such means as serve for natural science we are
unable to investigate matters spiritual. Natural science
depends upon what may be demonstrated to the senses. What can
no longer be sensed when man falls asleep, cannot be the object
of scientific investigation. It is in this something, no longer
perceptible in the sleeping man, that we must seek for that
entity by which man becomes a spiritual being. No mental
representation can be made of what transcends the purely
material and passes beyond the knowledge of the senses,
until organs, of which the scientist can know nothing if he
only depends on his sense-perceptions — spiritual eyes
— are developed; eyes which are able to see beyond the
confines of the senses.
For
this reason we have no right to say, “Here are the limits
of cognition;” but merely, “Here are the limits of
sense-perception.”
The
scientist perceives by means of his senses, but he is no
spiritual observer; he must become one. become a
“seer.” in order that he may see what is spiritual
in man. This is the bourne towards which tends all profound
wisdom in the world; not seeking the mere widening of its
radius where actual material knowledge is concerned, but
striving towards the raising of human faculty.
This also is the great difference between what is taught by
present-day natural science and what is taught by theosophy.
Natural science says: “Man has senses with which he
perceives, and a mind whereby he is enabled to connect the
evidences of his senses. What does not come within the scope of
these lies beyond the ken of natural science.”
Theosophy takes a different view of the case. It says:
“You scientists are perfectly right, so long as you judge
from your point of view, just as right as the blind man would
be from his in saying that the world is devoid of light and
colour. We make no objection to the standpoint of natural
science, we would only place it in juxtaposition to the view
taken by theosophy, which asserts that it is possible —
nay, that it is certain — that man is not obliged to
remain stationary at the point of view he occupies to-day; that
it is possible for organs — spiritual eyes — to
develop after a similar fashion to that in which those physical
sense-organs of the body, the eyes and ears, have been
developed; and once these new organs are developed, higher
faculties will make themselves apparent.”
This must be taken on faith at first — nay, it need not
even be believed; it may just be accepted as an assertion in an
unprejudiced manner. Nevertheless, as true as it is that all
believers in the
Natural History of Creation
have not beheld all that is therein presented to them as fact
(how many of them have actually investigated these facts?),
so true is it that these facts concerning a knowledge of the
super-sensual can be explained to everyone.
The
ordinary man, held in bondage by his senses, cannot possibly
gain admittance to this realm. It is only by the aid of certain
methods of investigation that the spiritual world opens to the
seeker. Thus, man must transform himself into an instrument for
those higher powers, one able to penetrate into worlds hidden
from those still enthralled by their physical senses. To such
as can accomplish this, visions of a quite distinctive
nature will appear. The ordinary human being is not capable of
seeing for himself, or of consciously recognising things
about him, when his senses are wrapped in slumber; but when he
applies occult methods of investigation this incapacity ceases,
and he begins to receive quite consciously impressions of the
astral world.
There is at first a state of transition, familiar to all,
between that exterior life of sense cognisance and that life
which even in the most profound state of slumber is not quite
extinguished. This state of transition is the chaos of dreams.
To most people these will appear as mere reflections of what
they have been experiencing during the previous day. Indeed,
you will ask, how should a man be able to receive any new
experiences during sleep, since the inner self has as yet no
organs of cognition? But still, something is there
— life is there. That which left the body when
sleep wrapped it round has memory, and this remembrance rises
before the sleeper in pictures more or less fantastic and
confused. (Should anyone desire more information on this
subject, it will be found in my books entitled
The Way of Initiation
and
Initiation and its Results,
Theosophical Publishing Society, 161, New Bond Street, W.)
[Now published by the Rudolf Steiner Publishing Co.,
in one volume,
The Knowledge of the Higher Worlds and Its Attainment.
Cloth, Crown 8vo, pp. 221, 6s.]
Now, in place of this chaos, order and harmony will, in the
course of time, be brought about; an order and a harmony
governing this region of dreams, and this will be a sign that
the person in question is beginning to develop spiritually.
Then he will cease to see the mere aftermath of reality,
grotesquely portrayed; he will see things which have in
ordinary life no existence.
Those who desire to remain within the boundary of the senses
will, of course, say, “But they are only dreams!”
Yet, if they, by such means, obtain an insight into the
loftiest secrets of creation, it may surely be a matter of
indifference to them whether they gain this through the medium
of a dream or by means of the senses. Let us, for instance,
suppose that Graham Bell had invented the telephone in a state
of dream-consciousness. That would have been of no moment
whatever to-day, for the telephone itself in any case is an
important and useful invention. Clear and regular dreaming is
therefore the beginning, and if in the stillness of the night
hours you have come to “live in your dreams,” if,
after a time, you have habituated yourself to a
cognisance of worlds quite other than this, then will
soon come a time when you will learn, by these new experiences,
to step forth into actuality.
Then the whole world will assume a new aspect, and you will be
as sensible of this change as you would be of threading your
way through a row of solid chairs, through anything your senses
may at this moment be aware of in their vicinity. Such is the
condition of anyone who has acquired a new state of
consciousness. Something new, a new kind of personality, has
awakened within him. In the course of his further development a
stage will at length be reached where not only the curious
apparitions of the higher worlds pass before the spiritual eye
as visions of light, but the tones also of those higher worlds
become audible, telling their spiritual names, and able to
convey to the seer a new meaning. In the language of the
mysteries, this is expressed in the words, “Man sees the
sun at midnight;” which is to say, that for him there are
no longer any obstacles in space to prevent him from seeing the
sun when on the other side of the world. Then, too, is the work
of the sun, acting within the universe, made plain to him, and
he becomes aware of that harmony of the spheres, that truth to
which the Pythagoreans bore witness.
Tones and sounds, this music of the spheres, now become, for
him, actual. Poets who were also seers have known of the
existence of something approaching this music, and only those
who can grasp Goethe's meaning from this point of view will be
able to understand those passages, for instance, occurring in
the “Prologue in Heaven” (see
Faust, pt. I),
which may be taken either as poetic phraseology or as a
lofty truth. Where Faust is a second time introduced into the
world of spirits, he speaks of these sounds:
“Tönend wird für Geistes-Ohren,
Schon der neue Tag geboren!”
(“Sounding loud to spirit-hearing,
See the new-born Day appearing!”)
Faust, Part II.
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Here we have the connection between natural science and
theosophy. Du Bois-Reymond has pointed to the fact that the
sleeper only can be an object for the experiments of
natural science. But if man should begin to open his inner
senses, if he should come to see and hear that there is such a
thing as spiritual actuality, then indeed will the whole
edifice of elementary theosophy, so wonderfully, constructed by
Haeckel — a structure none can admire more profoundly
than I — then will this great work glow with a new glory,
revealing, as it must, an entirely new meaning. According to
this marvellous structure we see a simple living creature as
the archetype, yet we may trace back that creature
spiritually to an earlier condition of consciousness.
I
will now explain what theosophy holds as the doctrine of the
descent of man. It is obvious that in a single lecture like the
present no “proofs” can be advanced, and it is also
natural that to all who are only acquainted with the theories
commonly advanced on this subject everything I say will appear
fantastic and highly improbable. All theories thus advanced
originated, however, in the leading circles of materialistic
thought, and many who would probably resent the suggestion of
materialism as utterly foreign to their nature, are
nevertheless (and indeed quite comprehensibly so) caught
in a net of self-delusion.
The
true theosophical teaching concerning evolution is, in our day,
hardly known; and when our opponents speak of it, he who
does know is at once able to recognise by the objections
raised that he is dealing with a caricature of this doctrine of
evolution.
For
all such as merely acknowledge a soul, or spirit, to which
expression is given within the human, or animal organism, the
theosophical mode of representation must be utterly
incomprehensible, and every discussion touching that
subject is, with such persons, quite fruitless. They must first
free themselves from the state of materialistic suggestion in
which they live, and must make themselves acquainted with the
fundamental attitude of theosophical thought.
Just as the methods of research employed by physical science
trace back the organism of the physical body into the dim
distance of primeval times, so it is the mode of
theosophical thought to delve into the past with regard
to the soul and the spirit. Now, the latter method does not
lead to any conclusions antagonistic or contradictory to the
facts advanced by natural science; only with the materialistic
interpretations of these facts it can have nothing to do.
Natural science traces the descent of the physical living being
backwards, arriving by this course at organisms of a less and
less complicated kind. Natural science declares: “The
perfect living being is a development of these simpler and less
complicated ones;” and, as far as physical structure is
concerned, this is true, although the hypothetical forms of
primeval ages of which materialistic science speaks do not
entirely conform with those known to theosophical research.
This, however, need not concern us at the present
moment.
From the physical standpoint theosophy also acknowledges the
relationship of man with the higher mammals, with the man-like
apes. But there can be no question of the descent of our
humanity from a creature of the mind and soul calibre of the
ape, as we know it. The facts are quite otherwise, and
everything that materialism puts forward of this nature rests
upon an error of thought. This error may be cleared up by means
of a simple comparison sufficient for our purpose, though
trite.
We
will imagine two persons, one morally deficient and
intellectually insignificant; the other endowed with a high
standard of morality and of considerable intellectuality. We
will assume that some fact or other confirms the
relationship of these two. Now, I ask you, will the inference
be drawn that the one in every way more highly endowed is
descended from one who was of the standard described? Never! We
may think it a surprising fact that they are brothers. We may
find, however, that they had a father who was not of exactly
the same standard as either of the brothers, and in that case
one will be found to have worked his way up, the other to have
degenerated.
Materialistic science makes a similar mistake to that
here indicated. Facts known to it induce the acceptance of a
connection between ape and man, yet from this it should not
draw the conclusion that man is descended from the ape-like
animals. What should be accepted is a primeval creature, a
common physical ancestor, from the stock of which the ape has
degenerated, while man has been the ascending
“brother.”
Now, what was there in that primeval creature to cause this
ascendance to the human on the one hand, the sinking into the
ape kingdom on the other? Theosophy answers, “The soul of
man himself did this.” Even then the soul of man was
present, at a time when, on the face of this physical earth,
the creatures possessing the highest sense of development were
these common ancestors of man and ape. From amid the multitude
of these ancestors the best types were capable of subjecting
themselves to the soul's progress, the rest were not. Thus it
happens that the present-day human soul has a
“soul-ancestor” just as the body has its physical
forebear.
It
is true that, so far as the senses are concerned, those
“soul-ancestors” could not, according to our
present-day observations, have been perceptible within our
bodies. They still belonged in a sense to “higher
worlds,” and they were also possessed of other
capabilities and powers than those of the present human soul.
They lacked the mental activity and the moral sense now
evident. Such souls could conceive no way of fashioning
instruments from the things in the outer world; they could
create no political states. The soul's activity still consisted
to a great extent in transforming the archetype of those
ancestral bodies themselves. It laboured at improving the
incomplete brain, enabling it at a later period to become the
seat of thought activities. As the soul of to-day, directed
towards external things, constructs machines, etc., so did that
ancestral soul labour at constructing the body of the human
ancestor. The following objection can, of course, be raised:
“Why, then, does not the soul at the present day work at
its body to the same extent?” The reason for its not
doing so is that the energy used at a former time for the
transforming of the organs has since been directing its whole
effort upon external things in the mastery and regulation of
the forces of Nature.
We
may therefore ascribe a twofold descent to man in primeval
times. His spiritual birth is not coeval with the perfecting of
his organs of sense. On the contrary, the “soul” of
man was already present at a time when those physical
“ancestors” inhabited the earth. Figuratively
speaking, we may say that the soul “selected” a
certain number of such “ancestors” as seemed best
fitted for receiving the external corporeal expression
distinguishing the present-day man. Another branch of these
ancestors deteriorated, and in its degenerate condition is now
represented by the anthropoid apes. These, then, form, in the
true sense of the word, branch lines of the human ancestry.
Those ancestors are the physical forebears of man, but this is
due only to the capacity for reconstruction which they had
primarily received from the human soul within. Thus is man
physically descended from the “archetype,” while
spiritually he is the descendant of the “ancestral
soul.”
But
we can go even further back with regard to the genealogical
tree of living creatures, and we shall then arrive at a
physically still more imperfect ancestor. Yet, at the time of
this physical ancestor, too, the “soul-ancestor” of
man was existent. It was this latter which raised the physical
ancestor to the level of the ape, again outstripping its less
adaptable brother in the race for development, and leaving him
behind on a lower stage of creation. To such as these belong
those present-day mammals of a lower grade than that of the
apes. Thus we may go further and further back into primeval
times, even to a time when upon this earth, then bearing so
different an aspect, existed those most elementary of creatures
from which Haeckel claims the development of all higher beings.
The soul-ancestor of man was also a contemporary of these
primitive creatures; it was already living when the
“archetype” transformed the serviceable
types, leaving behind at different stages those incapable of
further development.
In
actual truth, therefore, the entire sum of earth's living
creatures are the descendants of man, within whom that which in
this day “thinks and acts” as soul originally
brought about the development of living beings. When our earth
came into existence, man was a purely spiritual being; he began
his career by building for himself the simplest of bodies. The
whole ladder of living creatures represents nothing but
the outgrown stages through which he has developed his bodily
structure to its present degree of perfection.
The
creatures of the present day differ widely in appearance from
that of their ancestors at those particular stages where they
branched off from the human tree. Not that they have remained
stationary, for they have deteriorated in accordance with an
inevitable law, which, owing to the lengthy explanation it
would involve, cannot be entered into here. But the greatest
interest attaches to the fact that through theosophy we arrive,
so far as man's outward form is concerned, at a genealogical
tree not altogether unlike Haeckel's. Haeckel, however,
presupposes as the physical ancestor of man nothing but a
hypothetical animal. Yet the truth is that at all those points
where Haeckel uses the names of animals, the still
undeveloped forebears of man should be installed; for
those animals, down to the meanest living creatures, are but
deteriorated and degenerate forms occupying those lower stages
through which the human soul has passed on its upward
journey.
Externally, therefore, the resemblance between Haeckel's
genealogical tree and that of theosophy is sufficiently
striking, though internal evidences show them to be as wide
apart as the poles.
Hence the reasons why Haeckel's deductions are so
eminently suited for the learning of sound elementary
theosophy. One need do no more than master, from the
theosophical point of view, the facts he has elucidated in so
masterly a manner, and then raise his philosophy to a
higher and nobler plane. If Haeckel seeks to criticise and
belittle any such “higher” philosophy, he shows
himself to be simply puerile — after the fashion, for
instance, of a person who, not having got beyond the
multiplication table, yet presumed to assert: “What I
know is true, and all higher mathematics are only imaginary
nonsense.” No theosophist desires to deny or
contradict the elementary facts of natural science; but the
crux of the matter is that the scientist, deluded by
materialistic suggestions, does not even know what
theosophy is talking about.
It
depends upon a man himself what kind of philosophy he adopts.
Fichte has put this in so many words:
“The unperceiving eye cannot detect colours;
The non-perceptive Soul cannot perceive Spirit.”
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The
same thought has been voiced by Goethe in a well-known
phrase:
“Were the eye not sun-like — how could we see the sun?
Were God's own power not within us, the God-like vision —
could it enrapture us?”
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and
an expression of Feuerbach, if rightly conceived, proclaims
that each one sees God's image after his own likeness. The
slave to his senses sees God in accordance with those senses;
the spiritual observer sees the Spirit deified. “Were
lions, bulls, and oxen able to set up gods, their gods would
resemble lions, bulls, and oxen,” was the remark of a
Greek philosopher long ages ago.
The
fetish-worshipper, too, has as his highest principle
something we may call spiritual, but he has as yet not come to
seek for this within himself, and this is why he has not got
beyond beholding his god as anything more than a block of wood.
The fetish-worshipper cannot raise his prayer above what he can
inwardly feel, for he still regards himself as on the same
level as the block of wood. And those who can see no more than
a whirl of atoms, those to whom the highest resolves itself
into tiny dots of matter, such as these, too, have missed
recognition of the highest principle within themselves.
It
is true that Haeckel places before us in all his works the
information he has honestly acquired, so that to him must be
accorded “les defauts de ses qualites.” The
sterling worth of his teaching will live, its negative
qualities will vanish. Taken from the higher point of view, one
might say that the fetish-worshipper worships in his fetish a
lifeless object, while the materialistic adherent of the theory
of atoms worships not alone one “little god” but a
whole host of them, which he calls atoms!
[The word “worship” is, of course,
not to be taken literally, for the materialistic thinker, though
he has not yet been weaned from “fetishism,” has lost
the habit of prayer.]
The superstition of the one is about as great as that of the other;
for the materialistic atom is no more than a fetish, and the
wooden block is made up of atoms too. Haeckel says in one
passage: “We see God in the stone, in the plant, in the
brute, in man — God is everywhere,” yet he only
sees God as he can comprehend Him. How enlightening here
are Goethe's words, when he says:
“Du gleichst dem Geist den du begreifst, nicht mir!”
(“Thou'rt like the Spirit which thou comprehendest, Not
me!”)
(Bayard Taylor's translation.)
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Thus does the materialist mark the whirling atoms in stone, in
plant, in animal, and in man, possibly, too, in every work of
art, and claim for himself a knowledge of a monistic cosmogony
that has overcome the ancient superstitions. Yet theosophists
have a monistic cosmogony too; and we can say, in the same
words as Haeckel uses, that we see God in the stone, in the
plant, in the brute, and in the man; but what we see are no
whirling atoms, but the living God, the spiritual God, whom we
seek outside in Nature, because we can also seek Him within
ourselves.
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