Full text of "The Journal of speculative philosophy"

THE JOURNAL

SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY,

•

VOL. I.

EDITED BY WM. T. HARRIS.

ST. LOUIS, MO. :

GEORGE KNAPP & CO., PRINTERS AND BINDERS.

1867.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by Wm. T. Harris, in the Clark's Office of

*l~ to
1%

the XJ. S. District Court of the Eastern District of Missouri.

F IR, E IF 1 .A. O IE

In concluding the first volume of tins Jour-
nal, the editor wishes to say a few things re-
garding its contents, even at the risk of repeat-
ing, in some cases, what has already been
said. He hopes that his judgment in the
selection of articles will be, in the main, ap-
proved. In so novel an undertaking it is not
to be expected that the proper elevation and
ran<re will be found at once. But the editor
thinks that he has acquired some valuable ex-
perience that will aid him in preparing the
second volume.

The reader will notice, upon looking over
the table of contents, that about one-third of
the articles relate to Art, and hence recom-
mend themselves more especially to those who
seek artistic culture, and wish at the same
time to have clear conceptions regarding it.

It is, perhaps, a mistake to select so little
that bears on physical science, which is by far
the most prominent topic of interest at the
present day. In order to provide for this, the
editor hopgs^to print in the next volume de-
tailed criticisms of the " Positive Philosophy,"
appreciating its advantages and defects of
method and system. The " Development
Theory," the " Correlation of Physical, Vital
and Mental Forces," the abstract theories in
our text-books on Natural Philosophy, regard-
ing the nature of attraction, centrifugal and
centripetal forces, light, heat, electricity, chem-
ical elements, &c, demand the investigation
of the speculative thinker. Tha exposition of
Hegel's Phenomenology of Spirit will furnish
pertinent thoughts relating to method.

While the large selection of translations
has met with approval from very high sources,
yet there has been some disappointment ex-
pressed at the lack of original articles. Con-
siderably more than half of the articles have
been original entirely, while all the translations
are new. The complaint, however, relates
more especially to what its authors are pleased
to call the Un-American character of the con-
tents of the Journal. Here the editor feels
like pleading ignorance as an excuse. — In
what books is one to find the true "American"
type of Speculative Philosophy'? Certain very
honorable exceptions occur to every one, but
they are not American in a. popular sense.
We, as a people, buy immense editions of
John Stuart Mill, Herbert Spencer, Comte,

Hamilton, Cousin, and others ; one can trace the
appropriation and digestion of their thoughts
in all the leading articles of our Reviews, Mag-
azines and books of a thoughtful character.
If tin's is American philosophy, the editor
thinks that it may be very much elevated by
absorbing and digesting more refined aliment.
It is said that of Herbert Spencer's works
nearly twenty thousand have been sold in this
country, while in England scarcely the first
edition has been bought. This is encouraging
for the American thinker: what lofty spiritual
culture may not become broadly and firmly
rooted here where thoughtful minds are so
numerous ? Let this spirit of inquiry once
extend to thinkers like Plato and Aristotle,
Schelling and Hegel — let these be digested and
organically reproduced — and what a phalanx
of American thinkers we mny have to boast
of! For after all it is not "American thovghl"
so much as American thinkers that we want.
To think, in the highest sense, is to transcend
all natural limits — such, for example, as na-
tional peculiarities, defects in culture, distinc-
tions in Pace, habits, and modes of living — to
be universal, so that one can dissolve away the
external hull and seize the substance itself.
The peculiarities stand in the way ; — were it
not for these, we should find in Greek or Ger-
man Philosophy just the forms we ourselves
need. Our province as Americans is to rise to
purer forms than have hitherto been attained,
and thus speak a "solvent word" of more po-
tency than those already uttered. If this be
the goal we aim at, it is evident that we can
find no other means so well adapted to rid us
of our own idiosyncracies as the stud}' of the
greatest thinkers of all ages and all times.
May this Journal aid such a consummation !

In conclusion, the editor would heartily
tl.ank all who have assisted him in this enter-
prise, by money and cheering words; ho
hopes that they will not withdraw in the fu-
ture their indispensable aid. To others ho
owes much for kind assistance rendered in
preparing articles for the printer. Justice
demands that special acknowledgment should
be made here of the services of Miss Anna C.
Braekett, whose skill in proof-reading, and
subtle appreciation of philosophic thought havo
rendered her editorial assist nice invaluable.

St. Louis, December, 1867.

OOITTEITTS,

Alchemists, The t . . Editor. - - - - 126

Be'nard's Essay on Hegel's ^Esthetics (translation). - - Jas. A. Marilivg. 36, 91, 169, 221

Dialogue on Music. - - - - -•- - - E. Sobolowski. - - 224

Editorials. 1 . . - Editor. - - . - 127

Ficlite's Introduction to the Science of Knowledge (translation). A. E. Kroeger. - 23

Criticism of Philosophical Systems (translation). A. E. Kroeger. - - 79, 137

Genesis. A. Bronson Alcott. - - 165

Goethe's Theory of Colors. Editor. .... 63

Essay on Da Vinci's "Last Supper" (translation). - - - D. J. Snider $• T. Davfdson. 242

Herbert Spencer. - - Editor. - - -L-'- - 6

Introduction to Philosophy. Editor. - - 57,*M, 187, 236

In the Quarry. ......... Anna C. Brackelt. - - 192

Leibnitz's Monadology (translation). F. H. Htdge. ... 129

Letters on Faust. H. C. Brockmeyer. - - 178

Metaphysics of Materialism. D. G. Brinton. - - 176

Music as a Form of Art. Editor. .... 120

Notes on Milton's Lycidas. Anna C. Brackett. 87

Paul Janet and Hegel. Editor. .... 250

Philosophy of Baader (translation from Dr. Hoffmann). - - A. Strothotte. ... 190

Raphael's Transfiguration. ....... Editor. .... 53

Schelling's Introduction to Idealism (translation). - - - Tom Davidson. - - 159

" " " the Philosophy of Nature (transl'n) Tom Davidson. - - - 193

Schopenhauer's Dialogue on Immortality (translation). - - C. L. Bernays. - 61

Doctrine of the Will (translation;. - - C. L. Bernays. • - - 232

Seed Life. Anna C. Brackett. 60

Second Fart of Goethe's Faust (translation). ... D. J. Snider. - - - 65

" The Speculative." Editor. .... 2

Thought on Shakespeare, A ...... Anna C. Brackett. - - 240

To the Reader. Editor. .... 1

THE JOURNAL

SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY.

VOL. I.

1 8 6 7

NO. 1-2D ED.

TO THE READER.

For the reason that a journal devoted
exclusively to the interests of Speculative
Philosophy is a rare phenomenon in the
English language, some words may reason-
ably be expected from the Editors upon
the scope and design of the present under-
taking.

There is no need, it is presumed, to speak
< the immense religious movements now
g ring on in this country and in England.
The tendency to break with the traditional,
and to accept only what bears for the soul
its own justification, is widelj r active, and
can end only in the demand that Reason
shall find and establish a philosophical
basis for all those great ideas which are
taught as religious dogmas. Thus it is
that side by side with the naturalism of
such men as Kenan, a school of mystics is
beginning to spring up who prefer to ignore
utterly all historical wrappages, and cleave
only to the speculative kernel itself. The
vortex between the traditional faith and
the intellectual conviction cannot be closed
by renouncing the latter, but only by deep-
ening it to speculative insight.

Likewise it will be acknowledged that
the national consciousness has movAd for-
ward on to a new platform during the last
few years. The idea underlying our form
of government had hitherto developed
only one of its essential phases— that of
brittle individualism— in which national
unity • seemed an external mechanism,
soon to be entirely dispensed with, and
the enterprise of the private man or of the

corporation substituted for it. Now we
have arrived at the consciousness of the
other essential phase, and each individual
recognizes his substantial side to be the
State as such. The freedom of the citizen
does not consist in the mere Arbitrary, but
in the realization of the rational conviction
which finds expression in established law.
That this new phase of national life de-
mands to be digested and comprehended,
is a further occasion for the cultivation of
the Speculative.

More significant still is the scientific
revolution, working out especially in the
domain of physics. The day of simple
empiricism is past, and with the doctrine of
"The Correlation of forces" there has arisen
a stage of reflection that ceepens rapidly
into the purely speculative. For the fur-
ther elucidation of this important point the
two following articles have been prepared.
It is hoped that the first one will answer
more definitely the question now arising in
the mind of the reader. •' What is this
Speculative Knowing of which you speak'?*'
and that the second one will show whither
Natural Science is fast hastening.

With regard to the pretensions of this
Journal, its editors know well how much
its literary conduct will deserve censure
and need apology. They hope that the
substance will make up in some degree for
deficiencies in form ; and. moreover, they
expect to improve in this respect through
experience and the kind criticisms of
friends.

The Speculative.

THE SPECULATIVE.

" We need what Genius is unconsciously seeking, and, by some daring generalization of the universe,
shall assuredly discover, a spiritual calculus, a Novum Organum. whereby nature shall be divined in the
soul, the soul in God, matter in spirit, polarity resolved into unity; and that power which pulsates in all
life, animates and builds all organizations, shall manifest itself as one universal deiflc energy, present
alike at the outskirts and centre of the universe, whose centre and circumference are one; omniscient,
omnipotent, self-subsisting, uncontained, yet containing all things in the unbroken synthesis of its
being."— ("Calculus," one of Alcott's " Orphic Sayings.")

At the end of the sixth book of Plato's
Republic, after a characterization of the
two grades of sensuous knowing and the
grade of the understanding "which is
obliged to set out from hypotheses, for the
reason that it does not deal with principles
but only with results," we find the specu-
lative grade of knowing characterized as
"that in which the soul, setting out from
an hypothesis, proceeds to an unhypothet-
ical principle, and makes its way without
the aid of [sensuous] images, but solely
through ideas themselves." The mathe-
matical procedure which begins by as-
suming definitions, axioms, postulates,
and the like, which it never examines nor
attempts to deduce or prove, is the exam-
ple given by Plato of the method of the Un-
derstanding, while he makes the specula-
tive Reason " to posit hypotheses by the
Dialectic, not as fixed principles, but only
as starting points, in order that, by remov-
ing them, it may arrive at the unhypothet-
ical — the principle of the universe."

This most admirable description is fully
endorsed by Aristotle, and fully estab-
lished in a two-fold manner :

1. In the Metaphysics (xi. 7) he shows
ontologically, starting with motion as an
hypothesis, that the self-moved is the first
principle; and this he identifies with the
speculative, and the being of God.

2. In the De Anima (iii. 5-8) he dis-
tinguishes psychologically the " active in-
tellect" as the highest form of knowing.
as that which is its own object, (subject
and object,) and hence as containing its
own end and aim in itself — as being infin-
ite. He identities this with the Specula-
tive result, which he found ontologically
as the Absolute.

Spinoza in his Ethics (Prop. xl. Schol.
ii. . and Prop, xliv., Cor. ii. of Part II.)
has well described the Speculative, which

he names " Scientia intnitiva,'" as the
thinking of things under the form of eter-
nity. {De natura rationis est res sub qua-
dam specie ceternitatis percipere . )

Though great diversity is found in re-
spect to form and systematic exposition
among the great philosophers, yet there is
the most complete unanimity, not only
with respect to the transcendency of the
Speculative, but also with reference to the
content of its knowing. If the reader of
different systems of Philosophy has in
himself achieved some degree of specula-
tive culture, he will at every step be de-
lighted and confirmed at the agreement of
what, to the ordinary reader, seem irrecon-
cilable statements.

Not only do speculative writers agree
among themselves as to the nature of
things, and the destiny of man and the
world, but their results furnish us in the
form of pure thought what the artist has
wrought out in the form of beauty.
Whether one tests architecture, sculpture,
painting, music, or poetry, it is all the
same. Goethe has said :

•'As all Nature's thousand changes

But one changeless God proclaim;
So in Art's wide kingdoms ranges

One sole meaning, still the same :
This is truth, eternal Reason,

.Which from Beauty takes its dress.
And serene through time and season,

Stands for aye in loveliness."

While Art presents this content to the
senses, Religion offers it to the conception
in the form of a dogma to be held by faith ;
the deepest Speculative truth is allegori-
cally typified in a historical form, so that
it acts upon the mind partly through fan-
tasy and partly through the understand-
ing. Thus Religion presents the -same
content as Art and Philosophy, but stands
between them, and forms a kind of middle

The Speculative.

ground upon which the purification takes
place. "It is the purgatory between the
Inferno of Sense and the Paradise of Rea-
son." Its function is mediation ; a contin-
ual degrading of the sensuous and exter-
nal, and an elevation of the supersensual
and internal. The transition of Religion
into Speculative Philosophy is found in
the mystics. Filled with the profound
significance of religious symbolism, and
seeing in it the explanation of the uni-
verse, they essay to communicate their in-
sights. But the form of Science is not
yet attained by them. They express
themselves, not in those universal catego-
ries that the spirit of the race has formed
in language for its utterance, but they
have recourse to symbols more or less in-
adequate because ambiguous, and of insuf-
ficient universality to stand for the arche-
types themselves. Thus "Becoming" is
the most pure germinal archetype, and be-
longs therefore to logic, or the system of
pure thought, and it has correspondences
on concrete planes, as e. g., time, motion,
life, &c. Now if one of these concrete
terms is used for the pure logical category,
we have mysticism. The alchemists, as
shown by a genial writer of our day, use
the technique of their craft to express the
profound mysteries of spirit and its regen-
eration. The Eleusinian and other mys-
teries do the like.

While it is one of the most inspiring
things connected with Speculative Philos-
ophy to discover that the "Open Secret
of the Universe " has been read by so
many, and to see, under various expres-
sions, the same meaning; yet it is the
highest problem of Speculative Philoso-
phy to seize a method that is adequate to
the expression of the "Secret;" for its
(the content's) own method of genetic de-
velopment must be the only adequate one-
Hence it is that we can classify philosophic
systems by their success in seizing the
content which is common to Art and Re-
ligion, as well as to Philosophy, in such a
manner as to allow its free evolution and to
have little in the method that is merely
formal or extraneous to the idea itself.
The rigid formalism of Spinoza — though
manipulated by a clear speculative spirit —
is inadequate to the unfolding of its con-
tent; for how could the mathematical

method which is that of quantity or ex-
ternal determinations alone, ever suffice to
unfold those first principles which attain
to the quantitative only in their result?

In this, the profoundest of subjects, we
always find in Plato light for the way. Al-
though he has not given us complete ex-
amples, yet he has pointed out the road of
the true Speculative method in a way not
to be mistaken. Instead of setting out
with first principles presupposed as true,
by which all is to be established, (as math-
ematics and such sciences do), he asserts
that the first starting points must be re-
moved as inadequate. We begin with the
immediate, which is utterly insufficient,
and exhibits itself as such. We ascend to
a more adequate, by removing the first
hypothesis ; and this process repeats itself
until we come to the. first principle, which
of course bears its own evidence in this,
that it is absolutely universal and abso-
lutely determined at the same time; in
other words it is the self-determining, the
"self- moved," as Plato and Aristotle call
it. It is its own other, and hence it is the
true infinite, for it is not limited but con-
tinued by its other.

From this peculiarity results the difficul-
ty of Speculative Philosophy. The unused
mind, accepting with naivete the first pro-
position as settled, finds itself brought
into confusion when this is contradicted,
and condemns the whole procedure. The
irony of Socrates, that always begins by
positing the ground of his adversary, and
reducing it through its own inadequateness
to contradict itself, is of this character,
and the unsophiscated might say, and do
say: "See how illogical is Socrates, for
he sets out to establish something, and ar-
rives rather at the destruction of it." The
reductio ad absurdum is a faint imita-
tion of the same method. It is not suffi-
cient to prove your own system by itself,
for each of the opposing systems can do
that; but you must show that any and all
counter-hypotheses result in your own.
God makes the wrath of men to praise
Him, and all imperfect things must con-
tinually demonstrate the perfect, for the
reason that they do not exist by reason of
their' defects, but through what of truth
there is in them, and the imperfection is
continually manifesting the want of the

The Speculative.

perfect. '.'Spirit," says Hegel, "is self-
contained being. But matter, which is
spirit outside of itself, [turned inside out,]
continually manifests this, its inadequacy,
through gravity — attraction to a central
point beyond each particle. (If it could
get at this central point, it would have no
extension, and hence would be anni-
hilated.) "

The soul of this method lies in the com-
prehension of the negative. In that won-
derful expose of the importance of the
negative, which Plato gives in the Par-
menides and Sophist, we see how justly
he appreciated its true place in Philoso-
phic Method. Spinoza's " omnis deter-
minatio est negatio " is the most famous
of modern statements respecting the nega-
tive, and has been very fruitful in re-
sults .

One would greatly misunderstand the
Speculative view of the negative should
he take it to mean as some have done,
'•that the negative is as essential as the
positive." For if there are two indepen-
dent somewhats over against each other,
having equal validity, then all unity of
system is absolutely impossible — we can
have only the Persian Ahriman and Or-
muzd; nay, not even these — for unless
there is a primal unity, a '• Zeruane-Ake-
rene " — the uncreated one. these are im-
possible as opposites, for there can be no
tension from which the strife should pro-
ceed.

The Speculative has insight into the
constitution of the positive out of the
negative. ' ; That which has the form of
Being," says Hegel, ''is the self-related;"
but relation of all kinds is negation, and
hence whatever has the form of being and
is a positive somewhat, is a self-related
negative. Those three stages of culture in
knowing, talked of by Plato and Spinoza,
may be characterized in a new way by
their relation to this concept.

The first stage of consciousness — that of
immediate or sensuous knowing — seizes
objects by themselves — isolatedly — without
their relations; each seems to have valid-
ity in and for itself, and to be wholly pos-
itive and real. The negative is the mere
absence of the real thing ; and it utterly
ignores it in its scientific activity.

But the second staire traces relations.

and finds that things do not exist in imme-
diate independence, but that each is re-
lated to others, and it comes to say that
"Were a grain of sand to be destroyed,
the universe would collapse." It is a
necessary consequent to the previous stage,
for the reason that so soon as the first
stage gets over its childish engrossment
with the novelty of variety, and attempts
to seize the individual thing, it finds its
characteristic marks or properties. But
these consist invariably of relations to
other tilings, and it learns that these prop-
erties, without which the thing could
have no distinct existence, are the very
destruction of its independence, since
they are its complications with other
things.

In this stage the negative has entered
and has full sway. For all that was before
firm and fixed, is now seen to be. not
through itself, but through others, and
hence the being of everything is its nega-
tion. For if this stone exists only through
its relations to the sun. which is not the
stone but something else, then the being
of this stone is its own negation. But the
second stage only reduces all to depend-
ence and tinitude, and does not show us
how any real, true, or independent being
can be found to exist. It holds fast to the
stage of mediation alone, just as the first
stage held by the immediate. But the
dialectic of this position forces it over
into the third.

If things exist only in their relations,
and relations are the negatives of things,
then all that appears positive — all being —
must rest upon negation. How is this?
The negative is essentially a relative, but
since it is the only substrate (for all is
relative), it can relate only to itself. But
self-relation is always identity, and here
we have the solution of the previous diffi-
culty. All positive forms, all forms of im-
mediateness or being, all forms of identity,
are self-relations, consisting of a negative
or relative, relating to itself. But the
most wonderful side of this is the fact that
since this relation is that of the negative,
it negates itself in its very relation, and
hence its identity is a producing of non-
identity. Identity and distinction are
produced by the self-same process, and
thus self-determination is the origin of all

The Speculative.

identity and distinction likewise. This
is the speculative standpoint in its com-
pleteness. It not only possesses specula-
tive content, but is able to evolve a spec-
ulative system likewise. It is not only
conscious of the principles, but of their
method, and thus all is transparent.

To suppose that this may be made so
plain that one shall see it at first sight,
would be the height of absurdity. Doubt-
less far clearer expositions can be made
of this than those found in Plato or
Proems, or even in Fichte and Hegel; but
any and every exposition must incur the
same difficulty, viz : The one who masters
it must undergo a thorough change in his
innermost. The " Palingenesia " of the
intellect is as essential as the " regenera-
tion of the heart." and is at bottom the
same thing, as the mystics teach us.

But this great difference is obvious su-
perficially: In religious regeneration it
seems the yielding up of the self to an
alien, although beneficent, power, while in
philosophy it seems the complete identifi-
cation of one's self with it.

He. then, who would ascend into the
thought of the best thinkers the world has
seen, must spare no pains to elevate his
thinking to the plane of pure thought.
The completest discipline for this may be
found in Hegel's Logic. Let one not de-
spair, though he seem to be baffled seventy
and seven times; his earnest and vigorous
assault is repaid by surprisingly increased
strength of mental acumen which he will
be assured of, if he tries his powers on
lower planes after his attack has failed on
the highest thought-

These desultory remarks on the Specu-
lative, may be closed with a few illustra-
tions of what has been said of the negative.

I. Everything must have limits that
mark it off from other things, and these
limits are its negations, in which it ceases.

II. It must likewise have qualities which
distinguish it from others, but these
likewise are negatives in the sense that
they exclude it from them. Its determin-
ing by means of qualities is the making
it not this and not that, but exactly what
it is. Thus the affirmation of anything is
at the same time the negation of others.

III. Not only is the negative manifest
in the ahove general and abstract form.
but its penetration is more specific. Ev-
erything has distinctions from others in
general, but also from its other. Sweet is
opposed not only to other properties in
general, as while, round, soft, etc., but
to its other, or sour. So, too, white is
opposed to black, soft to hard, heat to
cold, etc., and in general a jiositive thing
to a negative thing. In this kind of rela-
tive, the negative is more essential, for it
seems to constitute the intimate nature of
the opposites, so that each is reflected in
the other.

IV. More remarkable are the appear-
ances of the negative in nature. The ele-
ment fire is a negative which destroys the
form of the combustible. It reduces or-
ganic substances to inorganic elements,
and is that which negates the organic.
Air is another negative element. It acts
upon all terrestrial elements; upon water,
converting it into invisible vapor; upon
metals, reducing them to earths through
corrosion — eating up iron to form rust,
rotting wood into mould — destructive
or negative alike to the mineral
and vegetable world, like fire, to which
it has a speculative affinity^. The grand
type of all negatives in nature, such as
air and fire, is Time, the great devour-
er, and archetype of all changes and
movements in nature. Attraction is
another appearance of the negative. It
is a manifestation in some body of an es-
sential connection with another which is
not it ; or rather it is an embodied self-
contradiction : "that other (the sun)
which is not me (the earth) is my true
being." Of course its own being is its
own negation, then.

Thus, too, the plant is negative to the
inorganic— it assimilates it; the animal is
negative to the vegetable world.

As we approach these higher forms or
negation, we see the negative acting
against itself, and this constitutes a pro-
cess. The food that life requires, which
it negates in the process of digestion, and
assimilates, is, in the life process, again
negated, eliminated from the organism,
and replaced by new elements. A nega-
tion is made, and this is again negated.

Herbert Spencer

But the higher form of negation appears
in the generic ; "The species lives, and the
individual dies." The generic continually
transcends the individual — going forth to
new individuals and deserting the old —
a process of birth and decay, both nega-
tive processes. In conscious Spirit both
are united in one movement. The generic
here enters the individual as pure ego—
the undetermined possibility of all deter-
minations. Since it is undetermined, it is

negative to all special determinations.
But this ego not only exists as sub-
ject, but also as object — a process of
self-determination or self-negation. And
this negation or particularization contin-
ually proceeds from one object to another,
and remains conscious under the whole,
Not dying, as the mere animal does, in the
transition from individual to individual.
Tins is the aperqu of Immortality.

II E R BERT SPENC E R.

CHAPTER I.

THE CRISIS IK NATURAL SCIENCE.

During the past twenty years a revolu-
tion has been working in physical science.
Within the last ten it has come to the sur-
face, and is now rapidly spreading into
all departments of mental activity.

Although its centre is to be found in the
doctrine of the " Correlation of Forces," it
would be a narrow view that counted only
the expounders of this doctrine, numerous
as they are; the spirit of this movement
inspires a heterogeneous multitude — Car-
penter, Grove, Mayer, Faraday, Thompson.
Tyndall and Helmholtz; Herbert Spencer,
Stuart Mill, Buckle, Draper, Lewes, Lecky,
Max Midler, Marsh, Liebig, Darwin and
Agassiz; these names, selected at random,
are suggested on account of the extensive
circulation of their books. Every day the
press announces some new name in this
field of research.

What is the character of the old which
is displaced, and of the new which gets
established '!

By way of preliminary, it must be re-
marked that there are observable in mod-
ern times three general phases of culture,
more or less historic.

The first phase is thoroughly dogmatic :
it accepts as of like validity, metaphysical
abstractions, and empirical observations.
It has not arrived at such a degree of
clearness as to perceive contradictions be-
tween form and content. For the most
part, it is characterized by a reverence for
external authority. With the revival of
learning commences the protest of spirit
against this phase. Descartes and Lord
Bacon begin the contest, and are followed
by the many — Locke, Newton, Leibnitz,
Clarke, and the rest. All are animated with
the spirit of that time — to come to the
matter in hand without so much mediation.
Thought wishes to rid itself of its fetters ;
religions sentiment, to get rid of forms.
This reaction against the former stage,
which iias been called by Hegel the meta-
physical, finds a kind of climax in the in-
tellectual movement just preceding the
French revolution. Thought no longer is
contented to say '-Co^ito, ergo sum,"
abstractly, but applies the doctrine in all
directions, "I think; in that deed, lam."
" I am a man only in so far as I think. In
so far as I think, I am an essence. What
I get from others is not mine. What I can
comprehend, or dissolve in my reason, that
is mine." It looks around and spies insti-
tutions— ''clothes of spirit," as Herr Ten-

Herbert Spencer

felsdroeck calls them. " What are you
doing here, you sniveling priest?" says
Voltaire; "you are imposing delusions
upon society for your own aggrandizement.
/ had no part or lot in making the church ;
cogito. ergo sum; I will only have over me
what I put there!"

"I see that all these complications of
society are artificial," adds Rousseau;
•' man has made them ; they are not good,
and let us tear them down and make
anew." These utterances echo all over
France and Europe. " The state is merely
a machine by which the few exploiter the
many" — "off with crowns!" Thereupon
they snatch off the crown of poor Louis,
and his head follows with it. "Reason"
is enthroned and dethroned. Thirty years
of war satiates at length this negative sec-
ond period, and the third phase begins.
Its characteristic is to be constructive, not
to accept the heritage of the past with pas-
sivity, nor wantonly to destroy, but to
realize itself in the world of objectivity —
the world of laws and institutions.

The first appearance of the second phase
of consciousness is characterized by the
grossest inconsistencies. It says in gene-
ral, (see D'Holbach's " Systeme de la Na-
ture") : "The immediate, only, is true;
what we know by our senses, alone has
reality; all is matter and force." But in
this utterance it is unconscious that matter
and force are purely general concepts, and
not objects of immediate consciousness.
What we see and feel is not matter or
force in general, but only some special
form. The self-refutation of this phase
may be exhibited as follows :

I. "What is known is known through
the senses : it is matter and force."

II. But by the senses, the particular only
is perceived, and this can never be matter,
but merely a form. The general is a medi-
ated result, and not an object of the senses.

III. Hence, in positing matter and force
as the content of sensuous knowing, they
unwittingly assert mediation to be the
content of immediateness.

The decline of this period of science re-
sults from the perception of the contradic-
tion involved. Kant was the first to show

this; his labors in this field may be
summed up thus :

The universal and necessary is not an
empirical result. (General laws can not be
sensuously perceived.) The constitution
of the mind itself, furnishes the ground for
it: — first, we have an a priori basis (time
and space) necessarily presupposed as the
condition of all sensuous perception ; and
then we have categories presupposed as the
basis of every generalization whatever.
Utter any general proposition : for example
the one above quoted — "all is matter and
force" — and you merely posit two cate-
gories — Inherence and causality — as ob-
jectively valid. In all universal and neces-
sary propositions we announce only the
subjective conditions of experience, and
not anything in and for itself true (i. e.
applicable to things in themselves).

At once the popular side of this doctrine
began to take effect. "We know only phe-
nomena; the true object in itself we do not
know."

This doctrine of phenomenal knowing
was outgrown in Germany at the com-
mencement of the present century. In
1791 — ten years after the publication of
the Critique of Pure Reason — the deep
spirit of Fichte began to generalize Kant's
labors, and soon he announced the legiti-
mate results of the doctrine. Schelling
and Hegel completed the work of trans-
forming what Kant had left iu a negative
state, into an affirmative system of truth.
The following is an outline of the refutation
of Kantian skepticism :

I. Kant reduces all objective knowledge
to phenomenal : we furnish the form of
knowing, and hence whatever we announce
in general concerning it — and all that we
call science has. of course, the form of
generality — is merely our subjective forms,
and does not belong to the thing in itself.

II. This granted, say the later philoso-
phers, it follows that the subjective swal-
lows up all and becomes itself the universal
(subject and object of itself), and hence
Reason is the true substance of the uni-
verse. Spinoza's substance is thus seen to
become subject. We partake of God as
intellectually seeing, and we see only God
as object, which Malehrancheand Berkeley
held with other Platonists.

Herbert Spencer

1. The categories (e. g. Unity, Reality,
Causality, Existence, etc.) being merely
subjective, or given by the constitution of
the mind itself— for such universals are
presupposed by all experience, and hence
not derived from it— it follows :

2. If we abstract what we know to be
subjective, we abstract all possibility of
a thing in itself, too. For " existence"
is a category, and hence if subjective, we
may reasonably conclude that nothing ob-
jective can have existence.

3. Hence, since one category has no pre-
ference over another, and we can not give
one of them objectivity without granting it
to all others, it follows that there can be
no talk of noumena, or of things in them-
selves, existing beyond the reach of the
mind, for such talk merely applies what it
pronounces to be subjective categories,
(existence) while at the same time it denies
the validity of their application.

III. But since we remove the supposed
''noumena," the so-called phenomena are
not opposed any longer to a correlate be-
yond the intelligence, and the noumenon
proves to be mind itself.

An obvious corollary from this is, that
by the self-determination of mind in pure
thinking we shall find the fundamental
laws of all phenomena.

Though the Kantian doctrine soon gave
place in Germany to deeper insights, it
found its way slowly to other countries.
Comte and Sir VVm. Hamilton have made
the negative results veiy widely known —
the former, in natural science ; the latter,
in literature and philosophy. Most of the
writers named at the beginning are more or
less imbued with Comte's doctrines, while
a few follow Hamilton. For rhetorical
purposes, the Hamiltonian statement is far
superior to all others; for practical pur-
poses, the Comtian. The physicist, wishing
to give his undivided attention to empiri-
cal observation, desires an excuse for neg-
lecting pure thinking ; he therefore refers
to the well-known result of philosophy,
that we cannot know anything of ultimate
causes — we are limited to phenomena and
laws. Although it must be conceded that
this consolation is somewhat similar to
that of the ostrich, who cunningly con-
ceals his head in the sand when annoyed

by the hunters, yet great benefit has
thereby accrued to science through the
undivided zeal of the investigators thus
consoled.

When, however, a sufficiently large col-
lection has been made, and the laws are
sought for in the chaotic mass of observa-
tions, then thought must be had. Thought
is the only crucible capable of dissolving-
" the many into the one." Tycho Brahe
served a good purpose in collecting obser-
vations, but a Kepler was required to dis-
cern the celestial harmony involved therein.

This discovery of laws and relations, or
of relative unities, proceeds to the final
stage of science, which is that of the abso-
lute comprehension.

Thus modern science, commencing with
the close of the metaphysical epoch, has
three stages or phases :

I. The first rests on mere isolated facts
of experience; accepts the first phase of
things, or that which comes directly before
it, and hence may be termed the stage of

immediateness.

II. The second relates its thoughts to
one another and compares them; it devel-
opes inequalities; tests one through an-
other, and discovers dependencies every-
where ; since it learns that the first phase
of objects is phenomenal, and depends up-
on somewhat lying beyond it ; since it de-
nies truth to the immediate, it may be
termed the stage of mediation.

III. A final stage, which considers a
phenomenon in its totality, and thus seizes
it in its noumenon. and is the stage of the
comprehension.

To resume : the first is that of sensuous
knowing; the second, that of reflection (the
understanding) ; the third, that of the rea-
son (or the speculative stage).

In the sensuous knowing, we have crude,
undigested masses all co-ordinated; each
is in and for itself, and perfectly valid
without the others. But as soon as re-
flection enters, dissolution is at work.
Each is thought in sharp contrast with the
rest; contradictions arise on every hand.
The third stage finds its way out of these
quarrelsome abstractions, and arrives at a
synthetic unity, at a system, wherein the
antagonisms are seen to form an organism.

Herbert Spencer.

The first stage of the development closes
with attempts on all hands to put the re-
sults in an encyclopedical form. Hum-
boldt's Cosmos is a good example of this
tendency, manifested so widely. Matter,
masses, and functions are the subjects of
investigation.

Reflection investigates functions and
seizes the abstract category of force, and
straightway we are in the second stage.
Matter, as such, loses its interest, and "cor-
relation of forces " absorbs all attention.

Force is an arrogant category and will
not be co-ordinated with matte? - : if ad-
mitted, we are led to a pure dynamism.
This will become evident as follows :

I. Force implies confinement (to give it
direction) ; it demands, likewise, an " oc-
casion,' - or soliciting force to call it into
activity .

II. But it cannot be confined except by
force; its occasion must be a force like-
wise .

III. Thus, since its confinement and "oc-
casion" are forces, force can only act upon
forces — upon matter only in so far as that
is a force. Its nature requires confinement
in order to manifest it, and hence it can-
not act or exist except in unity with other
forces which likewise have the same de-
pendence upon it that it has upon them.
Hence a force 'has no independent subsist-
ence, but is only an element of a combination
of opposed forces, which combination is a
unity existing in an opposed manner (or
composed of forces in a state of tension).
This deeper unity which we come upon as
the ground of force is properly named law.

From this, two corollaries are to be
drawn : (1.) That matter is merely a name
for various forces, as resistance, attraction
and repulsion, etc. (2.) That force is no
ultimate category, but. upon reflection, is
seen to rest upon law as a deeper category
(not law as a mere similarity of phe-
nomena, but as a true unity underlying
phenomenal multiplicity) .

From the nature of the category of force
we see that whoever adopts it as the ulti-
mate, embarks on an ocean of dualism, and
instead of-" seeing everywhere the one and
all " as did Xenophanes, he will see every-
where the self opposed, the contradictory.

The crisis which science has now reached
is of this nature. The second stage is at
its commencement with the great bulk of
scientific men.

To illustrate the self-nugatory character
ascribed to this stage we shall adduce
some of the most prominent positions of
Herbert Spencer, whom we regard as the
ablest exponent of this movement. These
contradictions are not to be deprecated, as
though they indicated a decline of thought:
on the contrary, they show an increased ac-
tivity, (though in the stage of mere reflec-
tion,) and give us good omens for the
future. The era of stupid mechanical
thinkers is over, and we have entered
upon the active, chemical stage of thought,
wherein the thinker is trained to conscious-
ness concerning his abstract categories,
which, as Hegel says, -'drive him around
in their whirling circle."

Now that the bodv - of scientific men are
turned in this direction, we behold a vast
upheaval towards philosophic thought ; and
this is entirely unlike the isolated pheno-
menon (hitherto observed in history) of a
single group of men lifted above the sur-
rounding darkness of their age into clear-
ness. We do not have such a phenomenon
m our time ; it is the spirit of the nineteenth
centurv to move by masses.

CHAPTER H.

THE "FIRST PRINCIPLES" OF THE "UN-
KNOWABLE."

The British Quarterly speaking of Spen-
cer, says': "These 'First Principles' are
merely the foundation of a system of Phi-
losophy, bolder, more elaborate and com-
prehensive, perhaps, than any other which
has been hitherto designed in England."

The persistence and sincerity, so gener-
ally prevailing among these correlationists,
we have occasion to admire in Herbert
Spencer. He seems to be always ready to
sacrifice his individual interest for troth,
and is bold and fearless in uttering wlial
he believes it to be.

For critical consideration no better divi-
sion can be found than that adopted in the
" First Principles " by Mr. Spencer himself,

Herbert Spencer

to-wit: 1st, the unknowable, 2nd, the know-
able. Accordingly, let us examine first his
theory of

THE UNKNOWABLE.

When Mr. Spencer announces the con-
tent of the '• unknowable" to be " ultimate
religious and scientific ideas," we are re-
minded at once of the old adage in juris-
prudence — " Omnis dejinitio in jure civili
est periculosa ;" the definition is liable to
prove self-contradictory in practice. So
when we have a content assigned to the
unknowable we at once inquire, whence
come the distinctions in the unknowable?
If unknown they are not distinct to us.
When we are told that Time, Space, Force.
Matter, God, Creation, etc., are unknow-
ables, we must regard these words as cor-
responding to no distinct objects, but
rather as all of the same import to us. It
should be always borne in mind that all
universal negatives are self-contradictory.
Moreover, since all judgments are made by
subjective intelligences, it follows that all
general assertions concerning the nature
of the intellect affect the judgment itself.
The naivete with which certain writers
wield these double-edged weapons is a
source of solicitude to the spectator.

When one says that he knows that he
knows nothing he asserts knowledge and
denies it in the same sentence. If one
says " all knowledge is relative," as Spen-
cer does, (p. 68, et seq., of First Principles,)
he of course asserts that his knowledge of
the fact is relative and not absolute. If a
distinct content is asserted of ignorance,
the same contradiction occurs.

The perception of this principle by the
later German philosophers at once led
them out of the Kantian nightmare, into
positive truth. The principle may be ap-
plied in general to any subjective scepti-
cism. The following is a general scheme
that will apply to all particular instances :

I. "We cannot know things in them-
selves; all our knowledge is subjective; it
is confined to our own states and changes."

II. "If this is so, then still more is what
we name the ' objective ' only a state or
change of us as subjective; it is a mere
fiction of the mind so far as it is regarded
as a ' beyond ' or thing in itself."

III. Hence we do know the objective;
for the scepticism can only legitimately
conclude that the objective which we do
know is of a nature kindred with reason ;
and that by an a priori necessity we can
affirm that not only all knowable must
have this nature, but also all possible ex-
istence must.

In this we discover that the mistake on
the part of the sceptic consists iu taking
self-conscious intelligence as something-
one-sided or subjective, whereas it must
be, according to its very definition, subject
and object in one, and thus universal.

The difficulty underlying this stage of
consciousness is that the mind has not
been cultivated to a clear separation of
the imagination from the thinking. As
Sir Wm. Hamilton remarks, (Metaphysics,
p. 487,) "Vagueness and confusion are
produced by the confounding of objects so
different as the images of sense and the
unpicturable notions of intelligence."

Indeed the great "law of the condition-
ed " so much boasted of by that philoso-
pher himself and his disciples, vanishes at
once when the mentioned confusion is
avoided. Applied to space it results as
follows :

I.— Thought of Space.

1. Space, if finite, must be limited from
without ;

2. But such external limitations would
require space to exist in ;

3. And hence the supposed limits of
space that were to make it finite do in fact
continue it.

It appears, therefore, that space is of
such a nature that it can only end in, or be
limited by itself, and thus is universally
continuous or infinite.

II. — Imagination of Space.

If the result attained by pure thought is
correct, space is infinite, and if so, it can-
not be imagined. If, however, it should
be found possible to compass it by imagi-
nation, it must be conceded that there
really is a contradiction in the intelligence.
That the result of such an attempt coin-
cides with our anticipations we have Ham-
ilton's testimony— " imagination sinks ex-
hausted."

Therefore, instead of this result contra-

Herbert Spencer

dieting the first, as Hamilton supposes, it
really confirms it.

In fact if the mind is disciplined to
separate pure thinking from mere imagin-
ing:, the infinite is not difficult to think.
Spinoza saw and expressed this by making
a distinction between "infinitum actu
(or rationis)," and -'infinitum imagina-
fcionis," and his first and second axioms
are the immediate results of thought ele-
vated to this clearness. This distinction
and his " omnis determinatio est negation
together with the development of the third
stage of thinking (according to reason),
••sub quadam specie ceternitatis*"' — these
distinctions are the priceless legacy of the
clearest-minded thinker of modern times ;
and it behooves the critic of " human
knowing" to consider well the results that
the "human mind'" has produced through
those great masters — Plato and Aristotle.
Spinoza and Hegel.

Herbert Spencer, however, not only be-
trays unconsciousness of this distinction,
but ignores it in far grosser and self-
destructive applications. On page 25,
(" First Principles,'') he says : ki When on
the sea shore we note how the hulls of dis-
tant vessels are hidden below the horizon,
and how of still remoter vessels only the
uppermost sails are visible, we realize with
tolerable clearness the slight curvature of
that portion of the sea's surface which lies
before us. But when we seek in imagina-
tion to follow out this curved surface as it
actually exists, slowly bending round until
all its meridians meet in a point eight
thousand miles below our feet, we find
ourselves utterly baffled. We cannot con-
ceive in its real form and magnitude even
that small segment of our globe which ex-
tends a hundred miles on every side of us,
much less the globe as a whole. The piece
of rock on which we stand can be mentally
represented with something like complete-
ness ; we find ourselves able to think of
its top, its sides, and its under surface at
the same time, or so nearly at the same
time that they seem all present in con-
sciousness together; and so we can form
what we call a conception of the rock, but
to do the like with the earth we find im-
possible." "We form of the earth not a
conception properly so-called, but only a
symbolic conception.''

Conception here is held to be adequate
when it is formed of an object of a given
size ; when the object is above that size the
conception thereof becomes symbolical.
Here we do not have the exact limit stated,
though we have an example given (a rock)
which is conceivable, and another (the
earth) which is not.

" We must predicate nothing of objects
too great or too multitudinous to be men-
tally represented, or we must make our
predications by means of extremely inade-
quate representations of such objects, mere
symbols of them." (27 page.)

But not only is the earth an indefinitely
multiple object, but so is the rock; nay,
even the smallest grain of sand. Suppose
the rock to be a rod in diameter; a micro-
scope magnifying two and a half millions
of diameters would make its apparent mag-
nitude as large as the earth. It is thus
only a question of relative distance from
the person conceiving, and this reduces it
to the mere sensuous image of the retina-
Remove the earth to the distance of the
moon, and our conception of it would, upon
these principles, become quite adequate.
But if our conception of the moon be held
inadequate, then must that of the rock or
the grain of sand be equally inadequate.

Whatever occupies space is continuous
and discrete; i. e.. may be divided into
parts. It is hence a question of relativity
whether the image or picture of it corre-
spond to it.

The legitimate conclusion is that all our
conceptions are symbolic, and if that pro-
perty invalidates their reliability, it fol-
lows that we have no reliable knowledge
of things perceived, whether great or small.

Mathematical knowledge is conversant
with pure lines, points, and surfaces ; hence
it must rest on inconceivables.

But Mr. Spencer would by no means con-
cede that we do not know the shape of the
earth, its size, and many other inconceiv-
able things about it. Conception is thus
no criterion of knowledge, and all built
upon this doctrine (i. e. depending upon
the conceivability of a somewhat) falls to
the ground.

But he applies it to the questions of the
divisibility of matter (page 50): "If we
say that matter is infinitely divisible, we
commit ourselves to a supposition not

Herbert Spencer

realizable in thought. We can bisect and
rebisect a body, and continually repeat
the act until we reduce its parts to a size
no longer physically divisible, may then
mentally continue the process without

limit."

Setting aside conceivability as indifferent
to our knowledge or thinking-, we have
the following solution of this point :

I. That which is extended may be bi-
sected (i. e. has two halves).

II. Thus two extensions arise, which, in
turn, have the same property of divisibility
that the first one had.

III. Since, then, bisection is a process
entirely different to the nature of exten-
sion (i. e. does not change an extension
into two non-extendeds) , it follows that
body is infinitely divisible.

We do not have to test this in imagina-
tion to verify it ; and this very truth must
be evident to him who says that the pro-
gress must be " continued without limit."
For if we examine the general conditions
under which any such " infinite progress"
is possible, we find them to rest upon the
presupposition of a real infinite, thus:

Infinite Progress.

I. Certain attributes are found to belong-
to an object, and are not affected by a cer-
tain process. (For example, divisibility as
a process in space does not affect the con-
tinuity of space, which makes that process
possible. Or again, the process of limiting-
space does not interfere with its continuity,
for space will not permit any limit except
space itself.)

II. When the untutored reflection en-
deavors to apprehend a relation of this
nature, it seizes one side ot the dualism
and is hurled to the other. (It bisects
space, and then finds itself before two ob-
jects identical in nature with the first; it
has effected nothing; it repeats the pro-
cess, and, by and by getting exhausted,
wonders whether it could meet a ditt'erent
result if its powers of endurance were
greater. Or else suspecting the true case,
says: "no other result would happen if I
went on forever.")

III. Pure thought, however, grasps this

process as a totality, and sees that it only
arises through a self-relation. The" pro-
gress " is nothing: but a return to itself,
the same monotonous round.' It would be
a similar attempt to seek the end of a cir-
cle by travelling round it. and one might
make the profound remark: "'If my pow-
ers were equal to the task, I should doubt-
less come to the end." This difficulty
vanishes as soon as the experience is made
that the line returns into itself. " It is the
same thing whether said once or repeated
forever," says Xhnplieius. treating of this
paradox .

The "Infinite Progress'" is the most
stubborn fortress of Scepticism. By it
our negative writers establish the impo-
tency of Reason for various ulterior pur-
poses. Some wish to use it as a lubrica-
ting fluid upon certain religious dogmas
that cannot otherwise be swallowed. Oth-
ers wish to save themselves the trouble of
thinking out the solutions to the Problem
of Life. But the Sphinx devours him who
does not faithfully grapple with, and solve
her enigmas .

Mephistopheles (a good authority on this
subject) says of Faust, whom he finds
grumbling at the littleness of man's mind :

" Verachte nur Vernunft und Wissenchaft.
Des Mensclien allerhochste Kraft'
Und hatt 'er sich auch nicht dem Teufeliibeigeben,
Er niiisfcste doch zn Grunde gehen."

Only prove that there is a large field of
the unknowable, and one has at once the
vade mecnm for stupidity. Crude reflec-
tion can pour in its distinctions into a sub-
ject, and save itself from the consequences
by pronouncing the basis incomprehensi-
ble. It also removes all possibility of
Theology, or of the Piety of the Intellect,
and leaves a very narrow margin for re-
lio-ious sentiment, or the Piety of the

Heart.

The stage of Science represented by the
French Encyclopedists was immediately
hostile to each and every form of religion.
This second stage, however, has a choice.
It can, like Hamilton or Mansel, let re-
ligious belief alone, as pertaining to the
unknown and unknowable— which may be
believed in as much as one likes ; or it may
" strip off," as Spencer does, " determina-
tions from a religion." by which it is dis-
tinguished from other religions, and show

Herbert Spencer.

their truth to consist in a common doc-
trine held by all, to-wit: "The truth of
things is unknowable."

Thus the scientific man can baffle all at-
tacks from the religious standpoint; nay,
he can even elicit the most unbounded ap-
proval, while he saps the entire structure
of Christianity.

Says Spencer (p. 46) : "Science and Re-
ligion agree in this, that the power which
the Universe manifests to us is utterly in-
scrutable." He goes on to show that
though this harmony exists, yet it is
broken by the inconsistency of Religion :
"For every religion, setting out with the
tacit assertion of a mystery, forthwith
proceeds to give some solution of this
mystery, and so asserts that it is not a
mystery passing human comprehension."
In this confession he admits that all relig-
ions agree in professing to reveal the solu-
tion of the Mystery of the Universe to man ;
and they agree, moreover, that man, as
simply a being of sense and reflection, can-
not comprehend the revelation ; but that
he must pass through a profound media-
tion — be regenerated, not merely in his
heart, but in intellect also. Tiie misty
limitatons ( "vagueness and confusion ")
of the imagination must give way to the
purifying dialectic of pure thought before
one can see the Eternal Verities.

These revelations profess to make known
the nature of the Absolute. They call the
Absolute "Him," "Infinite," "Self-cre-
ated," "Self-existent," "Personal," and
ascribe to this " Him " attributes implying
profound mediation. All definite forms
of religion, all definite theology, must at
once be discarded according to Spencer's
principle. Self-consciousness, even is re-
garded as impossible by him (p. 65.) :
" Clearly a true cognition of self implies
a state in which the knowing and known are
one, in which subject and object are iden-
tilied ; and this Mr. Mansel rightly holds
to be the annihilation of both." He con-
siders it a degradation (p. 109) to apply
personality to God: "Is it not possible
that there is a mode of being as much
transcending intelligence and will as these
transcend mechanical motion?" And
again (p. 112) he holds that the mere
" negation of absolute knowing contains
more religion than all dogmatic theology."

(P. 121.) "All religions are envelopes of
truth, which reveal to the lower and con-
ceal to the higher." (P. 66,) "Objective
and subjective things are alike inscrutable
in their substance and genesis." "Ulti-
mate religious and scientific ideas (p. 68)
alike turn out to be mere symbols of the
actual and not cognitions of it." (P. 69,)
"We come to the negative result that the
reality existing behind all appearances
must ever be unknown."

In these passages we see a dualism pos-
ited in this form: " Everything immediate
is phenomenal, a manifestation of the hid-
den and inscrutable essence." This es-
sence is the unknown and unknowable ;
yet it manifests itself in the immediate or
. phenomenal.

The first stage of thought was uncon-
scious that it dealt all the time with a
mediated result (a dualism) while it as-
sumed an immediate; that it asserted all
truth to lie in the sensuous object, while it
named at the same time ''■matter and force"
categories of reflection.

The second stage has got over that dif-
ficulty, but has fallen into another. For
if the phenomenon manifested the essence
it could not be said to be ' ' unknowable,
hidden, and inscrutable." But if the es-
sence is not manifested by the phenome-
non, then we have the so-called pheuom-
non as a self-existent, and therefore inde-
pendent of the so-called essence, which
stands coordinated to it as another exist-
ent, which cannot be known because it
does not manifest itself to us . Hence the
"phenomenon" is no phenomenon, or
manifestation of aught but itself, and the
" essence" is simply a fiction of the phil-
osopher.

Hence his talk about essence is purely
gratuitous, for there is not shown the need
of one.

A dialectical consideration of essence
and phenomenon will result as follows :
Essence and Phenomenon.

I. If essence is seized as independent
or absolute being, it may be taken in two
senses :

a. As entirely unafi'ected by " other-
ness " (or limitation) and entirely unde-
termined ; and this would be pure nothing,
for it cannot distinguish itself or be dis-
tinguished from pure nothing.

Herbert Spencer,

b. As relating to itself, and hence
making itself a duality— becoming its own
other; in this case the "other" is a van-
ishing one, for it is at the same time iden-
tical and non-identical — a process in
which the essence may be said to appeal-
er become phenomenal. The entire pro-
cess is the absolute or self-related (and
hence independent) . It is determined, but
by itself, and hence not in a finite man-
ner.

II. The Phenomenon is thus seen to
arise through the self-determination of
essence, and has obviously the following
characteristics :

a. It is the "other" of the essence, and
yet the own self of the essence existing
in this opposed manner, and thus self-nuga-
tory ; and this non-abiding character gives
it the name of phenomenon (or that which
merely appears, but is no permanent es-
sence).

b. If this were simply another to the
essence, and not the self-opposition of the
same, then it would be through itself, and
itself the essence in its first (or immediate)
phase. But this is the essence only as ne-
gated, or as returned from otherness.

" c. This self-nugatoriness is seen to arise
from the contradiction involved in its be-
ing other to itself, i. e. outside of its true
being. Without this self-nugatoriness it
would be an abiding, an essence itself, and
hence no phenomenon ; with this self-nu-
gatoriness the phenomenon simply exhib-
its or u manifests" the essence; in fact,
with the appearance and its negation taken
together, we have before us a totality of
essence and phenomenon.

III. Therefore: a. The phenomenal is
such because it is not an abiding some-
what. It is dependent upon other or es-
sence, b. Whatever it possesses belongs
to that upon which it depends, i. e. be-
longs to essence, c. In the self-nugatori-
ness of the phenomenal we have the entire
essence manifested.

This latter point is the important result,
and may be stated in a less strict and more
popular form thus : The real world (so-
called) is said to be in a state of change-
origination and decay. Things pass away
and others come in their places. Under

this change, however, there is a permanent
called Essence.

The imaginative thinking finds it impos-
sible to realize such an abiding as exists
through the decay of all external form,
and hence pronounces it unknowable. But
pure thought seizes it. and finds it a pure
self-relation or process of return to itself,
which accordingly has duality, thus :
a. The positing or producing of a some-
what or an immediate, and. b. The cancel-
ling of the same- In this quality of be-
ginning and ceasing, this self-relation
completes its circle, and is thus, c. the en-
tire movement.

All categories of the understanding
(cause and effect, matter and form, possi-
bility, etc.) are found to contain this
movement when dissolved. And hence
they have self-determination for their pre-
supposition and explanation. It is un-
necessary to add that unless one gives up
trying to imagine truth, that this is all
very absurd reasoning. (At the end of the
sixth book of Plato's Eepublic, ch. xxi.,
and in the seventh book. ch. xiii.. one may
see how clearly this matter was understood
more than two thousand years ago.)

To manifest or reveal is to make known :
and hence to speak of the "manifestation
of a hidden and inscrutable essence " is to
speak of the making known of an unknow-
able.

Mr. Spencer goes on ; no hypothesis of
the universe is possible— creation not con-
ceivable, for that would be something out
of nothing— self-existence not conceivable,
for that involves unlimited past time.

He holds that •' all knowledge is rela-
tive," for all explanation is the reducing
of a cognition to a more general. He says,
(p. 69,) •• Of necessity, therefore, explana-
tion must eventually bring us down to the
inexplicable— the deepest truth which we
can get at must be unaccountable." This
much valued insight has a positive side as
well as the negative one usually developed :

I. (a.) To explain something we sub-
sume it under a more general.

(6.) The ''summum genus" cannot be
subsumed, and

(c.) Hence is inexplicable-

II. But those who conclude from this
that we base our knowledge ultimately

Herbert Spencer.

upon faith (from the supposed fact that we
cannot prove our premises) forget that—

(a.) If the subsuming process ends in an
unknown, then all the subsuming has re-
sulted in nothing; for to subsume some-
thing under an unknown does not explain
it. (Plato's Kepublic. Book VII. chap, xiii.)

(6.) The more general, however, is the
more simple, and hence the "summum
genus" is the purely simple— it is Being.
But the simpler the clearer, and the purely
simple is the absolutely clear.

(c.) At the " summum genus" subsump-
tion becomes the principle of identity-
being is being; and thus stated we have
simple self-relation as the origin of all
clearness and knowing whatsoever.

III. Hence it is seen that it is not the
mere fact of subsnmption that makes some-
thing clear, but rather it is the reduction
of it to identity.

In pure being as the summum genus, the
mind contemplates the pure form of know-
ing — "a is a," or "a subject is a predi-
cate"— (a is b). The pure '-is*' is the
empty form of mental affirmation, the pure
copnla; and thus in the summum genus
the mind recognizes the pure form of itself.
All objectivity is at this point dissolved
into the thinking, and hence the subsump-
tion becomes identity — (being=egro, or "co-
gito, ergo sum" ;) the process turns round
and becomes synthetic. (•• dialectic*' or
•'genetic," as called by some). From this
it is evident that self-consciousness is the
basis of all knowledge.

CHAPTER III.

THE '• FIRST PRINCIPLES" OF THE "KNOW-
ABLE."

As might be expected from Spencer's
treatment of the unknowable, the knowable
will prove a confused affair, especially
since to the above-mentioned "inscruta-
bility" of the absolute, he adds the doc-
trine of an "obscure consciousness of it,''

holding, in fact, that the knowable is only
a relative, and that it cannot be known
without at the same time possessing a
knowledge of the unknowable.

(P. 82) he says: "A thought involves
relation, difference and likeness; what-
ever does not present each of them does
not admit of cognition. And hence we
may say that the unconditioned as present-
ing none of these, is trebly unthinkable."
And yet he says. (p. 96) : " The relative is
itself inconceivable except as related to a
real non-relative."

We will leave this infinite self-contradic-
tion thus developed, and turn to the posi-
tions established concerning the knowable.
They concern the nature of Force. Matter
and Motion, and the predicates set up
are "persistence," "indestructibility" and
similar.

THE KNOWABLE.

Although in the first part " conceivabil-
ity" was shown to be utterly inadequate
as a test of truth; that with it we could not
even establish that the earth is round, or
that space is infinitely continuous, yet here
Mr. Spencer finds that inconceivability is
the most convenient of all positive proofs.

The first example to be noticed is his
proof of the compressibility of matter (p.
51): "It is an established mechanical
truth that if a body moving at a given ve-
locity, strikes an equal body at rest in
such wise that the two move on together,
their joint velocity will be but half that of
the striking body. Now it is a law of
which the negative is inconceivable, that
in passing from any one degree of magni-
tude to another all intermediate degrees
must be passed through. Or in the case
before us, a bod}'- moving at velocity 4.
cannot, by collision, be reduced to velocity
2, without passing through all velocities
between 4 and 2. But were matter truly
solid — were its units absolutely incom-
pressible and in unbroken contact — this
"law of continuity," as it is called, would
be broken in every case of collision. For
when, of two such units, one moving at ve-
locity 4 strikes another at rest, the striking
unit must have its velocity 4 instantan-
eously reduced to velocity 2; must pass
from velocitv 4 to velocity 2 without any

Herbert Spencer.

lapse of time, and without passing through
intermediate velocities; must be moving
with velocities 4 and 2 at the same instant,
which is impossible." On page 57 he ac-
knowledges that any transition from one
rate of motion to another is inconceivable ;
hence it does not help the matter to "pass
through intermediate velocities.'* It is
just as great a contradiction and just as
inconceivable that velocity 4 should be-
come velocity 3.9999-)-, as it is that it
should become velocity 2; for no change
whatever of the motion can be thought (as
he confesses) without having two motions
in one time. Motion, in fact, is the syn-
thesis of place and time, and cannot be
comprehended except as their unity. The
argument here quoted is only adduced by
Mr. S. for the purpose of antithesis to other
arguments on the other side as weak as
itself.

On page 241, Mr. Spencer deals with the
question of the destructibility of matter:
" The annihilation of matter is unthink-
able for the same reason that the creation
of matter is unthinkable."' (P. 54) : -'Mat-
ter in its ultimate nature is as absolutely
incomprehensible as space and time.'' The
nature of matter is unthinkable, its crea-
tion or destructibility is unthinkable, and
in this style of reasoning we can add that
its indestructibility is likewise unthinkable;
in fact the argument concerning self-exist-
ence will apply here. (P. 31): ■'Self-
existence necessarily means existence with-
out a beginning; and to form a conception
of self- existence is to form a conception of
existence without a beginning. Now by
no mental effort can we do this. To con-
ceive existence through infinite past, time,
implies the conception of infinite past time,
which is an impossibility." Thus, too,
we might argue in a strain identical: in-
destructibility implies existence through
infinite future time, but by no mental effort
can infinite time be conceived. And thus,
too, we prove and disprove the persistence
of force and motion. When occasion re-
quires, the ever-convenient argument of
'•inconceivability" enters. It reminds
one of Sir Win, Hamilton's "imbecility"
upon which are based '• sundry of the most
important phenomena of intelligence,"
among which he mentions the category of
causality. If causality is founded upon

imbecility, and all experience upon it, it
follows that all empirical knowledge rests
upon imbecility.

On page 247, our author asserts that the
first law of motion " is in our day being
merged in the more general one. that mo-
tion, like matter, is indestructible." It is
interesting to observe that this so-called
•' First law of motion" rests on no better
basis than very crude reflection.

"When not influenced by external forces,
a moving body will go on in a straight line
with a uniform velocity," is Spencer's state-
ment of it.

This abstract supposed law has neces-
sitated much scaffolding in Natural Phi-
losophy that is otherwise entirely unneces-
sary ; it contradicts the idea of momentum,
and is thus refuted :

I. A body set in motion continues in
motion after the impulse has ceased from
without, for the reason that it retains mo-
mentum.

II. Momentum is the product of weight
by velocity, and weight is the attraction of
the bodjr in question to another body exter-
nal to it. If all bodies external to the
moving body were entirely remo\ed, the
latter would have no weight, and hence
the product of weight by velocity would
be zero.

III. The '-external influences " referred
to in the so-called -'law,'' mean chiefly
attraction. Since no body could have mo-
mentum except through weight, another
name for attraction, it follows that all free
motion has reference to another body, and
hence is curvilinear; thus we are rid of
that embarrassing "straight-line motion"
which gives so much trouble in mechanics.
It has all to be reduced back again through
various processes to curvilinear movement.

We come, finally, to consider the central
point of this system :

THE CORRELATION OF FORCES.

Speaking of persistence of force, Mr,
Spencer concedes (p. 252) that this doc-
trine is not demonstrable from experience.
He says (p. 254) : "Clearly the persistence
of force is an ultimate truth of which no
inductive proof is possible," (P. 255) :

Herbert Spencer.

"By the persistence of force we really
mean the persistence of some power which
transcends our knowledge and conception."
(P. 257) : "The indestructibility of matter
and the continuity of motion we saw to be
really corollaries from the impossibility of
establishing in thought a relation between
something and nothing." (Thus what
was established as a mental impotence is
now made to have objective validity.)
•'Our inability to conceive matter and
motion destroyed is our inability to sup-
press consciousness itself." (P. 258) :
"Whoever alleges that the inability to con-
ceive a beginning or end of the universe
is a negative result of our mental struc-
ture, can not deny that our consciousness
of the universe as persistent is a positive
result of our mental structure. And this
persistence of the universe is the persist-
ence of that unknown cause, power, or
force, which is manifested to us through
all phenomena." This •• positive result of
our mental structure " is said to rest on
our "inability to conceive the limitation
of consciousness" which is "simply the
obverse of our inability to put an end to
the thinking subject while still continuing
to think." (P. 257) : To think of some-
thing becoming nothing, would involve
that this substance of consciousness having
just existed under a given form, should
next assume no form, or should cease to
be consciousness."

It will be observed here that he is en-
deavoring to solve the First Antinomy of
Kant, and that his argument in this place
differs from Kant's proof of the "Antithe-
sis" in this, that while Kant proves that
••The world [or universe] has no begin-
ning," etc., by the impossibility of the
origination of anything in a "void time,"
that Mr. Spencer proves the same thing by
asserting it to be a "positive result of our
mental structure," and then proceeds to
show that this is a sort of "inability"
which has a subjective explanation ; it is,
according to him, merely the "substance
of consciousness" objectified and regarded
as the law of reality.

But how is it with the "Thesis" to that
Antinomy, "The world has a beginning
in time ? " Kant proves this apagogi-
cally by showing the absurdity of an •• in-'
finite series already elapsed. "" That our

author did not escape the contradiction
has already been shown in our remarks
upon the "indestructibility of matter."
While he was treating of the unknowable
it was his special province to prove that
self-existence is unthinkable. (P. 31) : He
says it means " existence without a begin-
ning,'' and "to conceive existence through
infinite past time^ implies the conception
of infinite past time, which is an impos-
sibility." Thus we have the Thesis of the
Antinomy supported in his doctrine of the
"unknowable," and the antithesis of the
same proved in the doctrine of the know-
able.

We shall next find him involved with
Kant's Third Antinomy.

The doctrine of the correlation is stated
in the following passages :

(P. 280): "Those modes of the un-
knowable, which we call motion, heat,
light, chemical affinity, etc., are alike
transformable into each other, and into
those modes of the unknowable which we
distinguish as sensation, emotion, thought:
these, in their turns, being directly or in-
directly re-transformable into the original
shapes. That no idea or feeling arises,
save as a result of some physical force
expended in producing it, is fast becoming
a common-place of science; and whoever
duly weighs the evidence, will see that
nothing but an overwhelming bias in favor
of a preconceived theory can explain its
non-acceptance. How this metamorphosis
takes place — how a force existing as
motion, heat or light, can become a mode
of consciousness — how it is possible for
aerial vibrations to generate the sensation
we call sound, or for the forces liberated by
chemical changes in the brain to give rise
to emotion — these are mysteries which it
is impossible to fathom." (P. 2S4) : "Each
manifestation of force can be interpreted
only as the effect of some antecedent force ;
no matter whether it be an inorganic ac-
tion, an animal movement, a thought, or a
feeling. Either this must be conceded, or
else it must be asserted that our successive
states of consciousness are self-created."
"Either mental energies as well as bodily
ones are quantitatively correlated to cer-
tain energies expended in their production,
and to certain other energies they initiate ;
or else nothing must become something

Herbert Spencer.

and something, nothing-. Since persist-
ence of force, being- a datum of conscious-
ness, cannot be denied, its unavoidable
corollary must be accepted."

On p. 294 he supports the doctrine that
"motion takes the direction of the least
resistance," mentally as well as physically.

Here are some of the inferences to be
drawn from the passages quoted :

1. Every act is determined from without,
and hence does not belong to the subject
in which it manifests itself.

2. To change the course of a force, is to
make another direction "that of the least
resistance," or to remove or diminish a
resistance.

3. But to change a resistance requires
force, which (in motion) must act in "the
direction of the least resistance," and
hence be entirely determined from with-
out, and governed by the disposition of
the forces it meets.

4. Hence, of will, it is an absurdity to
talk ; freedom or moral agency is an impos-
sibility.

5. That there is self-determination in
self-consciousness — that it is " self-crea-
ted"— is to Mr. Spencer the absurd alterna-
tive which at once turns the scale in favor
of the doctrine that mental phenomena
are the productions of external forces.

After this, what are we to say of the
following? (P. 501) : " Notwithstanding
all evidence to the contrary, there will
probably have arisen in not a few minds
the conviction that the solutions which
have been given, along with those to be
derived from them, are essentially mate-
rialistic. Let none persist in these mis-
conceptions." (P. 502) : " Their implica-
tions are no more materialistic than they
are spiritualistic, and no more spiritualistic
than they are materialistic."

If we hold these positions by the side of
Kant's Third Antinomy, we shall see that
they all belong to the proof of the " Anti-
thesis," viz. : " There is no freedom, but
everything in the world happens accord-
ing to the laws of nature." The " Thesis,''
viz.: "That a causality of freedom is nec-
essary to account fully for the phenomena
of the world,*' lie has not anywhere sup-
ported. We find, in fact, only those think-
ers who have in some measure mastered
the third phase of culture in thought,

standing upon the basis presented by Kant
in the Thesis. The chief point in the
Thesis may be stated as follows: 1. If
everything that happens presupposes a
previous condition, (which the law of
causality states,) 2. This previous condi-
tion cannot be a permanent (or have been
always in existence) ; for, if so, its conse-
quence, or the effect, would have always
existed. Thus the previous condition must
be a thing which has happened. 3. With
this the whole law of causality collapses ;
for (a) since each cause is an effect, (6) its
determining power escapes into a higher
member of the series, and, (c) unless the
law changes, wholly vanishes ; there result
an indefinite series of effects with no cause ;
eacli member of the series is a dependent,
has its being in another, which again has
its being in another, and hence cannot
support the subsequent term.

Hence it is evident that this Antinomy
consists, first: in the setting up of the law
of causality as having absolute validity,
which is the antithesis. Secondly, the ex-
perience is made that such absolute law
of causality is a self-nugatory one, and thus
it is to be inferred that causality, to be at
all, presupposes an origination in a "self-
moved," as Plato calls it. Aristotle (Meta-
physics, xi. 6-7, and ix. 8) exhibits this
ultimate as the " self-active," and the Scho-
lastics take the same, under the designation
" actus purus, for the definition of God.

The Antinomy thus reduced gives :

I. Thesis : Self-determination must lie
at the basis of all causality, otherwise
causality cannot be all.

II. Antithesis : If there is self-determin-
ation, "the unity of experience (which
leads us to look for a cause) is destroyed,
and hence no such case could arise in ex-
perience."

In comparing the two proofs it is at once
seen that they are of different degrees of
universality. The argument of the Thesis
is based upon the nature of the thing itself,
i. e., a pure thought; while that of the
Antithesis loses sight of the idea of
"efficient" cause, and seeks mere contin-
uity in the sequence of time, and thus ex-
hibits itself as the second stage of thought,
which leans on the staff of fancy, i. e. mere

Herbert Spencer.

representative thinking. This " unity of
experience," as Kant calls it, is the same
thing, stated in other words, that Spencer
refers to as the " positive result of our
mental structure.'- In one sense those are
true antinomies— those of Kant, Hamilton,
et aL— viz. in this: that the " representa-
tive stage of thinking finds itself unable
to shake off the sensuous picture, and think
" sub quadam specie ceternitaUs. n To the
mind disciplined to the third stage of
thought, these are no antinomies ; Spinoza,
Leibnitz, Plato and Aristotle are not con-
fused by them. The Thesis, properly
stated, is a true universal, and exhibits its
own truth, as that upon which the law of
causality rests; and hence the antithesis
itself— less universal— resting upon the
law of causality, is based upon the Thesis.
Moreover, the Thesis does not deny an in-
finite succession in time and space, it only
states that there must be an efficient cause
— just what the law of causality states, but
shows, in addition, that this efficient cause
must bea-' self-determined/'

On page 282 we learn that, "The solar
heat is the final source of the force mani-
fested by society." t- It (the force of so-
ciety) is based on animal and vegetable
products, and these in turn are dependent
on the light and heat of the sun."

As an episode in this somewhat abstract
discussion, it may be diverting to notice
the question of priority of discovery
touched upon in the following note (p.
454): '" Until I recently consulted his
' Outlines of Astronomy ' on another ques-
tion. I was not aware that, so far back as
1833, Sir John Herschel had enunciated
the doctrine that ' the sun's rays are the
ultimate source of almost every motion
which takes place on the surface of the
earth." He expressly includes all geologic,
meteorologic, and vital actions ; as also
those which we produce by the combus-
tion of coal. The late George Stephenson
appears to have been wrongly credited
with this last idea."

In order to add to the thorough discus-
sion of this important question, we wish
to suggest the claims of Thomas Carlyle,
who, as far back as 1830, wrote the fol-
lowing passage in his Sartor Resartus (Am.
ed. pp. 55-6) : " Well sang the Hebrew
Psalmist : ' If I take the wings of the

morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts
of the Universe, God is there.' Thou, too,

cultivated reader, who too probably art
no psalmist, but a prosaist, knowing God
only by tradition, knowest thou any corner
of the world where at least force is not?
The drop which thou shakest lrom thy wet
hand, rests not where it falls, but to-mor-
row thou findest it swept away; already,
on the wings of the north-wind, it is Hear-
ing the tropic of Cancer. How it came to
evaporate and not lie motionless? Think-
est thou there is aught motionless, without
force, and dead?

'"As I rode through the Schwartzwald,

1 said to myself: That little lire which
glows starlike across the dark-growing
(nachtende) moor, where the sooty smith
bends over his anvil, and thou hopest to
replace thy lost horseshoe — is it a detach-
ed, separated speck, cut oft" from the whole
universe, or indissolubly joined to the
whole? Thou fool, that smithy-fire was
primarily kindled at the sun ; is fed by air
that circulates from beyond Noah's deluge,
from beyond the Dog star; it is a little
ganglion, or nervous centre in the great
vital system of immensity."

We have, finally, to consider the correl-
ation theory in connection with the idea
of equilibrium.

I. Motion results from destroyed equi-
librium. The whole totality does not cor-
respond to itself, its ideal and real contra-
dict each other. The movement is the re-
storing of the equilibrium, or the bringing
into unity the ideal and renl. To illus-
trate: a spring (made of steel, rubber, or
any elastic material) has a certain form in
which it may exist without tension ; this
may be called the ideal shape, or simply
the ideal. If the spring is forced to as-
sume another shape, its real shape becomes
different from the ideal; its equilibrium
is destroyed, and force is manifested as a
tendency to restore the equilibrium (or
unity of the ideal and real). Generalize
this : all forces have the same nature ;
(a) expansive forces arise from the ideal
existing without — a gas, steam, for ex-
ample, ideally takes up a more extended
space than it has really; it expands to fill
it. Or (6) contractive forces: the multi-
tiplicity ideally exists within; e. g. altrac-

Herbert Spencer.

tion of gravitation ; matter trying- to find
the centre of the earth, its ideal. The will
acts in this way: The ideal is changed
first, and draws the real after it. I first
destroy, in thought and will, the identity of
of ideal and real ; the tension resulting is
force. Thinking, since it deals with the
universal (or the potential and the actual)
is an original source of force, and as will
result in the sequel from a reverse analysis
(see below. V. 3, c) the only source of force.

II. Persistence of force requires an un-
restorable equilibrium ; in moving to re-
store one equilibrium, it must destroy
another — its equivalent.

III. But this contradicts the above de-
veloped conception of force as follows :
(a) Since force results from destroyed
equilibrium, it follows (b) that it requires
as much force to destroy the equilibrium
as is developed in the restoring of it (and
this notion is the basis of the correlation
theory). But (c) if the first equilibrium
(already destroyed) can only be restored
by the destroying of another equal to the
same, it has already formed an equilibrium
with the second, and the occasion of the
motion is removed.

If two forces are equal and opposed,
which will give way ?

By this dialectic consideration of force,
we learn the insufficiency of the theory of
correlation as the ultimate truth. Instead
of being " the sole truth, which transcends
experience by underlying it" (p. 258), we
are obliged to confess that this -t persist-
ence of force " rests on the category of
causality; its thin disguise consists in the
substitution of other words for the meta-
physical expression. " Every effect must be
equal to its cause." And this, when
tortured in the crucible, confesses that
the only efficient cause is '•'■causa sui;"
hence the effect is equal to its cause, be-
cause it is the cause.

And the correlation theory results in
showing that force cannot be, unless self-
originated.

That self-determination is the inevitable
result, no matter what hypothesis be as-
sumed, is also evident. Taking all coun-
ter hypotheses and seneralizing them, we
have this analysis:

I. Any and every being is determined
from without through auother. (This theo-
rem includes all anti-self-determination
doctrines.)

II. It results from this that any and
every being is dependent upon another and
is a finite one ; it cannot be isolated with-
out destroying it. Hence it results that
every being is an element of a whole that
includes it as a subordinate moment.

III. Dependent being, as a subordinate
element, cannot be said to support any
thing attached to it. for its own support is
not in itself but in another, namely, the
whole that includes it. From this it re-
sults that no dependent being can depend
upon another dependent being, but rather
upon the including whole.

The including whole is therefore not a
dependent ; since it is for itself, and each
element is determined through it. and for
it. it may be called the negative unity (or
the unity which negates the independence
of the elements).

Bemark. — A chain of dependent beings
collapses into one dependent being. De-
pendence is not converted into independ-
ence by simple multiplication. All de-
pendence is thus an element of an inde-
pendent whole.

IV. What is the character of this inde-
pendent whole, this negative unity'! •"Char-
acter" means determination, and we are
prepared to say that its determination can-
not be through another, for then it would
be a dependent, and we should be referred
again to the whole, including it. Its de-
termination by which the multiplicity of
elements arises is hence its own self-deter-
mination. Thus all finitude and depend-
ence presupposes as its condition, self-
determination.

V. Self-determination more closely ex-
amined exhibits some remarkable results,
(which will throw light on the discussion
of '"Essence and Phenomenon " above) :

(1.) It is "causa sui;" active and pas-
sive; existing dually as determining and
determined; this self-diremption produces
a distinction in itself which is again can-
celled.

Herbert Spencer

(2.) As determiner (or active, or cause),
it is the pure universal— the possibility of
any determinations. But as determined
(passive oreft'ect) it is the special, the par-
ticular, the one-sided reality that enters
into change.

(3.) But it is * -negative unity'" of these
two sides, and hence an individual. The
pure universal whose negative relation to
itself as determiner makes the particular,
completes itself to individuality through
this act.

(a.) Since its pure universality is the
substrate of its determination, and at the
same time a self-related activity (or nega-
tivity), it at once becomes its own object.

(6) Its activity (limiting or determin-
ing) — a pure negativity — turned to itself
as object, dissolves the particular in the
universal, and thus continually realizes
its subjectivity.

(c.) Hence these two sides of the nega-
tive unity are more properly subject and
object, and since they are identical {causa
sui) we may name the result •'self-con-
sciousness.'*

The absolute truth of all truths, then, is
that self-consciousness is the form of the
Total. God is a Person, or rather the
Person. Through His self-consciousness
(thought of Himself) he makes Himself
an object to Himself (Nature) , and in the
same act cancels it again into His own
image (finite spirit), and thus comprehends
Himself in this self-revelation.

Two remarks must be made here: (1.)
This is not "Pantheism;'* for it results
that God is a Person ; and secondly Nature
is a self-cancelling side in the process;
thirdly, the so-called ••finite spirit," or
man, is immortal, since otherwise he would
not be the last link of the chain ; but such
he is, because he can develop out of his
sensuous life to pure thought, uncondition-
ed by time and space, and hence he can
surpass any fixed '-higher intelligence,"
no matter how high created.

(2.) It is the result that all profound
thinkers have arrived at.

Aristotle (Metaphysics XI. G & 7) car-
ries this whole question of motion back to
its presupposition in a mode of treatment
" sub quadum specie ottemitatis ." He
concludes thus : "The thinking, however,
of that which is purely for itself, is a think-

ing of that which is most excellent in and
for itself.

"The thinking thinks itself, however,
through participation with that which is
thought by it; it becomes this object in
its own activity, in such manner that the
subject and object are identical. For the
apprehending of thought and essence is
what constitutes reason. The activity of
thinking produces that which is perceived ;
so that the activity is rather that which
Reason seems to have of a divine nature ;
speculation [pure thinking] is the most ex-
cellent employment ; if, then, God is al-
ways engaged in this, as we are at times.
He is admirable, and if in a higher degree,
more admirable. But he is in this pure
thinking, and life too belongs to Him; for
the activity of thought is life . He is this
activity. The activity, returning into it-
. self, is the most excellent and eternal life •
We say, therefore, that God is an eternal
and the best living being. So that life and
duration are uninterrupted and eternal ;
for this is God."

When one gets rid of those "images of
sense" called by Spencer u conceivables,"
and arrives at the "unpicturable notions
of intelligence," he will find it easy to re-
duce the vexed antinomies of force, matter,
motion, time, space and causality; arriv-
ing at the fundamental principle — self-
determination — he will be able to make a
science of Biology. The organic realm
will not yield to dualistic Reflection-
Goethe is the great pioneer of the school of
physicists that will spring out of the pres-
ent activity of Reflection when it shall
have arrived at a perception of its own
method.

Besume— Mr. Spencer's results, so far
as philosophy is concerned, may be briefly
summed up under four general heads: 1.
Psychology. 2. Ontology. 3. Theology.
4. Cosmology.

PSYCHOLOGY.

(1.) Conception is a mere picture in the
mind; therefore what cannot be pictured
cannot be conceived ; therefore the Infinite,
the Absolute,God, Essence, Matter, Motion,
Force— anything, in short, that involves
mediation — cannot be 'conceived; hence
they are unknowable.

(2.) Consciousness is self-knowing; but

Herbert Spencer.

that subject and object are one, is impos-
sible. We can neither know ourselves nor
any real being.

(3.) All reasoning or explaining is the
subsuming of a somewhat under a more
general category ; hence the highest cate-
gory is unsubsumed, and hence inexpli-
cable.

(4.) Our intellectual faculties may be
improved to a certain extent, and beyond
this, no amount of training can avail any-
thing. (Biology, vol. 1, p. 1S8.)

(5.) The " substance of consciousness "
is the basis of our ideas of persistence of
Force, Matter, etc.

(6.) All knowing is relative ; our knowl-
edge of this fact, however, is not relative
but absolute.

ONTOLOGY.

(1.) All that we know is phenomenal.
The reality passes all understanding. In
the phenomenon the essence is " manifest-
ed," but still it is not revealed thereby;
it remains hidden behind it, inscrutable to
our perception.

(2.) And yet, since all our knowledge is
relative, w e have an obscure knowledge of
the hidden and inscrutable essence of the
correlate of our knowledge of phenomena.
We know that it exists.

(3.) Though what is inconceivable is for
that reason unknowable, yet we know that
persistence belongs to force, motion and
matter; it is a positive result of our " men-
tal structure," although we cannot con-
ceive either destructibility or indestructi-
bility.

(4) Though self-consciousness is an
impossibility, yet it sometimes occurs, since
the '• substance of consciousness " is the
object of consciousness when it decides
upon the persistence of the Universe, and
of Force, Matter, etc.

THEOLOGY.

The Supreme Being is unknown and un-
knowable; unrevealed and unrevealable,
either naturally or supernaturally ; for to
reveal, requires that some one shall com-
prehend what is revealed. The sole doc-
trine of religion of great value is the doc-
trine that God transcends the human intel-
lect. When Religion professes to reveal
Him to man and declare His attributes,
then it is irreligious. Though God is the
unknown, yet personality, reason, con-
sciousness, etc., are degrading when ap-
plied to Him. The " Thirty-nine Arti-
cles " should be condensed into one, thus :
There is an Unknown which I know that I
cannot know."

" Religions are envelopes of truth which
reveal to the lower, and conceal to the
higher." "They are modes of manifesta-
tion of the unknowable."

COSMOLOGY.

"Evolution is a change from an indefi-
nite, incoherent homogeneity, to a definite,
coherent hetrogeneity ; through continu-
ous differentiations and integrations."
This is the law of the Universe. All pro-
gresses to an equilibration— to a moving
equilibrium.

Fichte's Science of Knowledge.

INTRODUCTION TO FICHTE'S SCIENCE OF KNOWLEDGE.

TRANSLATED BY A. E. KROEGER.

[Note.— In presenting this '-Introduction " to the readers of the Journal of Speculative Philosophy,
we believe we afford them the easiest means of gaining an insight into Fichte's great work on the Science
of Knowledge. The present introduction was written by Fichte in 1797, three years after the first publi-
cation of his full system. It is certainly written in a remarkably clear and vigorous style, so as to be
likely to arrest the attention even of those who have but little acquaintance with the rudiments of the
Science of Philosophy. This led us to give it the preference over other essays, also written by Fichte, as
Introductions to his Science of Knowledge. A translation of the Science of Knowledge, by Mr. Kroeger
is at present in course of publication in New York. This article is, moreover, interesting as being a more
complete unfolding of the doctrine of Plato upon Method, heretofore announced.— Ed.]

PRELIMINARY REMARKS.

De re, quae agitur, petimus, ut homines, earn non
opinionem, sed opus esse, cogitent ac pro certo
habeant, non sectae nos alicujus, aut placiti, sed
ultilitatis et amplitudinis humanre fundamenta
moliri. Deinde ut, suis commodis asqui, in com-
mune consulant, et ipsi in partem veniant.— Baco
de Verulamio.

The author of the Science of Knowledge
was soon convinced, through a slight ac-
quaintance with the philosophical literature
since the appearance of Kant's Critiques,
that the object of this great man — to effect
a total reform in the study of philosophy,
and hence of all science — had resulted in a
failure, since not one of his numerous suc-
cessors appeared to understand what he
had really spoken of. The author believed
that he had understood the latter; he re-
solved to devote his life to a representa-
tion — totally independent from Kant's — of
that great discovery, and he will not give
up this resolve. Whether he will succeed
better in making himself understood to his
age, time alone can show. At all events,
he knows that nothing true and useful,
which has once been given to mankind, is
lost, though only remote posterity should
learn how to use it.

Determined by my academical vocation,
I wrote, in the first instance, for my hear-
ers, with whom it was in my power to ex-
plain myself in words until I was under-
stood.

This is not the place to testify how
much cause I have to be satisfied with my
efforts, and to entertain, of some of my

students, the best hopes for science. That
book of mine has also become known else-
where, and there are various opinions
afloat concerning it amongst the learned.
A judgment, which even pretended to bring
forth arguments, I have neither read nor
heard, except from my students, but I
have both heard and read a vast amount of
derision, denunciation, and the general
assurance that everybody is heartily op-
posed to this doctrine, and the confession
that no one can understand it. As far as
the latter is concerned, I will cheerfully
assume all the blame, until others shall
represent it so as to make it comprehensi-
ble, when students will doubtless discover
that my representation was not so very bad
after all; or I will assume it altogether
and unconditionally, if the reader thereby
should be encouraged to study the present
representation, in which I shall endeavor
to be as clear as possible. 1 shall con-
tinue these representations so long as I am
convinced that I do not write altogether in
vain. But I write in vain when nobody
examines my argument.

I still owe my readers the following ex-
planations : I have always said, and say
again, that my system is the same as
Kant's. That is to say, it contains the
same view of the subject, but is totally in-
dependent of Kant's mode of representa-
tion. I have said this, not to cover myself
by a great authority, or to support my
doctrine except by itself, but in order to
say the truth and to be just.

Perhaps it may be proven after twenty
vears. Kant is as yet a sealed book, and

Fichte's Science of Knowledge.

what he has been understood to teach, is
exactly what he intended to eradicate.

My writings are neither to explain Kant,
nor to he explained by his ; they must
stand by themselves, and Kant must not be
counted in the game at all. My object is —
let me say it frankly — not to correct or
amplify such philosophical reflections as
may be current, be the}- called anti-Kant
or Kant, but to totally eradicate them, and
to effect a complete revolution in the mode
of thinking regarding these subjects, so
that hereafter the Object will be posited
and determined by Knowledge (Reason),
and not vice versa ; and this seriously, not
merely in words.

Let no one object: w 'If this system is
true, certain axioms cannot be upheld,'*
for I do not intend that anything should
be upheld which this system refutes.

Again : " I do not understand this book."
is to me a very uninteresting and insignifi-
cant confession. No one can and shall
understand my writings, without having
studied them; for they do not contain a
lesson heretofore taught, but something —
since Kant has not been understood — alto-
gether new to the age.

Censure without argument tells me
simply that my doctrine does not please;
and this confession is again very unim-
portant; for the question is not at all,
whether it pleases you or not, but whether
it has been proven. In the present sketch
I write only for those, in whom there
still dwells an inner sense of love for
truth ; who still value science and con-
viction, and who are impelled by a lively
zeal to seek truth. With those, who, by
long spiritual slavery, have lost with the
faith in their own conviction their faith
in the conviction of others ; who consider
it folly if anybody attempts to se"ek truth
for himself; who see nothing in science but
a comfortable mode of subsistence; who
are horrified at every proposition to en-
large its boundaries as involving a new
labor, and who consider no means dis-
graceful by which they can hope to sup-
press him who makes such a proposition, —
with those I have nothing to do.

I should be sorry if they understood me.
Hitherto this wish of mine has been real-
ized; and I hope, even now, that these
present lines will so confuse them that they

can perceive nothing more in them than
mere words, while that which represents
their mind is torn hither and thither by

their ill-concealed rage.

INTRODUCTION.

I. Attend to thyself; turn thine eye away
from all that surrounds thee and into thine
own inner self! Such is the first task im-
posed upon the student by Philosophy.
We speak of nothing that is without thee,
but merely of thyself.

The slightest self-observation must show
every one a remarkable difference between
the various immediate conditions of his
consciousness, which we may also call
representations. For some of them appear
altogether dependent upon our freedom,
and we cannot possibly believe that there
is without us anything corresponding to
them. Our imagination, our will, appears
to us as free. Others, however, we refer
to a Truth as their model, which is held to
be firmly fixed, independent of us ; and in
determining such representations, we find
ourselves conditioned by the necessity of
their harmony with this Truth. In the
knowledge of them we do not consider
ourselves free, as far as their contents are
concerned. In short : while some of our
representations are accompanied by the
feeling of freedom, others are accompanied
by the feeling of necessity .

Reasonably the question cannot arise —
why are the representations dependent
upon our freedom determined in precisely
this manner, and not otherwise? For in
supposing them to be dependent upon our
freedom, all application of the conception
of a ground is rejected ; they are thus, be-
cause I so fashioned them, and if I had
fashioned them differently, they would be
otherwise.

But it is certainly a question worthy of
reflection— what is the ground of the sys-
tem of those representations which are ac-
companied by the feeling of necessity and
of that feeling of necessity itself? To
answer this question is the object of phi-
losophy; and, in my opinion, nothing is
philosophy but the Science which solves
this problem. The system of those repre-
sentations, which are accompanied by the
feeling of necessitv. is also called Experi-

Fickte's Science of Knowledge.

ence — internal as well as external experi-
ence. Philosophy, therefore, to say the
same thing in other words, has to find the
ground of all Experience.

Only three objections can be raised
against this. Somebody might deny that
representations, accompanied by the feel-
ins: of necessity, and referred to a Truth
determined without any action of ours, do
ever occur in our consciousness. Such a
person would either deny his own know-
ledge, or be altogether differently con-
structed from other men ; in which latter
case his denial would be of no concern to
us. Or somebody might say : the question
is completely unanswerable, we are in ir-
removable ignorance concerning it, and
must remain so. To enter into argument
with such a person is altogether superflu-
ous . The best reply he can receive is an
actual answer to the question, and then
all he can do is to examine our answer,
and tell us why and in what matters it does
not appear satisfactory to him. Finally,
somebody might quarrel about the desig-
nation, and assert: -'" Philosoptry is some-
thing else than what you have stated
above, or at least something else besides."'
It might be easily shown to such a one,
that scholars have at all times designated
exactly what we have just stated to be
Philosophy, and that whatever else he
might assert to be Philosophy, has already
another name, and that if this word signi-
fies anything at all, it must mean exactly
this Science. But as we are not inclined
to enter upon any dispute about words,
we, for our part, have already given iip
the name of Philosophy, and have called
the Science which has the solution of this
i problem for its object, the Science of
Knowledge .

II. Only when speaking of something,
which we consider accidental, i. e. which
we suppose might also have been other-
wise, though it was not determined by free-
dom, can we ask for its ground; and by
this very asking for its ground does it be-
come accidental to the questioner. To
find the ground of anything accidental
means, to find something else, from the
determined ness of which it can be seen
why the accidental, amongst the various
conditions it might have assumed, assumed

precisely the one it did. The ground lies
—by the very thinking of a ground— be-
yond its Grounded, and both are, in so far
as they are Ground and Grounded, opposed
to each other, related to each other, and
thus the latter is explained from the former.

Now Philosophy is to discover the
ground of all experience ; hence its object
lies necessarily beyond all Experience.
This sentence applies to all Philosophy,
and has been so applied always heretofore,
if we except these latter days of Kant's
misconstruers and their facts of conscious-
ness, i. e. of inner experience.

No objection can be raised to this para-
graph ; for the premise of our conclusion
is a mere analysis of the above-stated con-
ception of Philosophy, and from the prem-
ise the conclusion is drawn. If some-
body should wish to remind us that the
conception of a ground must be differently
explained, we can, to be sure, not prevent
him from forming another conception of
it, if he so chooses; but we declare, on
the strength of our good right, that we, in
the above description of Philosophy, wish
to have nothing else understood by that
word. Hence, if it is not to be so under-
stood, the possibility of Philosophy, as we
have described it, must be altogether de-
nied, and such a denial we have replied to
in our first section.

III. The finite intelligence has nothing
beyond experience; experience contains
the whole substance of its thinking. The
philosopher stands necessarily under the
same conditions, and hence it seems impos-
sible that he can elevate himself beyond
experience.

But he can abstract; i. e. he can separate
by the freedom of thinking what in experi-
ence is united. In Experience, the Thing
— tha f which is to be determined in itself
independent of our freedom, and in ac-
cordance with which our knowledge is to
shape itself— and the Intelligence— which
is to obtain a knowledge of it— are in-
separably united. The philosopher may
abstract from both, and if he does, he has
abstracted from Experience, and elevated
himself above it. If he abstracts from the
first, he retains an intelligence in itself.
i. e. abstracted from its relation to experi-
ence; if he abstract from the latter, he n-

Fichte's Science of Knowledge.

tains the Tiling in itself, i. e. abstracted
from the fact that it occurs in experience ;
and thus retains the Intelligence in itself,
or the " Thing in itself,'' as the explana-
tory ground of Experience. The former
mode of proceeding is called Idealism, the
latter Dogmatism.

Only these two philosophical systems —
and of that these remarks should convince
everybody — are possible. According to
the first system the representations, which
are accompanied by the feeling of neces-
sity, are productions of the Intelligence,
w_hi i\h must be p resupposed in their ex-
planation; according to the latter system
they are the productions of a thing in itself
wJiicJLjimsr, ]>e^ pr esuppose d, to explain
them. If anybody desired to deny this,
he would have to prove that there is still
another way to go beyond experience than
the one by means of abstraction, or that
the consciousness of experience contains
more than the two components just men-
tioned.

Now in regard to the first, it will appear
below, it is true, that what we have here
called Intelligence does, indeed, occur in
consciousness under another name, and
hence is not altogether produced by ab-
straction ; but it will at the same time be
shown that the consciousness of it is con-
ditioned by an abstraction, which, how-
ever, occurs naturally to mankind.

We do not at all deny that it is possible
to compose a whole system from fragments
of these incongruous systems, and that
this illogical labor has often been under-
taken ; but we do deny that more than
these two systems are possible in a logical
course of proceeding.

IV. Between the object — (we shall call

the explanatory ground of experience,

which a philosophy asserts, the object of

that philosophy , since it appears to be only

through and for such philosophy) — be-

\ tween the object of Idealism and that of

\ Dogmatism there is a remarkable distinc-

I tion in regard to their relation to con-

I sciousness generally. All whereof I am

conscious is called object of consciousness.

There are three ways in which the object

I can be related to consciousness. Either

it appears to have been produced by the

representation, or as existing without any

action of ours; and in the latter case, as
either also determined in regard to its
qualitativeness, or as existing merely in
regard to its existence, while determinable
in regard to its qualitativeness by the free
intelligence.

The first relation applies merely to an
imaginary object ; the second merely to an
object of Experience ; the third applies
only to an object, which we shall at once
proceed to describe.

I can determine myself by freedom to
think, for instance, the Thing in itself of
the Dogmatists. Now if I am to abstract
from the thought and look simply upon
myself, I myself become the object of a
particular representation. That I appear
to myself as determined in precisely this
manner, and none other, e. g. as thinking,
and as thinking of all possible thoughts —
precisely this Thing in itself, is to depend
exclusively upon my own freedom of self-
determination ; I have made myself such a
particular object out of my own free will.
I have not made myself; on the contrary, I
am forced to think myself in advance as
determinable through this self-determina-
tion. Hence 1 am myself my own object,
the determinateness of which, under cer-
tain conditions, depends altogether upon
the intelligence, but the existence of which
must always be presupposed. Now this
very "I" is the object of Idealism. The
object of this system does not occur actu-
ally as something real in consciousness,
not as a Thing in itself — for then Idealism
would cease to be what it is, and become
Dogmatism — but as "J" in itself; not as
an object of Experience — for it is not de-
termined , but is exclusively determinable
through my freedom, and without this de-
termination it would be nothing, and is
really not at all— but as something beyond
all Experience.

The object of Dogmatism, on the con-
trary, belongs to the objects of the first
class, which are produced solely by free
Thinking. The Thing in itself is a mere
invention, and has no reality at all. It
does not occur in Experience, for the sys-
tem of Experience is nothing else than
Thinking accompanied by the feeling of
necessity, and can not even be said to be
anything else by the dogmatist, who, like
every philosopher, has to explain its cause.

Ft elite's Science of Knowledge.

True the dogmatist wants to obtain re-
ality for it through the necessity of think-
ing it as a ground of all experience, and
would succeed, if he could prove that ex-
perience can be, and can be explained only
by means of it. But this is the very thing
in dispute, and he cannot presuppose what
must first be proven.

Hence the object of Idealism has this
advantage over the object of Dogmatism,
that it is not to be deduced as the explana-
tory ground of experience — which would
be a contradiction, and change this system
itself into a part of experience — but that
it is, nevertheless, to be pointed out as a
part of consciousness ; whereas, the object
of Dogmatism can pass for nothing tut a
mere invention, which obtains validity
only through the success of the system .

This we have said merely to promote a
clearer insight into the distinction between
the two systems, but not to draw from it
conclusions against the latter sj^stem.
That the object of every philosophy, as
explanatory ground of Experience, must
lie beyond all experience, is required by
the very nature of philosophy, and is far
from being derogatory to a system. But
we have as yet discovered no reasons why
that object should also occur in a partic-
ular manner within consciousness.

If anybody should not be able to convince
Mmself of the truth of what we have just
said, this would not make his convictiou
of the truth of the whole system an impos-
sibiltty, since what we have just said was
only intended as a passing remark. Still
in conformity to our plan we will also here
take possible objections into consideration.
Somebody might deny the asserted im-
mediate self-consciousness in a free act of
\rhe mind. Such a one we should refer to
the conditions stated above. This self-
consciousness does not obtrude itself upon
us, and comes not of its own accord; it is
necessary first to act free and next to ab-
stract from the object, and attend to one's
self. Nobody can be forced to do this
and though he may say he has done it, it
is impossible to say whether he has done it
correctly. In one word, this conscious-
ness cannot be proven to any one, but
everybody must freely produce it within"
himself. Against the second assertion,
that the '-Thing in itself is a mere in-

vention, an objection could only be raised,
because it were misunderstood.

V. Neither of these two systems can di-
rectly refute the other ; for their dispute is
a dispute about the first principle: each,
system if you only admit its first axiom —
proves the other one wrong, each denies
all to the opposite and these two systems
have no point in common from which they
might bring about a mutual understanding
and reconciliation. Though they ma}' agree
on the words of a sentence, they will sure-
ly attach a different meaning to the words.

(Hence the reason why Kant has not
been understood and why the Science of
Knowledge can find no friends. The sys-
tems of Kant and of the Science of Knowl-
edge are idealistic — not in the general in-
definite, but in the just described definite
sense of the word; but the modern phi-
losophers are all of them dogmatists, and
are firmly resolved to remain so. Kant
was merely tolerated, because it was possi-
ble to make a dogmatist out of him ; but
the Science of Knowledge, which cannot
be thus construed, is insupportable to these
wise men. The rapid extension of Kant's
philosophy — when it was thus misunder-
stood — is not a proof of the profundity,
but rather of the shallowness of the age.
For in this shape it is the most wonderful
abortion ever created by human imagina-
tion, and it does little honor to its defend-
ers that they do not perceive this. It
can also be shown that this philosophy was
accepted so greedily only because people
thought it would put a stop to all serious
speculation, and continue the era of shal-
low Empiricism.)

First. Idealism cannot refute Dogma-
tism. True, the former system has the ad-
vantage, as we have already said, of being
enabled to point out its explanatory ground
of all experience— the free acting intelli-
gence— as a fact of consciousness. This
fact the dogmatist must also admit, for
otherwise he would render himself incapa-
ble of maintaining the argument with his
opponent ; but he at the same time by a cor-
rect conclusion from hi.- principle, changes
this explanatory ground into a deception
and appearance, and thus renders it inca-
pable of being the explanatory ground of
anything else since it cannot maintain its

Fickte's Science of Knowledge.

own existence in its own philosophy. Ac-
cording to the Dogmatist, all phenomena
of our consciousness are productions of a
Thing in itself, even our pretended deter-
minations by freedom, and the belief that
we are free. This belief is produced by
the effect of the Thing upon ourselves, and
the determinations, which we deduced from
freedom, are also produced by it. The only
difference is. that we are not aware of it in
these cases, and hence ascribe it to no
cause, i. e. to our freedom. Every logical
dogmatist is necessarily a Fatalist ; he does
not deny the fact of consciousness, that we
•consider ourselves free — for this would be
against reason ; — but he proves from his
principle that this is a false view. He de-
nies the independence of the Ego, which is
the basis of the Idealist, in toto, makes it
merely a production of the Thing, an acci-
dence of the World; and hence the logical
dogmatist is necessarily also materialist.
He can only be refuted from the postulate
of the freedom and independence of the
Ego; but this is precisely what he denies.
Neither can the dogmatist refute the Ideal-
ist.

The principle of the former, the Thing
in itself, is nothing and has no reality, as
its defenders themselves must admit, ex-
cept that which it is to receive from the fact
that experience can be explained only*
by it. But this proof the Idealist annihi-
lates by explaining experience in another
manner, hence by denying precisely what
dogmatism assumes. Thus the Thing in
itself becomes a complete Chimera ; there
is no farther reason why it should be as-
sumed; and with it the whole edifice of
dogmatism tumbles down.

From what we have just stated, is more-
over evident the complete irreconcilabilty
of both systems ; since the results of the
one destroy those of the other. Wherever
their union has been attempted the mem-
bers would not fit together, and somewhere
an immense gulf appeared which could not
be spanned.

If any one were to deny this he would
have to prove the possibility of such a
union— of a union which consists in an
everlasting composition of Matter and
Spirit, or, which is the same, of Necessity
and Liberty.

Now since, as far as we can see at pres-

ent, both systems appear to have the same
speculative value, but since both cannot
stand together, nor yet either convince the
other, it occurs as a very interesting ques-
tion: What can possibly tempt persons who
comprehend this — and to comprehend it is
so very easy a matter — to prefer the one
over the other ; and why skepticism, as the
total renunciation of an answer to this
problem, does not become universal ?

The dispute between the Idealist and the
Dogmatist is. in reality, the question.'
whether the independence of the Ego is
to be sacrificed to that of the Thing, or vice
versa? What, then, is it which induces
sensible men to decide in favor of the one
or the other?

The philosopher discovers from this point
of view — in which he must necessarily place
himself, if he wants to pass for a philos-
opher, and which in the progress of Think-
ing, every man necessarily occupies sooner
or later. — nothing farther than that he
is forced to represent to himself both :
that he is free, and that there are de-
termined things outside of him. But it
is impossible for man to stop at this
thought; the thought of a representation
is but a half a thought, a broken off frag-
ment of a thought;* something must be
thought and added to it, as corresponding
with the representation independent of i{P
In other words : the representation cannot
exist alone by itself, it is only something
in connection with something else, and in
itself it is nothing. This necessity of think-
ing it is , which forces one from that point-
of view to the question : What is the ground
of the representations V or, which is exact-
ly the same, What is that which corre-
sponds to them?

Now r the representation of the independ-
ence of the Ego and that of the Thing can
very well exist together but not the inde-
pendence itself of both. Only one can be
the first, the beginning the independent;
the second by the very fact of being the
second, becomes necessarily dependent
upon the first, with which it is to be con-
nected—now which of the two is to be
made the first'? Reason furnishes no ground
for a decision ; since the question concerns
not the connecting of one link with an-
other, but the commencinent of the first
link, which as an absolute first act is alto-

Ficltte's Science of Knowledge.

gether conditional upon the freedom of
Thinking. Hence the decision is arbitra-
ry ; and since this arbitrariness is never-
theless to have a cause, the decision is de-
pendent upon inclination and interest. The
last ground, therefore, of the difference
between the Dogmatist and the Idealist is
the difference of their interest.

The highest interest, and hence the
ground of all other interest, is that which
we feel for ourselves. Thus with the Phil-
osopher. Not to lose his Self in his argu-
mentation, but to retain and assert it. this
is the interest which unconsciously guides
all his Thinking. Now, there are two
grades of mankind ; and in the progress
of our race, before the last grade has been
universally attained, two chief kinds of
men. The one kind is composed of those
who have not yet elevated themselves to
the full feeling of their freedom and abso-
lute independence, who are merely con-
scious of themselves in the representation
of outward things. These men have only
a desultory consciousness, linked together
with the outward objects , and put together
out of their manifoldness . They receive a
picture of their Self only from the Things,
as from a mirror; for their own sake they
cannot renounce their faith in the inde-
pendence of those things, since they exist
only together with these things. What-
ever the}' are they have become through*
the outer World- AYhosoever is only a
production of the Things will never view
himself in any other manner; and he is
perfectly correct, so long as he speaks
merely for himself and for those like him.
The principle of the dogmatist is : Faith
in the things, for their own sake; hence,
mediated Faith in their own desultory self,
as simply the result of the Things.

But whosoever becomes conscious of his
self-existence and independence from all
outward things — and this men can only be-
come by making something of themselves,
through their own Self, independently of
all outward things — needs no longer the
Tilings as supports of his Self, and cannot
use them, because they annihilate his inde-
pendence and turn it into an empty appear-
ance. The Ego which he possesses, and
which interests him. destroys that Faith in
the Things; he believes in his independ-
ence, from inclination, and '■• it with

affection. His Faith in himself is imme-
diate.

From this interest the various passions
are explicable, which mix generally with
the defence of these philosophical systems.
The dogmatist is in danger of losing his
Self when his system is attacked; and yet
he is not armed against this attack, because
there is something within him which takes
part with the aggressor ; hence, he defends
himself with bitterness and heat. The
idealist, on the contrary, cannot well re-
frain from looking down upon his opponent
with a certain carelessness, since the latter
can tell him nothing which he has not
known long ago and has cast away as use-
less. The dogmatist gets angry, miscon-
strues, and would persecute, if he had the
power ; the idealist is cold and in danger of
ridiculing his antagonist.

Hence, w hat philosophy a man chooses
depe nds entirely upon what kind_of man
he is; for a philosophical S3 r stem is not a)
piece of dead household furniture, which i
you may use or not use, but is animated j
by the soul of the man who has it. Men i
of a naturally weak-minded character, or*
who have become weak-minded and crook- I
ed through intellectual slavery, scholarly
luxury and vanity, will never elevate them-.
selves to idealism.

You can show the dogmatist the insuffi-
ciency and inconsequence of his system, of
which we shall speak directly; you can
confuse and terrify him from all sides ; but
you cannot convince him, because he is
unable to listen to and examine with calm-
ness what he cannot tolerate. If Idealism
should prove to be the only real Phirosophy .
it will also appear that a man must be born
a philosopher, be educated to be one. and
educate himself to be one; but that no
human art (no external force) can make a
philosopher out of him. Hence, this Sci-
ence expects few proselytes from men who
have already formed their character; if
our Philosoplry has any hopes at all. it
entertains them rather from the young
generation, the natural vigor of which has
not yet been submerged in the weak-mind-
edness of the age. r=

VI. But dogmatism is totally incapable
of explaining what it should explain, and
this is deci-ive in regard to its insufficien-

Fichte's Science of Knowledge.

cy. It is to explain the representation of
things, and proposes to explain them as an
effect of the Things. Now, the dogmatist
cannot deny what immediate conscious-
ness asserts of this representation. ! What,
then, does it assert thereof? It is not my
purpose here to put in a conception what
can only be gathered in immediate contem-
plation, nor to exhaust that which forms a
great portion of the Science of Knowledge.
I will merely recall to memory what every
one, who has but firmly looked within him-
self, must long since have discovered.

The Intelligence, as such, sees itself, and
this seeing of itself is immediately con-
nected with all that appertains to the Intel-
ligence; and tin's immediate uniting of
Being and Seeing the nature of the Intel-*
ligence consists. Whatever is in the Intel-
ligence, whatever the Intelligence is itself,
the Intelligence is for itself, and only in
so far as it is this for itself is it this, as
Intelligence.

I think this or that object ! Now what
does this mean, and how do I appear to
myself in this Thinking? Not otherwise
than thus : I produce certain conditions
within myself, if the object is a mere in-
vention; buc if the objects are real and
exist without my invention, I simply con-
template, as a spectator, the production of
those conditions within me. They are
within me only in so far as I contemplate
them; my contemplation and their Being
are inseparably united.

A Thing, on the contrary, is to be this
or that; but as soon as the question is put:
For whom is it this? Nobody, who but
comprehends the word, will reply: For
itself ! But he will have to add the
thought of an Intelligence, for which the
Thing is to be; while, on the contrary, the
Intelligence is self-sufficient and requires
no additional thought. By thinking it as
the Intelligence you include already that
for which it is to be. Hence, there is in
the Intelligence, to express myself figura-
tively a twofold — Being and Seeing, the
Beal and the Ideal ; and in the inseparabil-
ity of ibis twofold the nature of the Intelli-
gence consists, while the Thing is simply
a unit — the Real. Hence Intelligence and
Tiling are directly opposed to each other;
they move in two worlds, between which
there is no bridge.

The nature of the Intelligence and its
particular determinations Dogmatism en-
deavors to explain by the principle of
Causality ; the Intelligence is to be a pro-
duction, the second link in a series.

But the principle of causality applies to
a real series, and not to a double one. The
power of the cause goes over into an Other
opposed to it, and produces therein a Be-
ing, and nothing^Jurther ;;__ a Being for a
possible outside /Intelligence? but not for
the thing itself. You may give this Other
even a mechanical power, and it will trans-
fer the received impression to the next
link, and thus the movement proceeding
from the first may be transferred through
as long a series as you choose to make ;
but nowhere will you find a link which re-
acts back upon itself. Or give the Other
the highest quality which you can give a
thing — Sensibility — whereby it will follow
the laws of its own inner nature, and not
the law given to it by the cause — and it
will, to be sure, react upon the outward
cause ; but it will, nevertheless, remain a
mere simple Being, a Being for a possible
intelligence outside of it. The Intelligence
you will not get, unless you add it in think-
ing as the primary and absolute, the con-
nection of which, with this your independ-
ent Being, you will find it very difficult to
explain .

The series is and remains a simple one ;
and you have not at all explained what was
to be explained. You were to prove the
connection between Being and Represen-
tation ; but this you do not, nor can you
do it; for your principle contains merely
the ground of a Being, and not of a Repre-
sentation, totally opposed to Being. You
take an immense leap into a world, totally
removed from your principle. This leap
they seek to hide in various ways. Rig-
orously — and this is the course of con-
sistent dogmatism, which thus becomes
materialism; — the soul is to them no Thing
at all, and indeed nothing at all, but merely
a production, the result of the reciprocal
action of Things amongst themselves. But
this reciprocal action produces merely a
change in the Tilings, and b}' no means
anything apart from the Things, unless you
add an observing intelligence. The similes
which they adduce to make their system
comprehensible, for instance, that of the

Fichte's Science oj Knmmedye.

harmony resulting from sounds of different
instruments, make its irrationality only
more apparent. For the harmony is not in
the instruments, hut merely in the mind of
the hearer, who combines within himself
* the manifold into One; and unless you
have such a hearer there is no harmony at
all.

But who can prevent Dogmatism from
assuming the Soul as one of the Things,
per se? The soul would thus belong to
what it has postulated for the solution of
its problem, and, indeed, the category of
cause and effect would thereby be made
applicable to the Soul and the Things —
materialism only permitting a reciprocal
action of the Things amongst themselves —
and thoughts might now be produced. To
make the Unthinkable thinkable. Dogma-
tism has, indeed, attempted to presuppose
Thing or the Soul, or both, in such a man-
: ner, that the effect of the Thing was to
produce a representation. The Thing, as
I influencing the Soul, is to be such, as to
i make its influences representations; God,
'for instance, in Berkeley's system, was such
a thing. (His system was dogmatic, not
idealistic.) But this does not better mat-
ters; we understand only mechanical
effects, and it is impossible for us to under-
stand any other kind of effects. Hence,
that presupposition contains merely words,
but there is no sense in it. Or the soul
is t o be of such a nature that every effect
upon the Soul turns into a representation.
But this also we find it impossible to
understand.

In this manner Dogmatism proceeds
everywhere, whatever phase it may as-
sume. In the immense gulf, which in that
system remains always open between
Things and Representations, it places a
few empty words instead of an explanation,
which words may certainly be committed
to memory, but in saying which nobody has
ever yet thought, nor ever will think, any-
thing. For whenever one attempts to think
the manner in which is accomplished what
Dogmatism asserts to be accomplished, the
whole idea vanishes into emp r^fo am.
Hence Dogmatism can only repWt its
principle, and repeat it in different forms;
can only assert and re-assert the same
thing ; but it can not proceed from what it
asserts to what is to be explained. m>r ever

deduce the one from the other. But in
this deduction Philosophy consists. Hence
Dogmatism, even when viewed from a
speculative stand-point, is no Philosophy ^
at all, but merely an impotent assertion.
Idealism is the only possible remaining
Philosophy. What we have here said can
meet with no objection; but it may well
meet with incapability of understanding it.
That all influences are of a mechanical
nature, and that no mechanism can pro-
duce a representation, nobody will deny,
who but understands the words. But this
is the very difficulty. It requires a certain
degree of independence and freedom of
spirit to comprehend the nature of the in-
telligence, which we have described, and
upon which our whole refutation of Dog-
matism is founded. Many persons have
not advanced further with their Thinking
than to comprehend the simple chain of
natural mechanism, and very naturally.
therefore,the Representation, if they choose
to think it at all. belongs, in their eyes, to
the same chain of which alone they have
any knowledge. The Representation thus
becomes to them a sort of Thing of which
we have divers examples in some of the
most celebrated philosophical writers.
For such persons Dogmatism is sufficient ;
for them there is no gulf, since the opposite
does not exist for them at all. Hence you
can not convince the Dogmatist by the
proof just stated, however clear it may be,
for you can not bring the proof to his
knowledge, since he lacks the power to
comprehend it.

Moreover, the manner in which Dogma-
tism is treated here, is opposed to the mild
way of thinking which characterizes our
age, and which, though it has been exten-
sively accepted in all ages, has never been
converted to an express principle except in
ours; i.e. that philosophers must not be
so "strict in their logic; in philosophy one
should not be so particular, as for instance,
in Mathematics. If persons of this mode
of thinking see bijt a few links of the
chain and the rule, according to which
conclusions are drawn, they at once fill up
the remaining part through their imagina-
tion, never investigating further of what
they-*may consist. If. for instance, an
Alexander Voii-Ioch tell them: "All
things are determined by natural neees-

Fichte's Science of Knowledge.

sity; now our representations depend
upon the condition of Things, and our will
depends upon our representations : hence
all our will is determined by natural neces-
sity, and our theory of a free will is mere
deception!"— then these people think it
mightily comprehensible and clear, al-
though there is no sense in it; and they go
away convinced and satisfied at the strin-
gency of this his demonstration.

I must call to mind, that the Science of
Knowledge does not proceed from this
mild way of thinking, nor calculate upon
it. If only a single link in the long chain
it has to draw does not fit closely to the
following, this Scieh.ce does not pretend to
have established anyBfcing.

VII. Idealism, as we have said above,
explains the determinations of conscious-
ness from the activity of the Intelligence,
which, in its view, is only active and abso-
lute, not passive; since it is postulated

\ as the first and highest, preceded by noth-
ing, which might explain its passivity. \is not applicable in
From the same reason actual Existence can The laws of actl

not well be ascribed to the Intelligence,
since such Existence is the result of recip-
rocal causality, but there is nothing where-
with the Intelligence might be placed in
reciprocal causality. From the view of
Idealism, the Intelligence is a Doing, and
absolutely nothing else; it is even wrong-
to call it an Active, since this expression

j points to'something existing, in which the
activity is inherent.

But to assume anything of this kind is
against the principle of Idealism, which
proposes to deduce all other things from
the Intelligence. Now certain determined
representations — as, for instance, of a
world, of a material world in space, exist-
ing without any work of our own — are to
be deduced from the action of the Intelli-
gence; but you can not deduce anything
determined from an undetermined; the
form of all deductions, the category of

I ground and sequence, is not applicable

supposition of Idealism will be this : the
Intelligence acts, but by its very essence it '
can only act in a certain manner. If this !
necessary manner of its action is consid-]
ered apart from the action, it may properly,
be called Laws of Action. Hence, there!
are necessary laws of the Intelligence.

This explains also, at the same time, the ■
feeling of necessity which accompanies [
the determined representations; the Intel-!
ligence experiences in those cases, not anj
impression from without, but feels in its!
action the limits of its own Essence. In
so far as Idealism makes this only reason- \
able and really explanatory presupposition :
of necessary laws of the Intelligence, it is!
called Critical or Transcendental Idealism, i
A transcendenjt Idealism would be a sys-
tem which were to undertake a deduction
of determined representations from the
free and perfectly lawless action of the
Intelligence: an altogether contradictory
presupposition, since, as we have said
above, the category of ground and sequence
that case.
tion of the Intelligence, T
as sure as they are to be founded in the
one nature of the Intelligence, constitute
in themselves a system ; that is to say. the
fact that the Intelligence acts in this par-
ticular manner under this particular con-
dition is explainable, and explainable be-
cause under a condition it has always a
determined mode of action, which again is
explainable from one highest fundamental
law. In the course of its action the Intel-
ligence gives itself its own laws; and this
legislation itself is done by virtue of a
higher necessary action or Representation.
For instance, the law of Causality is not a
first original law, but only one of the many
modes of combining the manifold, and to
be deduced from the fundamental law of
this combination; this law of combining
the manifold is again, like the manifold
itself, to be deduced from higher laws.

Hence, even Critical Idealism can pro-
ceed in a twofold manner. Either it de-

here. Hence the action of the Intelligence, duces this system of necessary modes of

which is made the ground, must be a de-
termined action, and since the action of
the Intelligence itself is the highest ground
of explanation, that action must be so de-
f termined by the Intelligence itself, and not
by anything foreign to it. Hence the pre-

action, and together with it the objective
representations arising therefrom, really
from the fundamental laws of the Intelli-
gence, and thus causes gradually to arise
under the very eyes of the reader or hearer
the whole extent ot our representations ; orjl

Fichte's Science of Knoivledge.

it gathers these laws — perhaps as they are
already immediately applied to ohjects ;
hence, in a lower condition, and then they
are called categories — gathers these laws
somewhere, and now asserts, that the ob-
jects are determined and regulated by
them.

I ask the critic who follows the last-
mentioned method, and who does not de-
duce the assumed laws of the Intelligence
from the Essence of the Intelligence,
where lie gets the material knowledge of
these laws, the knowledge that they are
just these very same laws ; I for instance,
that of Substantiality or Causality? For
I do not want to trouble him yet with the
question, how he knows that they are mere
immanent laws of the Intelligence. They
are the laws which are immediately applied
to objects and he can only have obtained
them by abstraction from these objects,
i. e. from Experience. It is of no avail if
he takes them, by a roundabout way, from
logic, for logic is to him only the result
of abstraction from the objects, and hence
lie would do indirectly, what directly might
^ appear too clearly in its true nature.
Hence he can prove by nothing that his
postulated Laws of Thinking are really
Laws of Thinking, are really nothing but
immanent laws of the Intelligence. The
Dogmatist asserts in opposition, that they
are not, but that they are general quali-
ties of Things, founded on the nature of
Things, and there is no reason why we
should place more faith in the unproved
assertion of the one than in the unproved
assertion of the other. This course of pro-
ceeding, indeed, furnishes no understand-
ing that and why the Intelligence should
i just in this particular manner. To pro-
ire such an understanding, it would be
cessary to premise something which can
ily appertain to the Intelligence, and
from those premises to deduce before our
yes the laws of Thinking - .
By such a course of proceeding it is
•above all incomprehensible how the object
j itself is obtained ; for although you may
; admit the unproved postulates of the critic
' they explain nothing further than the
qualities and relations of the Thing: (that
jit is, for instance, in space, manifested in
j time, with aceidences which must be re-
ferred to a substance, &e.) But whence

that which has these relations and quali-
ties ? whence then the substance which
is clothed in these forms V This substance
Dogmatism takes refuge in, and you have
but increased the evil.

We. .know very well: the Thing arises
only from an act done in accordance with
these laws, and is, indeed, nothing else than
all these relations gathered together by the
power of imagination ; and all these rela-
tions together are the Thing. The Object j
is the original Synthesis of all these con-
ceptions. Form and Substance are not
separates; the whole formness is the sub-
stance, and only in the analysis do we ar-
rive at separate forms.

But this the critic, who follows the ab ove
method , can, only as sert, and it is even a
secret whence he knows it. if he does know
it. Until you cause the whole Thing to
arise before the eyes of the thinker, you
have not pursued Dogmatism into its last
hiding places. But this is only possible
by letting the intelligence act in its whole,
and not in its partial, lawfulness.

Hence, an Idealism of this character is
unproven and unprovable. Against Dog-
matism it has no other weapon than the
assertion that it is in the right ; and against
the more perfected criticism no other wea-
pon than impotent anger, and the assu-
rance that you can go no further than itself
goes.

Filially a system of this character puts
forth only those laws, according to which
the objects of external experience are de-
termined. But these constitute by far the
smallest portion of the laws of the Intelli-
gence. Hence, on the field of Practical Rea-
son and of Reflective Judgment, this half
criticism, lacking the insight into the
whole procedure of reason, gropes about
as in total darkness.

The method of complete transcendental
Idealism, which the Science of Knowledge/
pursues, I have explained once before in
my Essay, On the Conception of the Science
of Knowledge. I cannot understand why
that Essay has not been understood; but
suffice it to say. that I am assured it has
not been understood. I am therefore com-
pelled to repeat what 1 have said, audio
recall to mind that everything depends
upon the correct understanding thereof.

This Idealism proceeds from a single

Fichte's Science of Knotvledge.

fundamental Law of Reason, which, is im-
mediately shown as contained in con-
sciousness. This is done in the following
manner : The teacher of that Science re-
quests his reader or hearer to think freely
a certain conception. If he does so, he will
find himself forced to proceed in a partic-
ular manner. Two things are to be distin-
guished here : The act of Thinking, which is
required — the realization of which depends
upon each individual's freedom, — and un-
less he realizes it thus, he will not under-
stand anything which the Science of
Knowledge teaches; and the necessary
manner in which it alone can be realized,
which manner is grounded in the Essence
of the Intelligence, and does not depend
upon freedom ; it is something necessary,
but which is only discovered in and to-
gether with a free action ; it is something
discovered, but the discovery of which de-
pends upon an act of freedom.

So far as this goes, the teacher of Ideal-
ism shows his assertion to be contained in
immediate consciousness. But that this
necessary manner is the fundamental law
of all reason, that from it the whole sys-
tem of our necessary representations, not
only of a world and the determinedness and
relations of objects, but also of ourselves,
as free and practical beings acting under
laws can be deduced . All this is a mere
presupposition, which can only be proven
by the actual deduction, which deduction is
therefore the real business of the teacher.

In realizing this deduction, he proceeds
as follows : He shows that the first funda-
mental laio which toas discovered in im-
mediate consciousness, is not possible, unless
a second action is combined with it, which
again is not possible without a third action ;
and so on, until the conditions of the First
are completely exhausted, and itself is now
made perfectly comprehensible in its possi-
bility. The teacher's method is a contin-
ual progression from the conditioned to
the condition. The condition becomes
again conditioned, and its condition is next,
to be discovered.

If the presupposition of Idealism is cor-
rect, and if no errors have been made in
the deduction, the last result, as containina'
all the conditions of the first act, must con-
tain the system of all necessary representa-
tions, or the total experience; — a compari-

son, however, which is not instituted in
Philosophy itself, but only after that sci-
ence has finished its work.

For Idealism has not kept this experi-
ence in sight, as the preknown object and
result, which it should arrive at; in its
course of proceeding it knows nothing at
'at all of experience, and does not look upon
it: it proceeds from its starting point ac-
cording to its rules, careless as to what the
result of its investigations might turn out
to be, the right angle, from which it has
to draw its straight line, is given to it ; is
there any need of another point to which
the line should be drawn? Surely not; for
all the points of its line are already given
to it with the angle. A certain number is
given to you. You suppose that it is
the product of certain factors. All you
have to do is search for the product of
these factors according to the well-known
rules. Whether that product will agree
with the given number, you will find out,
without any difficulty, as soon as you have
obtained it. The given number is the total
experience ; those factors are : the part of
immediate consciousness which was dis-
covered, and the laws of Thinking; the
multiplication is the Philosophizing. Those
who advise you, while philosophizing, also
to keep an eye upon experience, advise
you to change the factors a little, and to
multiply falsely, so as to obtain by all
means corresponding numbers ; a course of
proceeding as dishonest a3 it is shallow.
In so far as those final results of Idealism
are viewed as such, as consequences of our
reasoning, they are what is called the a
priori of the human mind; and in so far
as they are viewed, also — if they should
agree with experience — as given in expe-
rience, they are called a posteriori. Hence
the a priori and the a posteriori are, in a
true Philosophy, not two, but one and the
same, only viewed in two different ways,
and distinguished only by the manner in
which they are obtained . Philosophy an-
ticipates the whole experience, thinks it
only as necessary; and. in so far, Philoso-
phy is, in comparison with real experience.
a priori. The number is a posteriori, if re-
garded as given; the same number is a
priori, if regarded as product of the fac-
tors. Whosoever says otherwise knows
not what he talks about.

Fichte's Science oj Knowledge.

If the results of a Philosophy do not
agree with experience, that Philosophy is
surely wrong; for it has not fulfilled its
> promise of deducing the whole experience;
from the necessary action of the intelli-
gence. In that case, either the presuppo-
sition of transcendental Idealism is alto-
gether incorrect, or it has merely been in-
correctly treated in the particular repre-
sentation of that science. Now, since the
problem, to explain experience from its
ground, is a problem contained in human
reason, and as no rational man will admit
that human reason contains any problem
the solution of which is altogether impos-
sible ; and since, moreover, there are only
two ways of solving it, the dogmatic sys-
tem, (which, as we have shown, cannot
accomplish what it promises) and the Ideal-
istic system, every resolute Thinker will
always declare that the latter has been the
case; that the presupposition in itself is
correct enough, and that no failure in at-
tempts to represent it should deter men
from attempting it again until finally it
must succeed. The course of this Ideal-
ism proceeds, as we have seen, from a fact
of consciousness — but which is only obtain-
ed by a free act of Thinking — to the total
experience. Its peculiar ground is be-
V tween these two. It is not a fact of con-
sciousness and does not belong within the
sphere of experience; and, indeed, how
could it be called Philosophy if it did, since
Philosophy has to discover the ground of
experience, and since the ground lies, of
course, beyond the sequence. It is the
production of free Thinking, but proceed-
ing according to laws. This will be at once
clear, if we look a little closer at the funda-
mental assertion of Idealism. It proves
i that the Postulated is not possible without
a second, this not without a third, etc., &c. ;
hence none of all its conditions is possible
alone and by itself, but each one is only
possible in its union with all the rest".
Hence, according to its own assertion, only
the Whole is found in consciousness, and
this Whole is the experience. You want
to obtain a better knowledge of it; hence
you must analyze it, not bj r blindly groping
about, but according to the fixed rule of
composition, so that it arises under your
eyes as a Whole. You are enabled to do
this because you have the power of ab-

straction ; because in free Thinking you can
certainly take hold of each single condi-
tion. For consciousness contains not only
necessity of Kepresentations, but also free-
dom thereof; and this freedom again may
proceed according to rules. The Whole is
given to you from the point of view of ne-
cessary consciousness ; you find it just as
you find yourself. But the composition of
this Whole, the order of its arrangement,
is produced by freedom. Whosoever un-
dertakes this act of freedom, becomes con-
scious of freedom, and thus establishes, as
it were, a new field within his conscious-
ness ; whosoever does not undertake it, for
him this new field, dependent thereupon,
does not exist. The chemist composes a
bodj-, a metal for instance, from its ele-
ments. The common beholder sees the
metal well known to him ; the chemist be-
holds, moreover, the composition thereof
and the elements which it comprises. Do
both now see different objects'? I should
think not! Both see the same, only in a
different manner. The chemist's sight is,
a priori ; he sees the separates ; the ordi-
nary beholder's sight is a posteriori; he
sees the Whole. The only distinction is
this: the chemist must first analyze the
Whole before he can compose it, because
he works upon an object of which he can-
not know the rule of composition before
he has analyzed it ; while the philosopher
can compose without a foregoing analysis,
because he knows already the rule of his
object, of reason.

Hence the content of Philosophy can
claim no other reality than that of neces-
sary Thinking, on the condition that you
desire to think of the ground of Expe-
rience. The Intelligence can only be
thought as active, and can only be thought
active in this particular manner! Such is
the assertion of Philosophy. And this
reailty is perfectly sufficient for Philosophy,
since it is evident from the development of
that science that there is no other reality.

This now described complete critical
Idealism, the Science of Knowledge intends
to establish. What I have said just now
contains the conception of that science, and
I shall listen to no objections which may
touch this conception, since no one can
know better than myself what I intend to
accomplish, and to demonstrate the impos-

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

sibility of a thing which is already realized,
is ridiculous.

Objections, to he legitimate, should only
be raised against the elaboration of that

conception, and should only consider
whether it has fulfilled what it promised to
accomplish or not.

ANALYTICAL AND CRITICAL ESSAY UPON THE .ESTHETICS

OF HEGEL.

[Translated from the French of .M. Ch. B6nard by J. A. Martling.]

ANALYSIS.

PAKT J.

Having undertaken to translate into our
language the .Esthetics of Hegel, we hope
to render a new service to our readers, by
presenting, in an analysis at once cursory
and detailed, the outline of the ideas which
form the basis of that vast work. The
thought of the' author will appear shorn of
its rich developments ; but it will be more
easy to seize the general spirit, the connec-
tion of the various parts of the work, and
to appreciate their value. In order not to
mar the clearness of our work, we shall
abstain from mingling criticism with expo-
sition; but reserve for the conclusion a
general judgment upon this book, which
represents even to-day the state of the
philosophy of art in Germany.

The work is divided into three parts;
the first treats of the beautiful in. art in
general; the second, of the general forms of
art in its historic development; the third
contains the system of the arts — the theory
of architecture, sculpture, painting, music,
and poetry.

OF THE BEAUTIFUL IN ART.

In an extended introduction, Hegel lays
the foundations of the science of the Beau-
tiful : he defines its object, demonstrates
its legitimac}', and indicates its method;
he then undertakes to determine the nature
and the end of art. Upon each of these
points let us endeavor to state, in a brief
manner, his thought, and, if it is neces-
sary, explain it.

.Esthetics is the science of the Beautiful.
The Beautiful manifests itself in nature and
in art; but the variety and multiplicity
of forms under which beauty presents
itself in the real world, does not permit
their description and systematic classifi-
cation. The science of the Beautiful has
then as its principal object, art and its
works; it is the philosophy of the fine arts.

Is art a proper object of science? No,
undoubtedly, if we consider it only as an
amusement or a frivolous relaxation. But
it has a nobler purpose. It will even be a
misconception of its true aim to regard it

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

simply as an auxiliary of morals and re-
ligion. Although it often serves as inter-
preter of moral and religious ideas, it pre-
serves its independence. Its proper object
is to reveal truth under sensuous forms.

Nor is it allowable to say that it produces
its effects by illusion. Appearance, here,
is truer than reality. The images which it
places under our eyes are more ideal, more
transparent, and also more durable than
the mobile and fugitive existences of the
real world. The world of art is truer than
that of nature and of history.

Can science subject to its formulas the
free creations of the imagination ? Art and
science, it is true, differ in their methods;
but imagination, also, has its laws; though
free, it has not the right to be lawless.
In art. nothing is arbitrary ; its ground is
the essence of things ; its form is borrowed
from the real world, and the Beautiful is
the accord, the harmony of the two terms.
Philosophy recognizes in works of art the
eternal content of its meditations, the
lofty conceptions of intelligence, the pas-
sions of man, and the motives of his vo-
lition. Philosophy does not pretend to
furnish prescriptions to art. but is able
to give useful advice; it follows it in its
procedures, it points out to it the paths
whereon it may go astray ; it alone can
furnish to criticism a solid basis and fixed
principles.

As to the method to be followed, two
exclusive and opposite courses present
themselves. The one, empiric and historic,
seeks to draw from the study of the master-
pieces of art, the laws of criticism and the
principles of taste. The other, rational
and a priori, rises immediately to the idea
of the beautiful, and deduces from it cer-
tain general rules. Aristotle and Plato
represent these two methods. The first
reaches only a narrow theory, incapable of
comprehending art in its universality ; the
other, isolating itself on the heights of
metaphysics, knows not how to descend
therefrom to apply itself to particular arts,
and to appreciate their works. The true
method consists in the union of these two
methods, in their reconciliation and simul-
taneous employment. To a positive ac-
quaintance with works of art. to the dis-
crimination and delicacy of taste neces-
sary to appreciate them, there should be

joined philosophic reflection, and the ca-
pacity of seizing the Beautiful in itself.
and of comprehending its characteristics
and immutable laws.

What is the nature of art? The answer
to this question can only be the philosophy
of art itself; and, furthermore, this again
can be perfectly understood only in its con-
nection with the other philosophic sciences.
One is here compelled to limit himself to
general reflections, and to the discussion
of received opinions.

In the first place, art is a product of hu-
man activity, a creation of the mind.
What distinguishes it from science is this,
that it is the fruit of inspiration, not of re-
flection. On this account it cannot be
learned or transmitted; it is a gift of
genius. Nothing can possibly supply a
lack of talent in the arts.

Let us guard ourselves meanwhile from
supposing that, like the blind forces of
nature, the artist does not know what he
does, that reflection has no part in his
works. There is, in the first place, in the
arts a technical part which must be learned,
and a skill which is acquired by practice.
Furthermore, the more elevated art be-
comes, the more it demands an extended
and varied culture, a study of the objects
of nature, and a profound knowledge of
the human heart. This is eminently true
of the higher spheres of art, especially in
Poetry.

If w T orks of art are creations of the
human spirit, they are not on that account
inferior to those of nature. They are, it
is true, living, only in appearance ; but the
aim of art is not to create living beings ; it
seeks to offer to the spirit an image of
life clearer than the reality. In this, it
surpasses nature. There is also something
divine in man, and God derives no less
honor from the works of human intelligence
than from the works of nature.

Now what is the cause which incites man
to the production of such works? Is it a
caprice, a freak, or an earnest, fundamen-
tal inclination of his nature?

It is the same principle which causes
him to seek in science food for his mind,
in public life a theatre for his activity In
science he endeavors to cognize the truth,
pure and unveiled; in art, truth appears
to him not in its pure form, but expressed

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

by images which strike his sense at the same
time that they speak to his intelligence.
This is the principle in which art originates,
and which assigns to it a rank so high
among the creations of the human mind.

Although art is addressed to the sensi-
bility, nevertheless its direct aim is not to
excite sensation, and to give birth to pleas-
ure. Sensation is changeful, varied, contra-
dictory. It represents only the various
states or modifications of the soul. If then
we consider only the impressions which
art produces upon us, we make abstrac-
tion of the truth which it reveals to us. It
becomes even impossible to comprehend
its grand effects ; for the sentiments which
it excites in us, are explicable only through
the ideas which attach to them.

The sensuous element, nevertheless, oc-
cupies a large place in art. What part
must be assigned to it? There are two
modes of considering sensuous objects in
their connection with our mind. The first
is that of simple perception of objects by
the senses. The mind then knows only
their individual side, their particular and
concrete form; the essence, the law, the
substance of things escapes it. At the
same time the desire which is awakened in
us, is a desire to appropriate them to our
use, to consume them, to destroy them.
The soul, in the presence of these objects,
feels its dependence; it cannot contem-
plate them with a free and disinterested
eye.

Another relation of sensuous objects
with spirit, is that of speculative thought
or science. Here the intelligence is not
content to perceive the object in its con-
crete form and its individuality; it dis-
cards the individual side in order to ab-
stract and disengage from it the law, the
universal, the essence. Eeason thus lifts
itself above the individual form perceived
by sense, in order to conceive the pure
idea in its universality.

Art differs both from the one and from
the other of these modes; it holds the
mean between sensuous perception and
rational abstraction. It is distinguished
from the first in that it does not attach
itself to the real but, to the appearance, to
the form of the object, and in that it does
not feel any selfish longing to consume it,
to cause it to serve a purpose, to utilize it.

It differs from science in that it is interested
in this particular object, and in its sen-
suous form. What it loves to see in it, is
neither its materiality, nor the pure idea
in its generality, but an appearance, an
image of the truth, something ideal which
appears in it; it seizes the connective of
the two terms, their accord and their inner
harmony. Thus the want which it feels
is wholly contemplative. In the presence
of this vision the soul feels itself freed
from all selfish desire.

In a word, art purposely creates images,
appearances, designed to represent ideas,
to show to us the truth under sensuous
forms. Thereby it has the power of stir-
ring the soul in its profoundest depths, of
causing it to experience the pure delight
springing from the sight and contempla-
tion of the Beautiful.

The two principles are found equally
combined in the artist. The sensuous side
is included in the faculty which creates—
the imagination. It is not by mechanical
toil, directed by rules learned by heart
that he executes his works ; nor is it by a
process of reflection like that of the philos-
opher, who is seeking the truth. The mind
has a consciousness of itself, but it cannot
seize in an abstract manner the idea which
it conceives ; it can represent it only under
sensuous forms. The image and the idea
co-exist in thought, and cannot be separa-
ted. Thus the imagination is itself a
gift of nature. Scientific genius is rather
a general capacity than an innate and spe-
cial talent. To succeed in the arts, there
is necessary a determinate talent which
reveals itself early under the form of
an active and irresistible longing, and
a certain facility in the manipulation
of the materials of art. It is this which
makes the painter, the sculptor, the musi-
cian.

Such is the nature of art. If it be asked,
what is its end, here we encounter the most
diverse opinions. The most common is
that which gives imitation as its object.
This is the foundation of nearly all the
theories upon art. Now of what use to re-
produce that which nature already offers
to our view? This puerile talk, unworthy
of spirit to which it is addressed, unworthy
of man who produces it, would only end
in the revelation of its impotency and

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

the vanity of its efforts ; for the copy will
always remain inferior to the original.
Besides, the more exact the imitation, the
less vivid is the pleasure. That which
pleases us is not imitation but, creation.
The very least invention surpasses all the
masterpieces of imitation.

In vain is it said that art ought to imi-
tate beautiful Nature. To select is no
longer to imitate. Perfection in imitation
is exactness ; moreover, choice supposes a
rule? Where find the criterion? What
signifies, in fine, imitation in architecture,
in music, and even in poetry? At most
one can thus explain descriptive poetry,
that is to say, the most prosaic kind. We
must conclude, therefore, that if, in its
compositions, art employs the forms of
Nature, and must study them, its aim is
not to copy and to reproduce them. Its
mission is higher — its procedure freer. Ri-
val of nature, it represents ideas as well as
she, and even better; it uses her forms as
symbols to express them ; and it fashions
even these, remodels them upon a type
more perfect and more pure. It is not
without significance that its works are
styled the creations of the genius of man.
A second system substitutes expression
for imitation. Art accordingly has for its
aim, not to represent the external form
of things, but their eternal and living prin-
ciple, particularly the ideas, sentiments,
passions and conditions of the soul.

Less gross than the preceding, this
theory is no less false and dangerous.
Let us here distinguish two things : the
idea and the expression — the content and
the form. Now, if Art is designed for ex-
pression solely — if expression is its essen-
tial object — its content is indifferent.
Provided that the picture be faithful the
expression lively and animated, the good
and the bad, the vicious, the hideous, the
ugly, have the same right to figure here
as the Beautiful. Immoral, licentious, im-
pious, the artist will have fulfilled his obli-
gation and reached perfection, when he
has succeeded in faithfully rendering a
situation, a passion, an idea, be it true or
false. It is clear that if in this system
the object of imitation is changed, the
procedure is the same. Art would be only
an echo, a harmonious language; a liv-
ing mirror, where all sentiments and all

passions would find themselves reflected,
the base part and the noble part of the soul
contending here for the same place. The
true, here, would be the real, would include
objects the most diverse and the most con-
tradictory. Indifferent as to the content,
the artist seeks only to represent it well. He
troubles himself little concerning truth in
itself. Skeptic or enthusiast indifferently,
he makes us partake of the delirium of
the Bacchanals, or the unconcern of the
Sophist. Such is the system which takes
for a motto the maxim, Art is for art; that
is to say, mere expression for its own sake.
Its consequences, and the fatal tendency
which it has at all times pressed upon the
arts, are well known.

A third system sets up moral perfection
as the aim of art. It cannot be denied
that one of the effects of art is to soften
and purify manners (emollit mores). In
mirroring man to himself, it tempers the
rudeness of his appetites and his passions ;
it disposes him to contemplation and re-
flection; it elevates his thought and sen-
timents, by leading them to an ideal which
it suggests, — to ideas of a superior order.
Art has, from all time, been regarded as
a powerful instrument of civilization, as
an auxiliary of religion. It is, together
with religion, the earliest instructor of
nations ; it is besides a means of instruc-
tion for minds incapable of comprehending
truth otherwise than under the veil of a
symbol, and by images that address them-
selves to the sense as well as to the spirit.

But this theory, although much superior
to the preceding is no more exact. Its
defect consists in confounding the moral
effect of art with its real aim. This con-
fusion has inconveniences which do not
appear at the first glance. Let care be
taken, meanwhile, lest, in thus assigning
to art a foreign aim. it be not robbed of
its liberty, which is its essence, and with-
out which it has no inspiration— that
thereby it be not prevented from produ-
cing the effects which are to be expected
from it. Between religion, morals and
art, there exists an eternal and intimate
harmony; but they are, none the less, es-
sentially diverse forms of truth, and,
while preserving entire the bonds which
unite them, they claim a complete inde-
pendence. Art has its peculiar laws,

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

methods and jurisdiction ; though it ought
not to wound the moral sense, yet it is the
sense of the Beautiful to which it is ad-
dressed. When its works are pure, its
effect on the soul is salutary, hut its direct
and immediate aim is not this result.
Seeking it, it risks losing it, and does lose
its own end. Suppose, indeed, that the
aim of art should be to instruct, under the
veil of allegory; the idea, the abstract
and general thought, must be present in
the spirit of the artist at the very moment
of composition. It seeks, then, a form
which is adapted to that idea, and furn-
ishes drapery for it. Who does not see
that this procedure is the very opposite of
inspiration'? There can be born of it only
frigid and lifeless works ; its effect will
thus be neither moral nor religious; it
will produce only ennui.

Another consequence of the opinion
which makes moral perfection the object
of art and its creations, is that this end is
imposed so completely upon art and con-
trols it to such a degree, that it has no
longer even a choice of subjects. The se-
vere moralist would have it represent moral
subjects alone. Art is then undone. This
system led Plato to banish poets from his
republic. If, then, it is necessary to
maintain the agreement of morality and
art, and the harmony of their laws, their
distinct bases and independence must also
be recognized. In order to understand
thoroughly this distinction between morals
and art it is necessary to have solved the
moral problem. Morality is the realiza-
tion of the "ought"' by the free will; it
is the conflict between passion and reason,
inclination and law, the flesh and the
spirit. It hinges upon an opposition.
Antagonism is, indeed, the very law of
the physical and moral universe. But this
opposition ought to be cancelled. This is
is the destiny of beings who by their devel-
opment and progress continually realize
themselves.

Now, in morals, this harmony of the
powers of our being, which should restore
peace and happiness, does not exist.
Morality proposes it as an end to the free
will. The aim and the realization are dis-
tinct. Duty consists in an incessant striv-
ing. Thus, in one respect, morals and
art have the same principle and the same

aim ; the harmony of rectitude and hap-
piness, of actions and law. But that
wherein they differ is. that in morals the
end is never wholly attained. It appears
separated from the means ; the con-
sequence is equally separated from the
principle. The harmony of rectitude, and
happiness ought to be the result of the
efforts of virtue. In order to conceive
the identity of the two terms, it is nec-
essary to elevate one's self to a superior
point of view, which is not that of morals.
In empirical science equally, the law ap-
pears distinct from the phenomenon, the
essence separated from its form. In order
that this distinction may be cancelled,
there is necessary a mode of thinking
which is superior to that of reflection, or
of empirical science.

Art. on the contrary, offers to us in a
visible image, the realized harmony of the
two terms of existence, of the law of be-
ings and their manifestation, of essence
and form, of rectitude and happiness.
The beautiful is essence realized, ac-
tivity in conformity with its end, and
identified with it ; it is the force which is
harmoniously developed under our eyes,
in the innermost of existences, and
which cancels the contradictions of its
nature; happy, free, full of serenity in
the very midst of suffering and of sorrow.
The problem of art is then distinct from
the moral problem. The good is harmony
sought for; beauty is harmony realized.
So must we understand the thought of
Hegel ; he here only intimates it, but it will
be fully developed in the sequel.

The true aim of art is then to represent
the Beautiful, to reveal this harmony. This
is its only purpose. Every other aim,
purification, moral amelioration, edifica-
tion, are accessories or consequences. The
effect of the contemplation of the Beautiful
is to produce in us a calm pure joy, in-
compatible with the gross pleasures of
sense ; it lifts the soul above the ordinary
sphere of its thoughts ; it disposes to noble
resolutions and generous actions by the
close affinity which exists between the three
sentiments and three ideas of the Good,
the Beautiful, and the Divine.

Such are the principal ideas which this
remarkable introduction contains. The re-
mainder, devoted to the examination of

HegeTs Philosophy of Art.

works which have marked the development
of aesthetic science in Germany since
Kant is scarcely susceptible of analysis,
and does not so much deserve our atten-
tion.

The first part of the science of aesthetics,
which might be called the Metaphysics of
the Beautiful, contains, together with the
arialysis of the idea of the Beautiful, the
general principles common to all the arts.
Thus Hegel here treats : First, of the ab-
stract idea of the Beautiful ; second, of the
Beautiful in nature ; third, of the Beautiful
in art. or of the ideal. He concludes with
an examination of the qualities of the art-
ist. But before entering upon these ques-
tions, he thought it necessary to point out
the place of art in human life, and espe-
cially Us connections with religion and
philosophy.

The destination jof man. the law of his
nature, is to develop himself incessantly,
to stretch unceasingly towards the infinite.
He ought, at the same time, to put an end
to the opposition which he finds in himself
between the elements and powers of his be-
ing ; to place them in accord by realizing
and developing them externally. Physical
life is a struggle between opposing forces,
and the living being can sustain itself only
through the conflict and the triumph of the
force which constitutes it. With man, and
in the moral sphere, this conflict and pro-
gressive enfranchisement are manifested
under the form of freedom , which is the
highest destination of spirit. Freedom
consists in surmounting the obstacles which
it encounters within and without, in re-
moving the limits, in effacing all contra-
diction, in vanquishing evil and sorrow, in
order to attain to harmony with the world
and with itself. In actual life man seeks
to destroy that opposition by the satisfac-
tion of his physical wants. He calls to his
aid, industry and the useful arts, but he
obtains thus only limited, relative, and
transient enjoyments. He finds a nobler
pleasure in science, which furnishes food
for his ardent curiosity, and promises to
reveal to him the laws of nature and to
unveil the secrets of the universe. Civil
life opens another channel to his activity ;
he burns to realize his conceptions ; he
marches to the conquest of the right, and
pursues the ideal of justice which he bears

within him. He endeavors to realize in
civil society his instinct of sociability,
which is also the law of liis being, and one
of the fundamental inclinations of his mor-
al nature.

But here again, he attains an imperfect
felicity; he encounters limits and obstacles
which he cannot surmount, and against
which his will is broken. He cannot ob-
tain the perfect realization of his ideas,
nor attain the ideal which his spirit con-
ceives and toward which it aspires. Be
then feels the necessity of elevating him-
self to a higher sphere where all contradic-
tions are canceled; where the idea of the
good and of happiness in their perfect ac-
cord and their enduring harmony is real-
ized. This profound want of the soul is
satisfied in three ways: in art, in religion.
and in philosplvj. The function of art is
to lead us to the contemplation of the true,
the infinite, under sensuous forms ; for the
beautiful is the unity, the realized harmo-
ny of two principles of existence, of the
idea and the form, of the infinite and the
finite. This is the principle and the hid-
den essence of things, beaming through
their visible form. Art presents us. in its
works, the image of this happy accord
where all opposition ceases, and where all
contradiction is canceled. Such is the
aim of art: to represent the divine, the in-
finite under sensuous forms. This is its
mission, it has no other and this it alone
can fulfill. By this title it takes its place
by the side of religion, and preserves its
independence. It takes its rank also with
philosophy, whose object is the knowledge
of the true, of absolute truth.

Alike then as to their general ground
and aims, these three spheres are distin-
guished by the form under which they be-
come revealed to the spirit and conscious-
ness of man. Art, is addressed to sensuous
perception and to the imagination; reli-
gion is addressed to the soul, to the con-
science, and to sentiment; philosophy is
addressed to pure thought or to the reason,
which conceives the truth in an abstract
manner.

Art. which offers us truth under sensu-
ous forms, does not. however, respond to
the profoundest needs of the soul. The
spirit is possessed of 1 1 1 « - desire <»f entering
into itself, of contemplating the truth in

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

the inner recesses of consciousness. Above
the domain of art, then, religion is placed
which reveals the infinite, and by medita-
tion conveys to the depths of the heart, to
the centre of the soul, that which in art we
contemplate externally. As to philosophy
its peculiar aim is to conceive and to com-
prehend by the intellect alone, under an
abstract form, that which is given as sen-
timent or as sensuous representation.

1. Of the Idea of the Beautiful.

After these preliminaries. Hegel enters
upon the questions which form the object
of this first part. He treats, in the first
place, of the idea of the beautiful in itself,
in its abstract nature. Freeing his thought
from the metaphysical forms which render
it difficult of comprehension to minds not
familiar with his system, we arrive at this
definition, already contained in the fore-
going : the Beautiful is the true, that is to
say, the essence, the inmost substance of
things ; the true, not such as the mind con-
ceives it in its abstract and pure nature,
but as manifested to the senses under visi-
ble forms. It is the sensuous manifesta-
tion of the idea, which is the soul and
principle of things. This definition recalls
that of Plato : the Beautiful is the splendor
of the true.

What are the characteristics of the beau-
tiful? First, it is infinite in this sense,
that it is the divine principle itself which
is revealed and manifested, and that the
form which expresses it, in place of limit-
ing it, realizes it and confounds itself with
it; second it is free, for true freedom is
not the absence of rule and measure, it is
force which develops itself easily and har-
moniously. It appears in the bosom of
the existences of the sensuous world, as
their principle of life, of unity, and of
harmony whether free from all obstacle,
or victorious and triumphant in conflict
always calm and serene.

The spectator who contemplates beauty
feels himself equally free, and has a con-
sciousness of his infinite nature. He tastes
a pure pleasure, resulting from the felt ac-
cord of the powers of his being ; a celestial
and divine joy. which has nothing in com-
mon with material pleasures, and does not
suffer to exist in the soul a single impure
or gross desire.

The contemplation of the Beautiful
awakens no such cravings ; it is self-suf-
ficing, and is not accompanied by any re-
turn of the me upon itself. It suffers the
object to preserve its independence for its
own sake. The soul experiences some-
thing analagous to divine felicity ; it is
transported into a sphere foreign to the
miseries of life and terrestrial existence.

This theory it is apparent, would need
only to be developed to return wholly to the
Platonic theory. Hegel limits himself to
referring to it. We recognize here, also,
the results of the Kantian analysis,

II. Of the Beautiful in Nature.

Although science cannot pause to de-
scribe the beauties of nature, it ought,
nevertheless to study in a general man-
ner, the characteristics of the Beautiful,
as it appears to us in the physical world
and in the beings which it contains . This is
the subject of a somewhat extended chap-
ter with the following title : Of the Beau-
tiful in Nature. Hegel herein considers
the question from the particular point of
view of his philosophy, and he applies his
theory of the Idea. Nevertheless, the re-
sults at which he arrives, and the manner
in which he describes the forms of physical
beauty, can be comprehended and accepted
independently of his system, little adapted,
it must be confessed, to cast light upon
this subject.

The Beautiful in nature is the first mani-
festation of the Idea. The successive de-
grees of beauty correspond to the develop-

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

merit of life and organization in beings.
Unity is an essential characteristic of it.
Thus, in the mineral, beauty consists in the
arrangement or disposition of the parts,
in the force winch resides in them, and
which reveals itself in this unity. The
solar system otters us a more perfect unity
and a higher beauty. The bodies in that
system, while preserving entire their indi-
vidual existence, co-ordinate themselves
into a whole, the parts of which are inde-
pendent, although attached to a common
centre, the sun. Beauty of this order
strikes us by the regularity of the move-
ments of the celestial bodies. A unity
more real and true is that which is mani-
fested in organized and living beings. The
unity here consists in a relation of reci-
procity and of mutual dependence between
the organs, so that each of them loses
its independent existence in order to give
place to a wholly ideal unity which reveals
itself as the principle of life animating
them.

Tjfe is beautiful in nature : for it is es-
sence, force, the idea realized under its
first form. Nevertheless, beauty in nature
is still wholly external ; it has no conscious-
ness of itself; it is beautiful solely for
an intelligence which sees and contem-
plates it.

How do we perceive beauty in natural
beings? Beauty, with living and animate
beings, is neither accidental and capricious
movements, nor simple conformity of those
movements to an end — the uniform and
mutual connection of parts. This point of
view is that of the naturalist, of the man
of science; it is not that of the Beautiful.
Beauty is total form in so far as it reveals
the force which animates it ; it is this
force itself, manifested by a totality of
forms, of independent and free move-
ments; it is the internal harmony which
reveals itself in this secret accord of mem-
bers, and which betrays itself outwardly,
without the eye's pausing to consider the
relation of the parts to the whole, and their
functions or reciprocal connection, as sci-
ence does. The unity exhibits itself mere-
ly externally as the principle which binds
the members together. It manifests itself
especially through the sensibility. The
point of view of beauty is then that of pure
contemplation, not that of reflection,

which analyzes, compares and seizes the
connection of parts and their destination.

This internal and visible unity, this ac-
cord, and this harmony, are not distinct
from the material element: they are its
very form. This is the principle which
serves to determine beauty in its inferior
grades, the beauty of the crystal with its
regular forms, forms produced by an in-
ternal and free force. A similar activity
is developed in a more perfect manner in
the living organism, its outlines, the dispo-
sition of its members, the movements, and
the expression of sensibility.

Such is beauty in individual beings. It
is otherwise with it when we consider na-
ture in its totality, the beauty of a land-
scape, for example. There is no longer
question here about an organic disposition
of parts and of the life which animates
them; we have under our eyes a rich mul-
tiplicity of objects which form a whole,
mountains, trees, rivers, etc. In this di-
versity there appears an external unity
which interests us by its agreeable or im-
posing character. To this aspect there is
added that property of the objects of na-
ture through which they awaken in us,
sympathetically, certain sentiments, by the
secret analogy which exists between them
and the situations of the human soul.

Such is the effect produced by the silence
of the night, the calm of a still valley, the
sublime aspect of a vast sea in tumult,
and the imposing grandeur of the starry
heavens. The significance of these objects
is not in themselves; they are only sym-
bols of the sentiments of the soul which
they excite. It is thus we attribute to ani-
mals the qualities which belong only to
man, courage, fortitude, cunning. Physi-
cal beauty is a reflex of moral beauty.

To recapitulate, physical beauty, viewed
in its ground or essence, consists in the
manifestation of the concealed principle,
of the force which is developed in the bo-
som of matter. This force reveals itself
in a manner more or less perfect, by unity
in inert matter, and in living beings by the
different modes of organization.

Hejjel then devotes a special examination
to the external side, or to beauty of form
in natural objects. Physical beauty, con-
sidered externally, presents itself succes-
sively under the aspects of regularity and

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

symmetry of conformity to law and of har-
mony ; lastly, of purity and simplicty of
matter.

1. Regularity, which is only the repeti-
tion of a form equal to itself, is the most
•elementary and simple form. In symmetry
there already appears a diversity which
breaks the uniformity. These two forms
of beauty pertain to quantity, and consti-
tute mathematical beauty ; they are found
in organic and inorganic bodies, minerals
and crystals. In plants are presented less
regular and freer forms. In the organiza-
tion of animals, this regular and sym-
metrical disposition becomes more and
more subordinated in proportion as we as-
cend to higher degrees of the animal scale.

2. Conformity to a law marks a degree
still more elevated, and serves as a transi-
tion to freer forms. Here there appears
an accord more real and more profound,
which begins to transcend mathematical
rigor. It is no longer a simple numerical
relation, where quantity plays the princi-
pal role ; we discover a relation of quality
between different terms. A law rules
the whole, but it cannot be calcu-
lated ; it remains a hidden bond, which
reveals itself to the spectator. Such is
the oval line, and above all, the undulating
hue, which Hogarth has given as the line
of beauty. These lines determine, in fact,
the beautiful forms of organic nature in
living beings. of a high order, and, above
all, the beautiful forms of the human body,
of man and of woman.

3. Harmony is a degree still superior to
the preceding, and it includes them. It
consists in a totality of elements essen-
tially distinct, but whose opposition is
destroyed and reduced to unity by a secret
accord, a reciprocal adaptation. Such
is the harmony of forms and colors, that of
sounds and movements. Here the unity is
stronger, more prononce, precisely be-
cause the differences and the oppositions
are more marked. Harmony, however is
not as vet true unity, spiritual unity,
that of the soul, although the latter pos-
sesses within it a principal of harmony.
Harmony alone, as yet, reveals neither the
soul nor the spirit, as one may see in music
and dancing.

Beauty exists also in matter itself,
abstraction being made of its form ; it
consists then, in the unity and simplicity
which constitutes purity. Such is the
purity of the sky and of the atmosphere,
the purity of colors and of sounds ; that of
certain substances — of precious stones, of
gold, and of the diamond. Pure and sim-
ple colors are also the most agreeable.

After having described the beautiful in
nature, in order that the necessity of a
beauty more exalted and more ideal shall
be comprehended. Hegel sets forth the im-
perfections of real beauty. He begins with
animal life, which is the most elevated
point we have reached, and he dwells
upon the characteristics and causes of that
imperfection.

Thus first in the animal, although the
organism is more perfect than that of the
plant, what we see is not the central point
of life ; the special seat of the operations
of the force which animates the whole, re-
mains concealed from us. We see only
the outlines of the external form, covered
with hairs scales, feathers, skin; second-
ly, the human body, it is true, exhibits
more beautiful proportions, and a more
perfect form, because in it life and sensi-
bility are everywhere manifested — in the
color, the flesh, the freer movements,
nobler attitudes, &c. Yet here, besides
the imperfections in details, the sensibil-
ity does not appear equally distributed.
Certain parts are appropriated to animal
functions, and exhibit their destination in
their form. Further, individuals in nature,
placed as they are under a dependence
upon external causes, and under the in-
fluence of the elements, are under the
dominion of necessity and want. Under
the continual action of these causes, phy-
sical being is exposed to losing the fulness
of its forms and the flower of its beauty ;
rarely do these causes permit it to attain
to its complete, free and regular develop-
ment. The human body is placed under a
like dependence upon external agents. If
we pass from the physical to the moral
world, that dependence appears still more
clearly.

Everywhere there is manifested diver-
sity, and opposition of tendencies and
interests. The individual, in the pleni-
tude of his life and beauty, can not pre-

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

serve the appearance of a free force. Each
individual being- is limited and particular-
ized in his excellence. His life flows in a
narrow circle of space and time; he be-
longs to a determinate species; his type
is <men. his form defined, and the condi-
tions of his development fixed. The hu-
man body itself offers, in respect to beauty.
a progression of forms dependent on the
diversity of races. Then come hereditary
qualities, the peculiarities which are due
to temperament, profession, age and sex.
All these causes alter and disfigure the
purest and most perfect primitive type.

All these imperfections are summed up
in a word: the finite. Human life and
animal life realize their idea only imper-
fectly. Moreover, spirit, not being able
to find, in the limits of the real, the sight
and the enjoyment of its proper freedom —
seeks to satisfy itself in a region more ele-
vated, that of art. or of the ideal.

III. Of the beautiful in Art or of the Ideal.

Art has as its end and aim the representa-
tion of the ideal. Now what is the ideal?
It is beauty in a degree of perfection supe-
rior to real beauty. It is force, life, spirit,
the essence of things, developing them-
selves harmoniously in a sensuous reality,
which is its resplendent image, its faithful
expression; it is beauty disengaged and
purified from the accidents which veil and
disfigure it, and which alter its purity in
the real world.

The ideal, in art. is not then the contrary
of the real, but the real idealized, purified,
rendered conformable to its idea, and per-
fectly expressing it. In a word, it is the
perfect accord of the idea and the sensuous
form.

On the other hand, the true ideal is not
lite in its inferior degrees — blind, undevel-
oped force — but the soul arrived at the
consciousness of itself, free, and in the lull
enjoyment of its faculties: it is life, but

spiritual life— in a word, spirit. The rep-
resentation of the spiritual principle, in
the plenitude of its life and freedom, with
its high conceptions, its profound and noble
sentiments, its joys and its sufferings: this
is the true aim of art, the true ideal.

Finally, the ideal is not a Lifeless abstrac-
tion, a frigid generality ; it h the spiritual
principle under the form of the living indi-
vidual, freed from the bonds of the tinite,
and developing itself in its perfect harmony
with its inmost nature and essence.

We see, thus, what are the characteris-
tics of the ideal. It is evident that in all
its degrees it is calmness, serenity, felici-
ty, happy existence, freed from the mise-
ries and wants of life. This serenity
does not exclude earnestness : for the ideal
appears in the midst of the conflicts of
life; but even the roughesl experiences,
in the midst of intense suffering, the soul
preserves an evident calmness as a funda-
mental trait. It is felicity in suffering,
the glorification of sorrow, smiling in
tears. The echo of this felicity resounds
in all the spheres of the ideal.

It is important to determine, with still
more precision, the relations of the ideal
and the real.

The opposition of the ideal and the real
has given rise to two conflicting opinions.
Some conceive of the ideal as something-
vague, an abstract, lifeless generality,
without individuality. Others extol the
natural, the imitation of the real in the
most minute and prosaic details. Equal
exaggeration ! The truth lies between the
two extremes.

In the first place, the ideal may be. in
fact, something external and accidental.
an insignificant form or appearance, a
common existence. But that which con-
stitutes the ideal, in this inferior degree,
is the fact that this reality, imitated by

art. is a creation of spirit, and be< les

then something artificial not real. It is
an image and a metamorphosis. This
image moreover, is more permanent than
its model, more durable than the real ob-
ject. In fixing that which is mobile and
transient, in eternizing that which is mo-
mentary and fugitive— a Mower, a smile—
art surpasses nature and idealizes ii .

But ii does not stop here, instead of
simply reproducing these objects, while

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

preserving their natural form, it seizes
their internal and deepest character, it
extends their signification, and gives to
them a more elevated and more general
significance ; for it must manifest the uni-
versal in the individual, and render visible
the idea which they represent, their eter-
nal and fixed type. It allows this charac-
ter of generality to penetrate everywhere,
without reducing it to an abstraction.
Thus the artist does not slavishly repro-
duce all the features of the object, and its
accident, but only the true traits, those
conformable to its idea. If, then, he takes
nature as a model, he still surpasses and
idealizes it. Naturalness, faithfulness,
truth these are not exact imitation, but
the perfect conformity of the form to the
idea; they are the creation of a more
perfect form, whose essential traits repre-
sent the idea more faithfully and more
clearly than it is expressed in nature itself.
To know how to disengage the operative,
energetic, essential and significant ele-
ments in objects. — this is the task of the
artist. The ideal, then, is not the real ; the
latter contains many elements insignificant
useless, confused and foreign, or oppos-
ed to the idea. The natural here loses
its vulgar significance. By this word must
be understood the more exalted expression
of spirit. The ideal is a transfigured, glo-
rified nature.

As to vulgar and common nature, if art
takes it also for its object, it is not for its
own sake, but because of what in it is
true, excellent, interesting, ingenuous or
gay, as in genre painting, in Dutch paint-
ing particularly. It occupies, neverthe-.
less, an inferior rank, and cannot make
pretentions to a place beside the grand
compositions of art.

But there are other subjects — a nature
more elevated and more ideal. Art. at its
culminating stage, represents the develop-
ment of the internal powers of the soul,
its grand passions, profound sentiments,
and lofty destinies. Now it is clear that
the artist does not find in the real world,
forms so pure and ideal that he may safely
confine himself to imitating and copying.
Moreover, if the form, itself, be given, ex-
pression must be added. Besides he
ought to secure, in a just measure, the
union of the individual and the universal,

of the form and the idea; to create a
living ideal, penetrated with the idea, and
in which it animates the sensuous form
and appearance throughout, so that there
shall be nothing in it empty or insig-
nificant, nothing that is not alive with ex-
pression itself. Where shall he find in the
real world, this just measure, this an-
imation, and this exact correspondence
of all the parts and of all the details con-
spiring to the same end. to the same effect V
to say that he will succeed in conceiving
and realizing the ideal, \>y making a felicit-
ous selection of ideas and forms, is to
ignore the secret of artistic composition;
it is to misconceive the entirely sponta-
neous method of genius, — inspiration which
creates at a single effort, — to replace it by
reflective drudgery, which only results in
the production of frigid and lifeless
works.

It does not suffice to define the ideal in
an abstract manner, the ideal is exhibited
to us in the works of art under very va-
rious and divers forms. Thus sculpture
represents it under the motionless features
of its figures. In the other arts it assumes
the form of movement and of action ; in
poetry, particularly, it manifests itself in
the midst of most varied situations and
events, of conflicts between persons ani-
mated by divers passions. How and under
what conditions, is each art in partic-
ular called upon to represent thus the
ideal? This will be the object of the
theory of the arts. In the general expo-
sition of the principles of art, we may,
nevertheless attempt to define the degrees
of this development, to stud}' the princi-
pal aspects under which it manifests it-
self. Such is the object of those con-
siderations, the title of which is, Of
the Determination of the Ideal, and
which the author develops in this first
part of the work. We can trace only
summarily the principal ideas, devoting
ourselves to marking their order and con-
nection.

The gradation which the author estab-
lishes between the progressively determ-
ined form of the ideal is as follows :

1. The ideal, under the most elevated
form, is the divine idea, the divine such
as the imagination can represent it under

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

sensuous forms ; such is the Greek ideal
of the divinities of Polytheism ; such the
Christian ideal in its highest purity, under
the form of God the Father, of Christ, of
the Virgin, of the Apostles, etc. It is
given, above all, to sculpture and painting.
to present us the image of it. Its essen-
tial characteristics are calmness, majesty,
serenity.

2. In a degree less elevated, but more
determined, in the circle of human life,
the ideal appears to us. with man, as the
victory of the eternal principles which fill
the human heart, the triumph of the noble
part of the soul over the inferior and
passionate. The noble, the excellent,
the perfect, in the human sou], is the
moral and divine principle which is mani-
fested in it, which governs its will, and
causes it to accomplish grand actions ;
this is the true source of self-sacrifice and
of heroism.

3. But the idea, when it is manifested
in the real world, can be developed only
under the form of action. Now, action
itself has for its condition a conflict be-
tween principles and persons, divided as
to interests, ideas, passions, and charac-
ters. It is this especially that is repre-
sented by poetry — the art par excellence,
the only art which can reproduce an action
in its successive phases, with its complica-
tions, its sudden turns of fortune, its
catastrophy and its denouement.

Action, if one considers it more closely,
includes the following conditions : 1st. A
world which serves it as a basis and
theatre, a form of society which renders it
possible, and is favorable to the develop-
ment of ideal figures. 2d. A determinate
situation, in which the personages are
placed who render necessary the conflict
between opposing interests and passions,
whence a collision may arise. 3d. An
action, properly so called, which develops
itself in its essential moments, which has a
beginning, a middle, and an end. This ac-
tion, in order to afford a high interest,
should revolve upon ideas of an elevated
order, which inspire and sustain the per-
sonages, ennobling their passions, and
^orminji" the basis of their character.

Hegel treats, in a general manner, each
of these points, which will appear anew,
under a more special form, in the study of
poetry, and particularly of epic and dra-
matic poetry.

1. The state of society most favorable
to the ideal is that which allows the char-
acters to act with most freedom, to reveal
a lofty and powerful personality. This
cannot be a social order, where all is fixed
and regulated by laws and a constitution.
jSTor can it be the savage state, where all
is subject to caprice and violence, and
where man is dependent upon a thousand
external causes, which render his existence
precarious. ISTow the state intermediate
between the barbarous state and an ad-
vanced civilization, is the heroic age, that
in which the epic poets locate their action,
and from which the tragic poets them-
selves have often borrowed their subjects
and their personages. That which char-
acterizes heroes in this epoch is above all,
the independence which is manifested in
their characters and acts. On the other
hand, the hero is all of a piece; he as-
sumes not only the responsibility of his
acts and their consequences, but the re-
sults of actions he has not perpetrated,
of the faults or crimes of his race ; he
bears in his person an entire race.

Another reason why the ideal existences
of art belong to the mythologic ages, and
to remote epochs of history, is that the
artist or the poet, in representing or re-
counting events, has a freer scope in his
ideal creations. Art. also, for the same
reason, has a predilection for the higher
conditions of society, those of princes par-
ticularly, because of the perfect indepen-
dence of will and action which character-
izes them. In this respect, our actual
society, with its civil and political organi-
zation, its manners, administration, police,
etc., is prosaic. The sphere of activity of
the individual is too restricted; he en-
counters everywhere limits and shackles
to his will. Our monarchs themselves are
subject to these conditions; their power is
limited by institutions, laws and customs.
War, peace, and treaties are determined
by political relations independent of their
will.

The greatest poets have not been able

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

to escape these conditions ; and when they
have desired to represent personages
nearer to us, as Charles Moor, or Wallen-
stein, they have been obliged to place
them in revolt against society or against
their sovereign. Moreover, these heroes
rush on to an inevitable ruin, or thej- fall
into the ridiculous situation, of which the
Don Quixote of Cervantes gives us the
most striking example.

2. To represent the ideal in personages
or in an action, there is necessary not only
a favorable world from which the subject
is to be borrowed, but a situation. This
situation can be either indeterminate, like
that of many of the immobile personages
of antique or religious sculpture, or de-
terminate, but yet of little earnestness.
Such are also the greater number of the
situations of the personages of antique
sculpture. Finally it may be earnest, and
furnish material for a veritable action. It
supposes, then, an opposition, an action
and a reaction, a conflict, a collision. The
beauty of the ideal consists in absolute
serenity and perfection. Now, collision
destroys this harmony. The problem of
art consists, then, in so managing that the
harmony reappears in the denouement.
Poetry alone is capable of developing this
opposition upon which the interest, partic-
ularly of tragic art turns.

Without examining here the nature of
the different collisions, the study of which
belongs to the theory of dramatic art. we
must already have remarked that the colli-
sions of the highest order are those in
which the conflict takes place between
moral forces, as in the ancient tragedies.
This is the subject of true classic tragedy,
moral as well as religious, as will be seen
from what follows.

Thus the ideal, in this superior degree,
is the manifestation of moral powers and
of the ideas of spirit, of the grand move-
ments of the soul, and of the characters
which appear and are revealed in the de-
velopment of the representation.

3. In action, properly so-called, three
things are to be considered which consti-
tute its ideal object: 1. The general inter-
ests, the ideas, the universal principles.
whose opposition funis the very founda-

tion of the action ; 2. The personages. 3.
Their character and their passions, or the
motives which impel them to act/

In the first place, the eternal principles
of religion, of morality, of the family, of
the state — the grand sentiments of the
soul, love, honor, etc — these constitute the
basis, the true interest of the action.
These are the grand and true motives of
art, the eternal theme of exalted poetry.

To these legitimate and true powers oth-
ers are, without doubt, added; the powers
of evil ; but they ought not to be repre-
sented as forming the real foundation and
end of the action. "If the idea, the end,
and aim, be something false in itsalf, the
hideousness of the ground will allow still
less beauty of form. The sophistry of the
passions may, indeed, by a true picture,
attempt to represent the false under the
colors of the true, but it places under our
eyes only a whited sepulchre. Cruelty and
the violent employment of force can be en-
dured in representation, but only when
they are relieved by the grandeur of the
character and ennobled by the aim which
is pursued by the dramatis personal. Per-
versity, envy, cowardice, baseness are only
repulsive.

"Evil, in itself is stripped of real in-
terest, because nothing but the false can
spring from what is false ; it produces on-
ly misfortune, while art should present to
us order and harmon}^. The great artists,
the great poets of antiquity, never give us
the spectacle of pure wickedness and per-
versity.*'

We cite this passage because it exhibits
l lie character and high moral tone which
prevails in the entire work, as we shall
have occasion to observe more than once
hereafter.

If the ideas and interests of human life
form the ground of the action, the latter is
accomplished by the characters upon whom
the interest is fastened. General ideas
may, indeed, be personated by beings su-
perior to man, b}' certain divinities like
those which figure in the ancient epic poetry
and tragedy. But it is to man that action,
properly so called, returns; it is he who
occupies the scene. Now how reconcile
divine action and human action, the will
of the gods and that of man! Such is the
problem which has made shipwreck <>!' »<>

Hegel' ■ s Philosophy of Art.

many poets and artists. To maintain a
proper equipoise it is necessary that the
gods have supreme direction, and that man
preserve his freedom and his independence
without which he is no more than the pas-
sive instrument of the will of the gods ; fa-
tality weighs upon all his acts. The true
solution consists in maintaining - the ident-
ity of the two terms, in spite of their dif-
ference; in so acting that what is attributed
to the gods shall appear at the same time
to emanate from the inner nature of the
dramatis persona and from their character.
The talent of the artist must reconcile the
two aspects. "The heart of man must be
revealed in his gods, personifications of
the grand motives which allure him and
govern him within." This is the problem
resolved by the great poets of antiquity,
Homer, JEschylus, and Sophocles.

The general principles, those grand mo-
tives which are the basis of the action, by
the fact that they are living in the soul of
the characters, form, also, the very ground
of the passions; this is the essence of true
pathos. Passion here in the elevated ideal
sense, is, in fact, not an arbitrary, capri-
cious, irregular movement of the soul ; it is
a noble principle, which blends itself with
a great idea, with one of the eternal veri-
ties of moral or religious order. Such is
the passion of Antigone, the holy love for
her brother ; such, the vengeance of Orestes.
It is an essentially legitimate power of the
soul which contains one of the eternal
principles of the reason and the will. This
is still the ideal, the true ideal, although it
appears under the form of a passion. It
relieves, ennobles and purifies it; it thus
gives to the action a serious and profound
interest.

It is in this sense that passion consti-
tutes the centre and true domain of art; it
is the principle of emotion, the source of
true pathos.

Now, this moral verity, this eternal
principal which descends into the heart of
man and there takes the form of great and
noble passion, identifying itself with the
will of the dramatis persons, constitutes
also, their character. Without this high
idea which serves as support and as basis
to passion there is no true character.
Character is the culminating point of ideal
representation. It is the embodiment of

all that precedes. It is in the creation of
the characters, that the genius of the art-
ist or of the poet is displayed.

Three principal elements must be united
to form the ideal character, richness, vital-
ity and stability. Richness consists in not
being limited to a single quality, which
would make of the person an abstraction,
an allegoric being. To a single dominant
quality there should be added all those
which make of the personage or hero
a real and complete man, capable of be-
ing developed in diverse situations and
under varying aspects. Such a multiplici-
ty alone can give vitality to the character.
This is not sufficient however; it is neces-
sary that the qualities be moulded together
in such a manner as to form not a simple
assemblage and a complex whole, but one
and the same individual, having peculiar
and original physiognomy. This is the
case when a particular sentiment, a ruling
passion, presents the salient trait of the
character of a person, and gives to him a
fixed aim, to which all his resolutions and
his acts refer. Unity and variety, sim-
plicity and completeness of detail, these
are presented to us in the characters of
Sophocles. Shakespeare, and others.

Lastly what constitutes essentially the
ideal in character is consistency and stabil-
ity. An inconsistent, undecided, irresolute
character, is the utter want of character.
Contradictions, without doubt, exist in hu-
man nature, but unity should be maintain-
ed in spite of these fluctuations. Some-
thing identical ought to be found through-
out as a fundamental trait. To be self-de-
termining, to follow a design, to embrace a
resolution and persist in it. constitute the
very foundation of personality; to suffer
one's self to be determined by another, to
hesitate, to vacillate, this is to surrender
one's will, to cease to be one's self, to lack
character; this is in all cases, the oppo-
site of the ideal character.

Hegel on this subject strongly protests
against the characters which figure in mod-
ern pieces and romances, and of which
YVerther is the type.

These pretended characters, says he, rep-
resent only unhealthiness of spirit, and
feebleness of soul. Now true and healthy
art does not represent what is false and
sickly, what lacks consistency and de-

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

cision, but that which is true, healthy and
strong. The ideal in a word, is the idea
realized ; man can realize it only as a free
person, that is to say, by displaying all
the energy and constancy which can make
it triumph.

We shall find more than once, in the
course of the work, the same ideas de-
veloped with the same force and precision.

That which constitutes the very ground
of the ideal is the inmost essence of things,
especially the lofty conceptions of the
spirit, and the development of the powers
of the soul. These ideas are manifest in
an action in which are placed upon the
scene the grand interests of life, the pas-
sions of the human heart, the will and the
character of actors. But this action is
itself developed in the midst of an external
nature which moreover, lends to the ideal,
colors and a determinate form. These
external surroundings must also be con-
ceived and fashioned in the meaning of the
ideal, according to the laws of regularity,
symmetry, and harmony, of which mention
has been made above . How ought man to be
represented in his relations with external
nature? How ought this prose of life to be
idealized ! If art, in fact frees man from
the wants of material life, it cannot, how-
ever, elevate him above the conditions of
human existence, and suppress these con-
nections.

Hegel devotes a special examination to
this new phase of the question of the ideal,
which he designates by this title— Of the
external determination of the ideal.

In our days we have given an exaggerated
importance to this external side, which
we have made the principal object. We
are too unmindful that art should repre-
sent the ideas and sentiments of the hu-
man soul, that this is the true ground of
its works. Hence all these minute de-
scriptions, this external care given to the
picturesque element or to the local color,
to furniture, to costumes, to all those arti-
ficial means employed to disguise the
emptiness and insignificance of the sub-
ject, the absence of ideas, tbe falsity of
the situations, the feebleness of the char-
acters, and the improbability of the
action.

Nevertheless, this side has its place in
art, and should not be neglected. It "rives

clearness, truthfulness, life and interest
to its works, by the secret sympathy which
exists between man and nature. It is
characteristic of the great masters to rep-
resent nature with perfect truthfulness.
Homer is an example of this. Without
forgetting the content for the form, pic-
ture for the frame, he presents to us a
faultless and precise image of the theatre
of action. The arts differ much in this
respect. Sculpture limits itself to certain
symbolic indications ; painting, which, has
at its disposal means more extended, en-
riches with these objects the content of its
pictures. Among the varieties of poetry,
the epic is more circumstantial in its de-
scriptions than the drama or lyric poetry.
But this external fidelity should not in any
art. extend to the representation of insig-
nificant details, to the making of them an
object of predilection, and to subordinat-
ing- to them the developments which the
subject itself claims. The grand point in
these descriptions is that we perceive a
secret harmony between man and nature,
between the action and the theatre on
which it occurs.

Another species of accord is established
between man and the objects of physical
nature, when, through his free activity, he
impresses upon them his intelligence and
will, and appropriates them to his own
use ; the ideal consists in causing misery
and necessity to disappear from the do-
main of art, in revealing the freedom
which develops itself without effort under
our eyes, and easily surmounts obstacles.

Such is the ideal considered under this
aspect. Thus the gods of polytheism
themselves have garments and arms ; they
drink nectar and are nourished by ambro-
sia. The garment is an ornament designed
to heighten the glory of the features, to
give nobleness to the countenance, to fa-
cilitate movement, or to indicate force and
agility. The most brilliant objects, the
metals, precious stones, purple and ivory,
are employed for the same end. All con-
cur to produce the effects of grace and
beauty.

In the satisfaction of physical wants the
ideal consists, above all, in the simplicity
of the means. Instead of being artificial,
factitious, complex, the latter emanate
directly from the activity of man, and free-

HegeVs Philosophy of Art.

dorn. The heroes of Homer themselves
slay the oxen which are to serve for the
feast, and roast them ; they forge their
arms, and prepare their couches. This is
not, as one might think, a relic of barbar-
ous manners, something prosaic ; but we
see. penetrating everywhere the delight of
invention, the pleasure of easy toil and
free activity exercised on material objects.
Everything is peculiar to and inherent in
his character, and a means for the hero
of revealing the force of his arm and the
skill of his hand; while in civilized so-
ciety, these objects depend on a thousand
foreign causes, on a complex adjustment
in which man is converted into a machine
subordinated to other machines. Things
have lost their freshness and vitality;
they remain inanimate, and are no longer
proper, direct creations of the human per-
son, in which the man loves to solace and
contemplate himself.

A final point relative to the external
form of the ideal is that which concerns
the relation of works of art to the public,
that is to say, to the nation and epoch for
which the artist or the poet composes his
works. Ought the artist when he treats a
subject, to consult above all, the spirit,
taste and manners of the people whom he
addresses, and conform himself to their
ideas? This is the means of exciting in-
terest in fabulous and imaginary or even
historic persons. But then there is a lia-
bility to distort history and tradition.

Ought he, on the other hand, to repro-
duce 'with scrupulous exactness the man-
ners and customs of another time, to g've
to the facts and the characters their proper
coloring and their original and primitive
costume? This is the problem. Hence
arise two schools and two opposite modes
of representation. In the age of Louis
XIV.. for example, the Greeks and Ro-
mans are conceived in the likeness of
Frenchmen. Since then, by a natural re-
action, the contrary tendency has prevailed.
To-day the poet must have the knowledge
of an archeologist, and possess his scru-
pulous exactness, and pay close attention.
above all, to local color, and historic verity
has become the principal and essential
aim of art.

Truth here, as always, lies between the
two extremes. It is necessary to maintain.

at the same time, the rights of art and
those of the public, to have a proper re-
gard for the spirit of the epoch, and to
satisfy the exigencies of the subject treated.
These are the very judicious rules which
the author states upon this delicate
point.

The subject should be intelligible and
interesting to the public to which it is ad-
dressed. But this end the poet or the
artist will attain only so far as, by his
general spirit, his work responds to some
one of the essential ideas of the human
spirit and to the general interests of hu-
manity. The particularities of an epoch
are not of true and enduring interest
to us.

If, then, the subject is borrowed from re-
mote epochs of history, or from some far-
off tradition, it is necessary that, by our
general culture, we should be familiarized
with it. It is thus only that we can sym-
pathize with an epoch and with manners
that are no more. Hence the two essen-
tial conditions ; that the subject present
the general human character, then that it
be in relation with our ideas.

Art is not designed for a small number
of scholars and men of science; it is ad-
dressed to the entire nation. Its works
should be comprehended and relished of
themselves, and not after a course of diffi-
cult research. Thus national subjects are
the most favorable. All great poems are
national poems. The Bible histories have
for us a particular charm, because we are
familiar with them from our infancy. Nev-
ertheless, in the measure that relations are
multiplied between peoples, art can bor-
row its subjects from all latitudes and from
all epochs. It should, indeed, as to the
principal features, preserve, to the tradi-
tions, events, and personages, to manners
and institutions, their historic or tradi-
ditional character; but the duty of the ar-
tist, above all, is to place the idea which
constitutes its content in harmony with the
spirit of his own age, and the peculiar
genius of his nation.

In this necessity lies the reason and ex-»
cuse for what is called anachronism in art.
When the anachronism bears only upon
external circumstances it is unimportant.
It becomes a matter of more moment if
we attribute to the characters, the ideas,

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

and sentiments of another epoch. Re-
spect must be paid to historic truth, but
regard must also be had to the manners
and intellectual culture of one's own time.
The heroes of Homer themselves are more
than were the real personages of the epoch
which he presents ; and the characters of
Sophocles are brought still nearer to us.
To violate thus the rules of historic reali-
ty, is a necessary anachronism in art. Fi-
nally, another form of anachronism, which
the utmost moderation and genius can
alone make pardonable, is that which
transfers the religious or moral ideas of a
more advanced civilization to an anterior
epoch; when one attributes, for example,
to the ancients the ideas of the mod-
erns. Some great poets have ventured up-
on this intentionally ; few have been suc-
cessful in it.

The general conclusion is this : " The
artist should be required to make himself
the cotemporary of past ages, and become
penetrated himself with their spirit. For if
the substance of those ideas be true, it re-
mains clear for all time. But to undertake
to reproduce with a scrupulous exactness

the external element of history, with all its
details and particulars — in a word all the
rust of antiquity, is the work of a puerile
erudition, which attaches itself only to a
superficial aim. We should not wrest from
art the right which it has to float between
reality and fiction."

This first part concludes with an exami-
nation of the qualities necessary to an
artist, such as imagination, genius, inspi-
ration, originality, etc. The author does
not deem it obligatory to treat at much
length this subject, which appears to him
to allow only a small number of general
rules or psychological observations. The
manner in which he treats of many points,
and particularly of the imagination, causes
us to regret that he has not thought it
worth while to give a larger space to these
questions, which occupy the principal
place in the majority of assthetieal treati-
ses; we shall find them again under
another form in the theory of the arts.

[The next number will continue this trans-
lation through the treatment of the Sym-
bolic, Classic and Romantic forms of art.]

Raphael's Transfiguration.

NOTES ON RAPHAEL'S "TRANSFIGURATION."

[Read before the St. Louis Art Society in November, 18G6.]

I. THE ENGRAVING.

He who studies the "Transfiguration"
of Raphael is fortunate if he has access to
the engraving of it by Raphael Morghen.
This engraver, as one learns from the En-
cyclopedia, was a Florentine, and executed
this — his most elaborate work — in 1795,
from a drawing of Tofanelli, after having
discovered that a copy he had partly fin-
ished from another drawing, was very
inadequate when compared with the ori-.
ginal.

Upon comparison with engravings by
other artists, it seems to me that this en-
graving has not received all the praise it
deserves ; I refer especialh r to the seizing
of the " motives" of the picture, which are
so essential in a work of great scope, to
give it the requisite unity. What the en-
graver has achieved in the present instance,
I hope to be able to show in some degree.
But one will not be able to verify my results
if he takes up au engraving by a less for-
tunate artist; e. g. : one by Pavoni, of
recent origin.

II. HISTORICAL.

It is currently reported that Raphael
painted the "Transfiguration" at the in-
stance of Cardinal Giulio de Medici, and
that in honor of the latter he introduced
the two saints — Julian and Lawrence — on
the mount; St. Julian suggesting the ill-
fated Giuliano de Medici, the Cardinal's
father, and St. Lawrence representing his
uncle, " Lorenzo the Magnificent, " the
greatest of the Medici line, and greatest
man of his time in Italy. "The haughty
Michael Angelo refused to enter the lists
in person against Raphael, but put forward
as a fitting rival Sebastian del Piombo, a
Venetian." Raphael painted, as his mas-

terpiece, the "Transfiguration," and Se-
bastian, with the help of Michael Angelo,
painted the ""Raising of Lazarus." In
1520, before the picture was quite finished,
Raphael died. His favorite disciple, Giu-
lio Romano, finished the lower part of the
picture (especially the demoniac) in the
spirit of Raphael, who had completed the
upper portion and most of the lower.

III. LEGEND.

The Legend portrayed here — slightly va-
rying from the account in the New Testa-
ment but not contradicting it — is as follows :
Christ goes out with his twelve disciples
to Mount Tabor, and, leaving the nine
others at the foot, ascends with the favored
three to the summit, where the scene of
the Transfiguration takes place. While
this transpires, the family group approach
with the demoniac, seeking help from a
miraculous source.

Raphael has added to this version the
circumstance that two sympathetic strang-
ers, passing that way up the mount, carry
to the Beatified One the intelligence of the
event below, and solicit his immediate and
gracious interference.

The Testament account leads us to sup-
pose the scene to be Mount Tabor, south-
east of Nazareth, at whose base he had
healed many, a few days before, and
where he had held many conversations
with his disciples. "On the following
day, when they were come down, the)' met
the family," says Luke; but Matthew and
Mark do not fix so precisely the day.

IV. CHARACTERIZATION.

It may be safely affirmed that there is
scarcely a picture in existence in which

Raphael's Transfiguration.

the individualities are more strongly mark-
ed by internal essential characteristics.

Above, there is no figure to be mistaken :
Christ floats toward the source of light —
the Invisible Father, by whom all is made
visible that is visible. On the right, Moses
appears in strong contrast to Elias on the
left — the former the law-giver, and the
latter the spontaneous, fiery, eagle-eyed
prophet.

Oji the mountain top — prostrate beneath,
are the three disciples — one recognizes on
the right hand, John, gracefully bending
his face down from the overpowering light,
while on the left James hides his face in
his humility. But Peter, the bold one, is
fain to gaze directly on the splendor. He
turns his face up in the act. but is, as on
another occasion, mistaken in his estimate
of his own endurance, and is obliged to
cover his eyes, involuntarily, with his hand.

Below the mount, are two opposed
groups. On the right, coming from the
hamlet in the distance, is the family group,
of which a demoniac boy forms the centre.
They,without doubt, saw Christ pass on his
way to this solitude, and, at length, con-
cluded to follow him and test his might
which had been "noised abroad " in that re-
gion. It is easy to see the relationship of the
whole group. First the boy, actually "pos-
sessed, "or a maniac ; then his father— a man
evidently predisposed to insanity— support-
ing and restraining him. Kneeling at the
right of the boy is his mother, whose fail-
Grecian face has become haggard with the
trials she has endured from her son. Just
beyond her is her brother, and in the shade
of the mountain, is her father. In the fore-
ground is her sister. Back of the father,
to the right, is seen an uncle (on the
father's side) of the demoniac boy, whose
features and gestures show him to be a
simpleton, and near him is seen the face
of the father's sister, also a weak-minded
person. The parents of the father are not
to be seen, for the obvious reason that old
age is not a characteristic of persons pre-
disposed to insanity. Again . it is marked
that in a family thus predisposed, some will
be brilliant to a degree resembling genius,
and others will be simpletons. The whole
group at the right are supplicating the
nine disciples, in the most earnest manner,
for relief. The disciples, grouped on the

left, are full of sympathy, but their looks
tell plainly that they can do nothing. One,
at the left, and near the front, holds the
books of the Law in his right hand, but
the letter needs the spirit to give life, and
the mere Law of Moses does not help the
demoniac, and only excites the sorrowful
indignation of the beautiful sister in the
foreground.

The curious student of the New Testa-
ment may succeed in identifying the differ-
ent disciples : Andrew, holding the books
of the Law, is Peter's brother, and bears a
family resemblance. Judas, at the extreme
left, cannot be mistaken. Matthew looks
over the shoulder of Bartholomew, who is
pointing to the demoniac ; while Thomas —
distinguished by his youthful appearance —
bends over toward the boy with a look of
intense interest. Simon (?), kneeling be-
tween Thomas and Bartholomew, is indi-
cating to the mother, by the gesture with
his left hand, the absence of the Master.
Philip, whose face is turned towards Judas,
is pointing to the scene on the mount, and
apparently suggesting the propriety of
going for the absent master. James, the
son of Alpheus, resembles Christ in features,
and stands behind Jude, his brother, who
points up to the mount while looking at
the father.

V. ORGANIC UNITY.

(a) Doubtless every true work of art
should have what is called an "organic
unity." That is to say, all the parts of the
work should be related to each other in such
a way that a harmony of design arises.
Two entirely unrelated things brought into
the piece would form two centres of attrac -
tion and hence divide the work into two
different works. It should be so constitu-
ted that the study of one part leads to all
the other parts as being necessarily implied
in it. This common life of the whole work
is the central idea which necessitates all
the parts, and hence makes the work an
organism instead of a mere conglomerate
or mechanical aggregate — a fortuitous
concourse of atoms which would be a
chaos only.

(6). This central idea, however, cannot
be represented in a work of art without

Raphael's Transfiguration.

contrasts and hence there must be antithe-
ses present.

What is the central idea of this picture?

(a) Almost every thoughtful person that
has examined it, has said: "Here is the
Divine in contrast with the Human, and
the dependence of the latter upon the
former." This may be stated in a variety
of ways. The Infinite is there above, and
the Finite here below seeking it.

(6) The grandest antithesis is that be-
tween the two parts of the Picture, the
above and the below. The transfigured
Christ, there, dazzling with light ; below,
the shadow of mortal life, only illuminated
by such rays as come from above. There,
serenity ; and here, rending calamity.

Then there are minor antitheses.

(1) Above we have a Twofold. The
three celestial light-seekers who soar rap-
turously to the invisible source of light,
and below them, the three disciples swoon-
ing beneath the power of the celestial vis-
ion. (2) Then below the mountain we
have a similar contrast in the two groups ;
the one broken in spirit by the calamity
that "pierces their own souls," and the
other group powerfully affected by sympa-
thy, and feeling keenly their impotence
during the absence of their Lord.

Again even, there appear other anti-
theses. So completely does the idea pene-
trate the material in this work of art, that
everywhere we see the mirror of the whole.
In the highest and most celestial we have
the antithesis of Christ and the twain;
Moses the law or letter, Elias the spirit or
the prophet, and Christ the living unity.
Even Christ himself, though comparatively
the point of repose of the whole picture,
is a contrast of soul striving against the
visible body. So, too, the antitheses of
the three disciples, John, Peter, James, —
grace, strength, and humility. Every-
where the subject is exhaustively treated ;
the family in its different members, the dis-
ciples with the different shades of sympa-
thy and concern. (The maniac boy is a
perfect picture of a being, torn asunder by
violent internal contradiction.)

First, the absolute unity of the piece, is
the transfigured Christ. To it, mediately
or immediately, everything refers. All
the light in the picture streams thence.
All the action in the piece lias its motive
power in Him ; — first, the two celestials
soar to gaze in his light; then the three
disciples are expressing, by the posture of
every limb, the intense effect of the same
light. On the left, the mediating strangers
stand imploring Christ to descend and be
merciful to the miserable of this life. Be-
low, the disciples are painfully reminded
of Him absent, by the present need of his
all-healing power, and their gestures refer
to his stay on the mountain top ; while the
group at the right are frantic in supplica-
tions for his assistance.

Besides the central unity, we find minor
unities that do not contradict the higher
unity, for the reason that they are only
reflections of it, and each one carries us, of
its own accord, to the higher unity, and
loses itself in it. To illustrate: Below,
the immediate unity of all (centre of in-
terest) is the maniac boy, and yet he con-
vulsively points to the miraculous scene
above, and the perfect unrest exhibited in
his attitude repels the soul irresistibly to
seek another unity. The Christ above,
gives us a comparatively serene point of
repose, while the unity of the Below or
finite side of the picture is an absolute an-
tagonism, hurling us beyond to the higher
unity.

Before the approach of the distressed
family, the others were intently listening
to the grave and elderly disciple, Andrew,
who was reading and expounding the
Scriptures to them. This was a different
unity, and would have clashed with the
organic unity of the piece ; the approach
of the boy brings in a new unity, which
immediately reflects all to the higher unity.

VI. SENSE AND REASON VS.
UNDERSTANDING.

At this point a few reflections are sug-
gested to render more obvious, certain
higher phases in the unity of this work of
art, which must now be considered.

A work of art, it will be conceded, must,
first of all. appeal to the senses. Equally,

RaphaeVs Transfiguration.

too, its content must be an idea of the
Reason, and this is not so readily granted
by every one. But if there were no idea
of the Reason in it, there would be no unity
to the work, and it could not be distin-
guished from any other work not a work
of art. Between the Reason and the Senses
there lies a broad realm, called the •'Un-
derstanding" by modern speculative wri-
ters. It was formerly called the " discur-
sive intellect." The Understanding applies
the criterion ; 'wse." It does not know
beauty, or, indeed, anything which is for
itself; it knows only what is good for some-
thing else. In a work of art, after it has
asked what it is good for, it proceeds to
construe it all into prose, for it is the prose
faculty. It must have the picture tell us
what is the external fact in nature, and not
trouble us with any transcendental imagi-
native products. It wants imitation of na-
ture merely.

But the artist frequently neglects this
faculty, and shocks it to the uttermost by
such things as the abridged mountain in
this picture, or the shadow cast toward the
sun, that Eckermann tells of.

The artist must never violate the sensu-
ous harmony, nor fail to have the deeper
unity of the Idea. It is evident that the
sensuous side is always cared for by Ra-
phael.

Here are some of the effects in the pic-
ture that are purely sensuous and yet of
such a kind that they immediately call up
the idea. The source of light in the pic-
ture is Christ's form ; below, it is reflected
in the garments of the conspicuous figure
in the foreground. Above, is Christ; op-
posite and below, a female that suggests
the Madonna. In the same manner Elias,
or the inspired prophet, is the opposite to
the maniac boy; the former inspired by the
celestial; the latter, by the demonic. So
Moses, the law-giver, is antithetic to the
old disciple that has the roll of the Law in
his hand. So, too, in the posture, Elias
floats freely , while Moses is brought against
the tree, and mars the impression of free
self-support. The heavy tables of the Law
seem to draw him down, while Elias seems
to have difficulty in descending sufficiently
to place himself in subordination to Christ.

Even the contradiction that the under-
standing finds in the abridgment of the

mountain, is corrected sensuously by the
perspective at the right, and the shade that
the edge of the rock casts which isolates
the above so completely from the below.

We see that Raphael has brought them
to a secluded spot just near the top of the
mountain. The view of the distant vale
tells us as effectually that this is a moun-
tain top as could be done by a full length
painting of it. Hence the criticism rests
upon a misunderstanding of the fact which
Raphael has portrayed.

VII. ROMANTIC VS. CLASSIC.

Finally, we must recur to those distinc-
tions so much talked of. in order to intro-
duce the consideration of the grandest
strokes of genius which Raphael has dis-
played in this work.

The distinction of Classic and Romantic
Art, of Greek Art from Christian: the
former is characterized by a complete re-
pose, or equilibrium between the Sense and
Reason — or between matter and form.
The idea seems completely expressed, and
the expression completely adequate to the
idea.

But in Christian Art we do not find this
equilibrium ; but everywhere we find an
intimation that the idea is too transcendent
for the matter to express. Hence. Roman-
tic Art is self-contradictory — it expresses
the inadequacy of expression.

•' I have that within which passeth show;
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.''

In Gothic Architecture, all strives up-
ward and seems to derive its support from
above, (i. e. the Spiritual, light). All Ro-
mantic Art points to a beyond. The Ma-
donnas seem to say : "'I am a beyond which
cannot be represented in a sensuous form ;"
•' a saintly contempt for the flesh hovers
about their features." as some one has ex-
pressed it.

But in this picture, Christ himself, no
more a child in the Madonna's arms, but
even in his meridian glory, looks beyond,
and expresses dependence on a Being who
is not and cannot be represented. His face
is serene, beatific ; He is at unity with this
Absolute Being, but the unity is an inter-
nal one, and his upraised gaze towards the

Introduction to Philosophy.

source of light is a plain statement that the
True which supports him is not a sensuous
one. "God dwelleth not in temples made
with hands; but those who would approach
Him must do it in spirit and in truth."

This is the idea which belongs to the
method of all modern Art; but Raphael
has not left this as the general spirit of
the picture merely, but has emphasized it
in a way that exhibits the happy temper of
his genius in dealing with refractory sub-
jects. And this last point has proved too
much for his critics. Reference is made
to the two saints painted at the left. How
fine it would be, thought the Cardinal
de Medici, to have St. Lawrence and St.
Julian painted in there, to commemorate
my father and uncle ! They can represent
mediators, and thereby connect the two
parts of the picture more closely !

Of course, Raphael put them there!
"Alas ! " say his critics. " what a fatal mis-
take! What have those two figures to
do there but to mar the work! All for
the gratification of a selfish pride ! ? '

Always trust an Artist to dispose of the
Finite; he, of all men, knows how to digest
it and subordinate it to the idea.

Raphael wanted just such figures in just
that place. Of course, the most natural
thing in the world that could happen, would
be the ascent of some one to bear the mes-
sage to Christ that there was need of him
below. But what is the effect of that upon
the work as a piece of Romantic Ail? It
would destroy that characteristic, unless
confined to special forms. Raphael, how-
ever seizes upon this incident to show the
entire spiritual character of the upper part
of the picture.. The disciples are dazzled
so, that even the firm Peter cannot endure
the light at all. Is this a physical light?

Look at the messengers that have come up
the mountain ! Do their eyes indicate any-
thing bright, not to say dazzling? They
stand there with supplicating looks and
gestures, but see no transfiguration. It
must be confessed, Cardinal de Medici,
that your uncle and father are not much
complimented, after all ; they are merely
natural men, and have no inner sense by
which to see the Eternal Verities that il-
lumine the mystery of existence! Even if
you are a Cardinal, and they were Popes'
counselors, they never saw anything higher
in Religion than what should add comfort
to us here below.

No! The transfiguration, as Raphael
clearly tells us, was a Spiritual one : Christ,
on the mountain with his favored three
disciples, opened up such celestial clear-
ness in his exposition of the truth, that
they saw Moses and Elias, as it were, com-
bined in one Person, and a new Heaven
and a new earth arose before them, and
they were lost in that revelation of infinite
splendor.

In closing, a remark forces itself upon
us with reference to the comparative merits
of Raphael and Michael Angelo.

Raphael is the perfection of Romantic
Art. Michael Angelo is almost a Greek.
His paintings all seem to be pictures of
statuary. In his grandest— The Last Judg-
ment — we have the visible presence as the
highest. Art with him could represent
the Absolute. With Raphael it could only,
in its loftiest flights, express its own impo-
tence.

Whether we are to consider Raphael or
Michael Angelo as the higher artist, must
be decided by an investigation of the mer-
its of the " Last Judgment."

INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY.

CHAPTER I.

The object of this series is to furnish,
in as popular a form as possible, a course
of discipline for those who are beginning
the study of philosophy. Strictly popular,
in the sense the word is used — i. e. sig-

nifying that which holds fast to the ordi-
nary consciousness of men, and does not
take flights beyond— I am well aware, no
philosophy can be. The nearest approach
to it that can be made, consists in starting
from the common external views, and
drawing them into the speculative, step by

Introduction, to Philosophy.

step. For this purpose the method of defi-
nitions and axioms, with deductions there-
from, as employed by Spinoza, is more ap-
propriate at first, and afterwards a gradual
approach to the Dialectic, or true philoso-
phic method. In the mathematical method
(that of Spinoza just alluded to) the con-
tent may be speculative, but its form,
never. Hence the student of philosophy
needs only to turn his attt ntion to the
content at first; when that becomes in a
measure familiar, he can then the more
readily pass over to the true form of the
speculative content, and thus achieve com-
plete insight. A course of discipline in
the speculative content, though under an
inadequate form, would make a grand
preparation for the study of Hegel or
Plato ; while a study of these, or, in short,
of any writers w r ho employ speculative
methods in treating speculative content —
a study of these without previous ac-
quaintance with the content is well nigh
fruitless. One needs only to read the
comments of translators of Plato upon his
speculative passages, or the prevailing
verdicts upon Hegel, to be satisfied on this
point.

The course that 1 shall here present will
embody my own experience to a great
extent, in the chronological order of its de-
velopment. Each lesson will endeavor to
present an aperqu derived from some great
philosopher. Those coming later will pre-
suppose the earlier ones, and frequently
throw new light upon them.

As one who undertakes the manufacture
of an elegant piece of furniture needs care-
fully elaborated tools for that end, so must
the thinker who wishes to comprehend the
universe be equipped with the tools of
thought, or else he will come off as poorly
as he who should undertake to make a
carved mahogany chair with no tools ex-
cept his teeth and finger nails. What com-
plicated machinery is required to transmute
the rough ores into an American watch!
And yet how common is the delusion that
no elaboration of tools of thought is re-
quired to enable the commonest mind to
manipulate the highest subjects of investi-
gation ! The alchemy that turned base
metal into gold is only a symbol of that
cunning alchemy of thought that by means
of the philosopher's stone (scientific meth-

od) dissolves the base facts of experience
into universal truths.

The uninitiated regards the philosophic
treatment of a theme as difficult solely by
reason of its technical terms. ' 'If I only
understood your use of words, I think I
should find no difficulty in your thought."
He supposes that under those bizarre terms
there lurks only the meaning that he and
others put into ordinary phrases. He
does not seem to think that the concepts
likewise are new. It is just as though an
Indian were to say to the carpenter, "I
could make as good work as you, if I only
had the secret of using my finger-nails and
teeth as you do the plane and saw- " Spec-
ulative philosophy — it cannot be too early
inculcated — does not "conceal under cum-
brous terminology views which men ordi-
narily hold." The ordinary reflection
would say that Being is the ground of
thought, while speculative philosophy
would say that thought is the ground of
Being ; whether of other being, or of itself
as being — for it is causa sui.

Let us now address ourselves to the task
of elaborating our technique — the tools of
thought — and see what new worlds become
accessible through our mental telescopes
and microscopes, our analytical scalpels
and psychological plummets.

I.— A PRIOI AND A POSTERIORI.

A priori, as applied to knowledge, signi-
fies that which belongs to the nature of the
mind itself. Knowledge which is before
experience, or not dependent on it, is
a priori.

A posteriori or empirical knowledge is
derived from experience.

A criterion to be applied in order to test
the application of these categories to any
knowledge in question, is to be found in
universality and necessity. If the truth ex-
pressed has universal and necessary valid-
ity it must be a priori, for it could not have
been derived from experience. Of empir-
ical knowledge we can only say: "It is
true so far as experience has extended."
Of apriori knowledge, on the contrary, we
affirm : "It is universally and necessarily
true and no experience of its opposite can
possibly occur; from the very nature of
things it must be so."

Introduction to Philosophy.

II.— ANALYTICAL AND SYNTHETICAL.

A judgment which in the predicate,
adds nothing new to the subject, is said to
be analytical, as e.g. • l Horse is an ani-
mal;"— the concept "animal" is already
contained in that of "horse."

Synthetical judgments, on the contrary,
add in the predicate something new to the
conception of the subject, as e. g. " This
rose is red,"' or "The shortest distance
between two points is a straight line ;"— in
the first judgment we have "red" added
to the general concept "rose;" while in
the second example we have straightness,
which is quality, added to shortest, which
is quantity.

III. — APODEICTICAL.

Omitting the consideration of a posteriori
knowledge for the present, let us investi-
gate the a priori in order to learn some-
thing of the constitution of the intelligence
which knows— always a proper subject for
philosophy. Since, moreover, the a priori
analytical ("A horse is an animal") adds
nothing to our knowledge, we may con-
fine ourselves, as Kant does, to a priori
synthetical knowledge. The axioms of
mathematics are of this character. They
are universal and necessary in their appli-
cation, and we know this without making
a single practical experiment. " Only one
straight line can be drawn between two
points," or the proposition: " The sum of
the three angles of a triangle is equal to
two right angles, "—these are true in all
possible experiences, and hence transcend
any actual experience. Take any a poste-
riori judgment, e. g. "All bodies are
heavy, " and we see at once that it im-
plies the restriction, "So far as we have
experienced, " or else is a mere analytical
judgment. The universal and necessary is
sometimes called the apodeictical. The
conception of the apodeictical lies at the
basis of all true philosophical thinking.
He who does not distinguish between apo-
deictic and contingent judgments must pause
here until he can do so.

IV.— SPACE AND TIME.

In order to give a more exhaustive appli-
cation to our technique, let us seek the

universal conditions of experience. The
mathematical truths that we quoted re-
late to Space, and similar ones relate to
Time. No experience would be possible
without presupposing Time and Space as
its logical condition. Indeed, we should
never conceive our sensations to have an
origin outside of ourselves and in distinct
objects, unless we had the conception of
Space a priori by which to render it pos-
sible. Instead, therefore, of our being
able to generalize particular experiences"
and collect therefrom the idea of Space
and Time in general, we must have added
the idea of Space and Time to our sensa-
tion before it could possibly become an
experience at all. This becomes more clear
when we recur to the apodeictic nature of
Space and Time. Time and Space are
thought as infinites, i. e., they can only be
limited by themselves, and hence are uni-
versally continuous. But no such concep-
tion as infinite can be derived analytically
from an object of experience, for it does
not contain it. All objects of experience
must be within Time and Space, and not
vice versa. All that is limited in extent
and duration presupposes Time and Space
as its logical condition, and this we know,
not from the senses but from the constitu-
tion of Eeason itself. "The third side of
a triangle is less than the sum of the two
other sides." This we never measured, and
yet we are certain that we cannot be mis-
taken about it. It is so in all triangles,
present, past, future, actual, or possible-
It' this was an inference a posteriori, we
could only say : " It has been found to be
so in all cases that have been measured
and reported to us. "

v.— MIND.

Mind has a certain a priori constitution;
this is our inference. It must be so, or
else we could never have any experience
whatever. It is the only way in which the
possibility of apodeictic knowledge can be
accounted for. What 1 do not get from
without I must get from within, if I have
it at all. Mind, it would seem from this,
cannot be, according to its nature, a finite
affair — a thing with properties. Were it
limited in Time or Space, it could never
(without transcending itself) conceive Time

Seed Life.

and Space as universally continuous or
infinite. Mind is not within Time and Space,
it is as universal and necessary as the
apodeictic judgments it forms, and hence
it is the substantial essence of all that ex-
ists. Time and Space arc the logical con-
ditions of finite existences, and Mind is
the logical condition of Time and Space.
Hence it is ridiculous to speak of my mind
and your mind, for mind is rather the uni-
versal substrate of all individuality than
owned by any particular individual.

These results are so startling to the one
who first begins to think, that he is tempted
to reject the whole. If he does not do this,
but scrutinizes the whole fabric keenly,
he will discover what he supposes to be
fallacies. We cannot anticipate the an-

swer to his objections here, for his objec-
tions arise from his inability to distinguish
between his imagination and his thinking
and this must be treated of in the next
chapter. Here, we can only interpose an
earnest request to the reader to persevere
and thoroughly refute the whole argument
before he leaves it. But this is only one
and the most elementary position from
whicli the philosophic traveler sees the
Eternal Verities. Every perfect analysis —
no matter what the subject be — will bring
us to the same result, though the degrees
of concreteness will vary, — some leaving
the solution in an abstract and vague form,
— others again arriving at a complete and
satisfactorv view of the matter in detail.

SEED LIFE.

BY E. V.

Ah ! woe for the endless stirring,
The hunger for air and light,

The fire of the blazing noonday
Wrapped round in a chilling night!

The mufiied throb of an instinct
That is kin to the mystic To Be;

Strong muscles, cut with their fetters,
As they writhe with claim to be free.

A voice that cries out in the silence,
And is choked in a stifling air;
Arms full of an endless reaching,
While the "Nay" stands everywhere.

The burning of conscious selfhood,
That fights with pitiless fate!

God grant that deliverance stay not,
Till it come at last too late;

Till the crushed out instinct waver,
And fainter and fainter grow,

And by suicide, through unusing,
Seek freedom from its woe.

Oh ! despair of constant losing
The life that is clutched in vain !

Is it death or a joyous growing
That shall put an end to pain?

Dialogue on Immortality.

A DIALOGUE ON IMMORTALITY.

BY ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER.

[Translated from t lie German, by Chas. L. Bernays.]

Philalethes. — I could tell you that after
your death, you will be what you were
previous to your birth ; I could tell you that
we are never born, and that we only seem
to die — that we have always been precisely
the same that we are now, and that we
shall always remain the same — that Time
is the apparatus which prevents us from
being aware of all this ; I could tell you
that our consciousness stands always in
the centre of Time — never on one of its
termini; and that any one among- us,
therefore, has the immovable centre of
the whole infinite Time in himself. I then
could tell you that those who by that
knowledge, are assured that the present
time always originates in ourselves, can
never doubt the indestructibility of their
own essence.

Thrasymachus. — All of that is too long
and too ambiguous for me. Tell me.
briefly what I shall be after death.

Phil- — All and nothing.

Thras. — There we are! Instead of a so-
lution to the problem you give me a con-
tradiction ; that is an old trick.

Phil. — To answer transcendental ques-
tions in language that is only made for
immanent perceptions, may in fact lead
us into contradictions.

Thras. — What do you mean by "■trans-
cendental " and "immanent "perceptions?

Phil. — Well ! Transcendental perception
is rather the knowledge, which, by exceed-
ing an} r possibility of experience, tends to
discover the essence of things as they are
by themselves ; immanent perception it is,
if it keeps inside of the limits of experi-
ence. In this case, it can only speak of
appearances. You as an individual, end
with your death. Yet individuality is not
your true and final essence, but only a
mere appearance of it. It is not the thing
in itself, but only its appearance, estab-
lished in the form of time, thereby having
a beginning and an end. That which is es-
sential in you, knows neither of beginning
nor ending, nor of Time itself; it knows
no limits such as belong to a given indi-

viduality, but exists in all and in each. In
the first sense, therefore, you will become
nothing after your death; in the second
sense you are and remain all. For that
reason I said you would be all and nothing
You desired a short answer, and I believe
that hardly a more correct answer could be
given briefly. No wonder too that it con-
tains a contradiction; for your life is in
Time, while your immortality is in Eter-
nity.

Thras. — Without the continuation of
my individuality, I would not give a far-
thing for all your "immortality."

Phil. — Perhaps you could have it even
cheaper. Suppose that I warrant to you
the continuation of your individuality, but
under the condition that a perfectly uncon-
scious slumber of death for three months
should precede its resuscitation.

Thras. — Well, I accept the condition.

Phil. — Now, in an absolutely uncon-
scious condition, we have no measure of
time; hence it is perfectly indifferent
whether, whilst we lie asleep in death in
the unconscious world, three months or
ten thousand years are passing away. We
do not know either of the one or of the
other, and have to accept some one's word
with regard to the duration of our sleep,
when we awake. Hence it is indifferent
to you whether your individuality is given
back to you after three months or after
ten thousand years.

Thras. — That I cannot deny.

Phil. — Now, suppose that after ten
thousand years, one had forgotten to
awake you at all, then I believe that the
long, long state of non-being would be-
come so habitual to you that your mis-
fortune could hardly be very great. Cer-
tain it is. any way, that you would know
nothing of it; nay, you would even console
yourself very easily, if yon were aware
that the secret mechanism which now keeps
your actual appearance in motion, had not
ceased during all the ten thousand years
lor a single moment to establish and to
move other beings of the same kind.

Dialogue on Immortality.

Thras.— In that manner you mean to
cheat me out of my individuality, do you ?
I will not be fooled in that way. I have
barerained for the continuation of ray in-
dividuality. and none of your motives can
console me for the loss of that ; I have it at
heart, and never will abandon it.

Phil. — It seems that you hold individu-
ality to be so noble, so perfect so incom-
parable, that there can be nothing superior
to it; you therefore would not like to ex-
change it for another one, though in that,
you could live with greater ease and per-
fection.

Thras. — Let my individuality be as it
may, it is always myself. It is I — I my-
self—who want to be. That is the indi-
viduality which I insist upon, and not such
a one as needs argument to convince me
that it may be my own or a better one.

Phil. — Only look about you! That
which cries out—" I, T myself, wish to ex-
ist" — that is not yourself alone, but all
that has the least vestige of consciousness.
Hence this desire of yours, is just that
which is not individual, but common
rather to all without exception ; it does
not originate in individuality, but in the
very nature of existence itself; it is es-
sential to anybody who lives, nay, it is
that through which it is at all ; it seems
to belong only to tho individual because
it can become conscious only in the indi-
vidual. What cries in us so loud for ex-
istence, does so only through the media-
tion of the individual; immediately and
essentially it is the will to exist or to live,
and this will is one and the same in all of
us. Our existence being only the free
work of the will, existence can never fail
to belong to it as far at least, as that
eternally dissatisfied will, can be satisfied.
The individualities are indifferent to the
will ; it never speaks of them ; though it
seems to the individual, who, in himself is
the immediate percipient of it as if it
spoke only of his own individuality. The
consequence is, that the individual cares
for his own existence with so great
anxiety, and that he thereby secures the
preservation of his kind. Hence it fol-
lows that individuality is no perfection,
but rather a restriction or imperfection;
to get rid of it is not a loss but a grain.

Hence if you would not appear at once
childish and ridiculous, you should aban-
don that care for mere individuality, for
childish and ridiculous it will appear
when you perceive your own essence to be
the universal will to live.

Thras. — You yourself and all philoso-
phers are childish and ridiculous, and in
fact it is only for a momentary diversion
that a man of good common sense ever
consents to squander away an idle hour
with the like of you. I leave your talk for
weightier matters.

[The reader will perceive by the posi-
tions here assumed that Schopenhauer has
a truly speculative stand-point; that he
holds self-determination to be the only
substantial (or abiding) reality. But
while Aristotle and those like him have
seized this more definitely as the self-
conscious thinking, it is evident that
Schopenhauer seizes it only from its im-
mediate side, i. e. as the will. On this
account he meets with some difficulty in
solving the problem of immortality, and
leaves the question of conscious identity
hereafter not a little obscure. Hegel, on
the contrary, for whom Schopenhauer
everywhere evinces a hearty contempt,
does not leave the individual in any doubt
as to his destiny, but shows how individu-
ality and universality coincide in self-con-
sciousness, so that the desire for eternal
existence is fully satisfied. This is the
legitimate result that Philalethes arrives
at in his last speech, when he makes the
individuality the product of the will ; for if
the will is the essential that he holds it to
be, and the product of its activity is indi-
viduality, of course individuality belongs
eternally to it. At the close of his Philos-
ophy of Nature (Encyclopsed, vol. II.)
Hegel shows how death which follows life
in the mere animal — and in man as mere
animal— enters consciousness as one of its
necessary elements, and hence does not
stand opposed to it as it does to animal
life. Conscious being (Spirit or Mind as
it may be called.) is therefore immortal
because it contains already, within itself,
its limits or determinations, and thus can-
not, like finite things, encounter dissolu-
tion through external ones. — Ed.]

Goethe's Theory of Colors.

GOETHE'S THEORY OF COLORS.

Prom an exposition given before the St. Louis Philosophical Society. Nov. 2d, 1866.

I. — Color arises through the reciprocal

action of light and darkness.

(a.) When a light object is seen through
a medium that dims it. it appears of differ-
ent degrees of yellow ; if the medium is
dark or dense, the color is orange, or ap-
proaches red. Examples : the sun seen in
the morning through a slightly hazy atmos-
phere appears yellow, but if the air is
thick with mist or smoke the sun looks red.

(b.) On the other hand a dark object,
seen through a medium slightly illuminat-
ed, looks blue. If the medium is very
strongly illuminated, the blue approaches
a light blue; if less so, then indigo; if
still less, the deep violet appears. Ex-
amples : a mountain situated at a great
distance, from which very few rays of light
come, looks blue, because we see it through
a light medium, the air illuminated by the
sun. The sky at high altitudes appears of
a deep violet; at still higher ones, almost
perfectly black; at lower ones, of a faint
blue. Smoke — an illuminated medium —
appears blue against a dark ground, but
yellow or fiery against a light ground.

(c.) The process of bluing steel is a
fine illustration of Goethe's theory. The
steel is polished so that it reflects light
like a mirror. On placing it in the char-
coal furnace a film of oxydization begins to
form so that the light is reflected through
this dimming medium ; this gives a straw
color. Then, as the film thickens, the
color deepens, passing through red to
blue and indigo.

(d.) The prism is the grand instrument
in the experimental field of research into
light. The current theory that light, when
pure, is composed of seven colors, is de-
rived from supposed actual verifications
with this instrument. The Goethean ex-
planation is by far the simplest, and, in
the end, it propounds a question which
the Newtonian theory cannot answer with-
out admitting the truth of Goethe's theory.

II-— The phenomenon of refraction is
produced by interposing different transpa-
rent media between the luminous object
and the illuminated one, in such a manner
that there arises an apparent displacement
of one of the objects as viewed from the
other. By means of a prism the displace-
ment is caused to lack uniformity; one
part of the light image is displaced more
than another part; several images, as it
were, being formed with different de-
grees of displacement, so that they to-
gether make an image whose edges are
blurred in the line of displacement. If
the displacement were perfectly uniform,
no color would arise, as is demonstrated
by the achromatic prism or lens. The
difference of degrees of refraction causes
the elongation of the image into a spec-
trum, and hence a mingling of the edges
of the image with the outlying dark sur-
face of the wall, (which dark surface is
essential to the production of the ordinary
spectrum). Its rationale is the following:

(a.) The light image refracted by the
prism is extended over the dark on one
side, while the dark on the other side is
extended over it.

(6.) The bright over the dark produces
the blue in different degrees. The side
nearest the dark being the deepest or vio-
let, and the side nearest the light image
being the lightest blue.

(c.) On the other side, the dark over
light produces yellow in different degrees ;
nearest the dark we have the deepest color,
(orange approaching to red) and on the
side nearest the light, the light yellow or
saffron tint.

(d.) If the image is large and but little
refracted (as with a water prism) there will
appear between the two opposite colored
edges a colorless image, proving that the
colors arise from the mingling of the light
and dark edges, and not from any peculiar
property of the prism which should '* de

Goethe's Tlieory of Colors.

compose the ray of light," as the current
theory expresses it. If the latter theory
were correct the decomposition would be
throughout, and the whole image be col-
ored.

(e.) If the image is a small one, or it is
very strongly refracted, the colored edges
come together in the middle, and the
mingling of the light yellow with the light
blue produces green — a new color which
did not appear-so long as the light ground
appeared in the middle.

(/.) If the refraction is still stronger,
the edges of the opposite colors lap still
more, and the green vanishes. The New-
tonian theoiy cannot explain this, but it
is to be expected according to Goethe's
theory .

(gr.) According to Goethe's theory, if the
object were a dark one instead of a light
one, and were refracted on a light surface,
the order of colors would be reversed on
each edge of the image. This is the same
experiment as one makes by looking
through a prism at the bar of a window
appearing against the sky. Where in the
light image we had the yellow dolors we
should now expect the blue, for now it is
dark over light where before it was light
over dark. So, also, where we had blue
we should now have yellow. This experi-
ment may be so conducted that the cur-
rent doctrine that violet is refracted the
most, and red the least, shall be refuted.

(A.) This constitutes the experimentum
crucis. If the prism be a large water prism,
and a black strip be pasted across the mid-
dle of it, parallel with its axis, so that in
the midst of the image a dark shadow in-
tervenes, the spectrum appears inverted in
the middle, so that the red is seen where
the green would otherwise appear, and
those rays supposed to be the least refran-
gible are found refracted the most.

(i.) When the two colored edges do not
meet in this latter experiment, we have
blue, indigo, violet, as the order on one
side; and on the other, orange, yellow,
saffron; the deeper colors being next to
the dark image. If the two colored edges
come together the union of the orange with
the violet produces the perfect red (called
by Goethe "purpur").

( j.) The best method of making experi-
ments is not the one that Newton employ-
ed — that of a dark room and a pencil of
light— but it is better to look at dark and
bright stripes on grounds of the opposite
hue, or at the bars of a window, the prism
being held in the hand of the investigator.
In the Newtonian form of the experiment
one is apt to forget the importance of the
dark edge where it meets the light.

[For further information on this inter-
esting subject the English reader is refer-
red to Eastlake's translation of Goethe's
Philosophy of Colors, published in Lon-
don.]

THE JOURNAL

O F

SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY.

Vol. I.

186 7.

No. 2. (2d Ed.)

SECOND PART OF GOETHE'S FAUST.

Translated from Rosexktc axz's "Deutsche Literatur." by D. J. Snidek.

Goethe bea\an nothing if the whole of
the work did not hover before his mind.
By this determinateness of plan he preser-
ved a most persevering attachment to the
materials of which he had once laid hold;
they were elements of his existence, which
for him were immortal, because they con-
stituted his inmost being. He could put
off their execution for years, and still be
certain that his love for them would re-
turn, that his interest in them would ani-
mate him anew. Through this depth of
conception he preserved fresh to the end
his original purpose; he needed not to
fear that the fire of the first enthusiasm
would go out ; at the most different times
he could take up his work again with
youthful zeal and strength. Thus in the
circle of his poetical labors, two concep-
tions that are in internal opposition to one
another, accompanied him through his
whole life. The one portrays a talented
but fickle man, who, in want of culture,
attaches himself to this person, then to
that one, in order to become spiritually
independent. This struggle carries him
into the breadth of life, into manifold re-
lations whose spirit he longs to seize and
appropriate; such is Wilhelm Meister.
The other is the picture of an absolutely
independent personality that has culti-

Vol. 1-5

vated its lordly power iu solitary lofti-
ness, and aspires boldly to subject the
world to itself; such is Faust. In the
development of both subjects there is a
decisive turning-point which is marked
in the first by the "Travels'*; in the sec-
ond, by the Second Part of the Tragedy.
Up to this point, both in Wilhelm Meis-
ter and in Faust, subjective conditions
prevail, which gradually purify them-
selves to higher views and aims. For the
one, the betrothal with Natalia closes the
world of wild, youthful desire; for the
other, the death of Margaret has the same
.effect. The one steps into civil suciety
and its manifold activity with the earnest
endeavor to comprehend all its elements,
to acquire, preserve and beautify proper-
ty, and to assist in illuminating and en-
nobling social relations; the other takes
likewise a practical turn, but from the
summit of Society, from the stand-point
of the State itself. If, therefore, in the
"Apprenticeship" and First Part of the
Tragedy, on account of the excess of sub-
jective conditions, a closer connection of
the character and a passionate pathos are
necessary, there appears, on the contra-
ry, in the Travels and Second Part of the
Tragedy a thoughtfulness which moder-
ates everything — a cool designiugness ;

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

the particular elements are sharply char-
acterized, but the personages seem rather
as supporters of universal aims, in the
accomplishment of which their own per-
sonality is submerged; the Universal and
its language is their pathos, and the in-
terest in their history, that before was so
remarkably fascinating, is blunted of its
keenness.

We have seen "Faust" grow, fragment
by fragment, before our eyes. So long as
there existed only a First Part, two views
arose. The one maintained that it was in
this incompleteness what it should be, a
wonderful Torso; that this magnificent
poem only as a fragment could reflect the
World in order to indicate that man is
able to grasp the Universe in a one-sided,
incomplete manner only ; that as the poet
touched the mysteries of the World, but
did not give a complete solution, so the
Enigmatical, the Prophetic, is that which
is truly poetic, infinitely charming, real-
ly mystic. This view was considered as
genial, particularly because it left to ev-
ery one free play — in fact, invited every
one in his imagination to fill up the out-
lines; for it could not be defended from
a philosophic nor from an artistic stand-
point. Knowing seeks not If knowl-
edge, Art aims not at halfness of execu-
tion. If Dante in his Divine Comedy had
neglected any element o nature or of his-
tory, if lie had not wrought out all with
equal perseverance in corresponding pro-
portion, could it be said that his poem
would stand higher without this comple-
tion? Or, conversely, shall we praise it
as a merit that Novalis' Ofterdingen has
remained mere fragments and sketches?
This would be the same as if we should
admire the Cologne cathedral less than we
now do were it complete. Another view
supposed that a Second Part was indeed
possible, iind the question arose, in what
manner shall this possibility be thought?
Here again two opposite opinions showed
themselves. According to the one, Faust
must perish; reconciliation with God
would be unbecoming to the northern na-
ture of this Titanic character; the teeth-
gnashing- defiance, the insatiate restless-

ness, the crushing doubt, the heaven de-
riding fierceness, must send him to hell.
In this the spirit of the old legend was
expressed as it was at the time of the
Reformation — for in the middle ages the
redemption of the sinner through the in-
tercession of the Virgin Mary first ap-
peared — as the Volksbuch simply but
strikingly narrates it, as the Englishman,
Marlowe, has dramatized it so excellent-
ly in his "Doctor Faustus." But all this
was not applicable to the Faust of Goe-
the, for the poet had in his mind an alte-
ration of the old legend, and so another
party maintained that Faust must be
saved. This party also asserted that the
indication of the poet in the Prologue led
to the same conclusion; that God could
not lose his bet against the Devil ; that
the destruction of Faust would be blas-
phemous irony on Divine Providence.
This assertion of the necessity of Faust's
reconciliation found much favor in atime,
like ours, which has renounced not indeed
the consciousness and recognition of Evil,
but the belief in a separate exira-human
Devil ; which purposes not merely the
punishment but also the improvement of
the criminal; which seeks even to annul
the death penalty, and transfer the atone-
ment for murder to the inner conscience
and to the effacing power of the Mind.
But how was Poetry to exhibit such a
transition from internal strife to celestial
peace? Some supposed, as Heinrichs,
that since Faust's despair resulted ori-
ginally from science, which did not fur-
nish to him that which it had at first pro-
mised, and, since his childish faith had
been destroyed by scepticism, he must be
saved through the scientific comprehen-
sion of Truth, of the Christian religion;
that Speculative Philosophy must again
reconcile him with God, with the world,
and with himself. They confessed indeed
that this process — study and speculation
— cannot be represented in poetry, and
therefore a Second Part of Faust was not
to be expected. Others, especially poets,
took Faust in a more general sense ; he
was to penetrate not only Science but
Life ^in its entirety ; the most manifold

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

action was to move him, and the sweat of
labor was to be the penance which should
bring him peace and furnish the clearness
promised by the Lord. Several sought to
complete the work — all with indifferent
success.

In what manner the poet himself would
add a Second Part to the First, what
stand-point he himself would take, re-
mained a secret; now it is unsealed; the
poem is unrolled before us complete;
with wondering look we stand before it,
with a beating heart we read it, and with
modest anxiety, excited by a thousand
feelings and misgivings, we venture cur-
sorily to indicate the design of the great
Master; for years shall pass away before
the meaning of the all-comprehensive
poem shall be unveiled completely in its
details. Still this explanation of parti-
culars in poetry is a subordinate matter.
The main tendency of a poem must be
seen upon its face, and it would be a
sorry work if it did not excite a living
interest the first time that it was offered
to the enjoyment of a people — if this in-
terest should result from microscopic
explanations and fine unravelling of con-
cealed allusions — if enthusiasm should
not arise from the poetry as well as from
the learning and acuteuess of the poet.
Such particulars, which are hard to un-
derstand, almost every great poem will
furnish; latterly, the explanatory obser-
vations on epic poems have become even
stereotyped; it must be possible to dis-
regard them; through ignorance of them
nothing essential must be lost.

The First Part had shown us Faust in
his still cell, engaged in the study of all
sciences. The results of his investiga-
tion did not satisfy the boundless seeker,
and as an experiment he bound himself
to the Devil to see if the latter could not
slake his burning thirst.

Thus he rushed into Life. Earthly en-
joyment surrounded him, Love enchain-
ed him, Desire drove him to sudden, to
bad deeds; in the mad Walpurgisnacht,
he reached the summit of waste worldli-
ness. But, deeper than the Devil sup-
posed, Faust felt for his Margaret; he

desired to save the unfortunate girl, but
he was obliged to learn that this was
impossible, but that only endurance of
the punishment of crime could restore
the harassed mind to peace. The simple
story of love held everything together
here in a dramatic form. The Prologue
in Heaven, the Witch-kitchen, the Wal-
purgisnacht, and several contemplative
scenes, could be left out, and there still
would remain a theatrical Whole of re-
markable effect.

The relation to Margaret — her death —
had elevated Faust above every thing sub-
jective. In the continuation of his life,
objective relations alone could constitute
the motive of action. The living, fresh
breath of the First Part resulted just from
this fact, that every thing objective, uni-
versal, was seized from the point of sub-
jective interest; in the Second Part, the
Universal, the Objective, stands out
prominently; subjective interests appear
only under the presupposition of the Ob-
jective; the form becomes allegorical.

A story, an action which rounds itself
off to completion, is wanting, and there-
fore the dramatic warmth which pulsates
through every scene of the First Part is
no longer felt. The unity which is traced
through the web of the manifold situa-
tion, is the universal tendency of Faust
to create a satisfaction for himself
through work. Mephistopheles has no
longer the position of a being superior
by his great understanding and immova-
ble coldness, who bitterly mocks Faust's
striving, but he appears rather as a pow-
erful companion who skilfully procures
the material means for the aims of Faust,
and, in all his activity, only awaits the
moment when Faust shall finally acknow-
ledge himself to be satisfied. But the
striving of Faust is infinite ; each goal,
when once reached, is again passed by ;
nowhere does he rest, not in Society, not
in Nature, not in Art, not in War, not
in Industry; only the thought of Free-
dom itself, the presentiment of the hap-
piness of standing with a free people
upon a free soil wrung from the sea,
thrills the old man with a momentary

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

satisfactiou — and he dies. Upon pictures
and wood-cuts of the middle ages repre-
sentations of dying persons are found,
in which the Devil on one side of the
death-bed and angels on the other await
eagerly the departing soul to pull it to
themselves. Goethe has revived this old
idea of a jealousy and strife between the
angels and the Devil for Man. Mephis-
topheles, with his horde of devils, strug-
gles to carry away the soul of Faust to
hell, but he forgets himself in unnatural
lust, and the angels bear the immortal
part of Faust to that height where rest
and illumination of the dying begin.

Such an allegorical foundation could
not be developed otherwise than in huge
masses ; the division of each mass in itself,
so that all the elements of the thought ly-
ing at the bottom should appear, was the
proper object of the composition. The
First Part could also be called allegorical,
in so far as it reflected the universal Es-
sence of Spirit in the Individual ; but it
could not be said of it in any other sense
than of every poem; Allegory in its strict-
er sense was not to be found; the shapes
had all flesh and blood, and no design
was felt. In the Second Part everything
passes over into the really Allegorical,
to which Goethe, the older he grew,
seems to have had the greater inclina-
tion : the Xenien, the Trilogie der Lei-
denschaft, the Lieder zur Loge, the
Maskenzuge, Epimenides Erwachen, the
cultivation of the Eastern manners, all
proceeded from a didactic turn which
delighted in expressing itself in gnomes,
pictures, and symbolical forms. With
wonderful acuteness Goethe has always
been able to seize the characteristic de-
terminations, and unfold them in neat,
living language; however, it lies in the
nature of such poems that they exercise
the reflective faculty more than the heart,
and it was easy to foresee that the Second
Part of Faust would never acquire the
popularity of the First Part; that it would
not, as the latter, charm the nation, and
educate the people to a consciousness of
itself, but that it would always have a
sort of esoteric existence. Manv will be

repelled by the mythological learning of
the second and third acts ; and the more
so, as they do not see themselves recom-
pensed by the dialectic of an action ; —
however, we would unhesitatingly de-
fend the poet against this reproach ; a
poem which has to compass the immeas-
urable material of the world, cannot be
limited in this respect. What learning
has not Dante supposed in his readers !'
Humbly have we sought it, in order to
acquire ati understanding of his poem, in
the certainty of being richly rewarded;
the censure which has been cast upon it
for this reason has effected nothing. In-
deed, such fault-finders would here for-
get what the first ackno vledged' Part of
Faust has compelled thetn to learn. With
this difference of plan, the style must also
change. Instead of dramatic pathos, be-
cause action is wanting, description,
explanation, indication, have become
necessary ; and instead of the lively ex-
change of dialogue, the lyrical portion
has become more prominent, in order to
embody with simplicity the elements of
the powerful world-life. The descrip-
tions of nature deserve to be mentioned
in particular. The most wanton fancy,
the deepest feeling, the most accurate
knowledge, and the closest observation
into the individual, prevail in all these
pictures with an indescribable charm.

We shall now give a short account of '
the contents of each act. In a more com-
plete exposition we would point out the
places in which the power of the parti-
cular developments centres ; in these out-
lines it is our design to confine ourselves
to tracing out the universal meaning. To
exhibit by single verses and songs the
wonderful beauty of the language, par-
ticularly in the lyrical portions, would
seem to be as superfluous as the effort to
prove the existence of a Divine Provi-
dence by anecdotes of strange coinci-
dences.

The first act brings us into social life ; a
multitude of shapes pass by us — the most
different wishes, opinions, and humors,
are heard; still, a secret unity, which
we shall note even more closely, per-

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

vades the confused tutnult. In a delight-
ful spot, lying upon the flowery sward,
we see Faust alone, tormented by deep
pangs, seeking rest and slumber. Out
of pure pity, indifferent whether the un-
fortunate man is holy or wicked, elves
hover around him and fan him to sleep,
in order that the past may be sunk into
the Lethe of forgetfulness ; otherwise, a
continuance of life and endeavor is im-
possible. The mind has the power to free
itself from the past, and throw it behind
itself, and treat as if it had never been.
The secret of renewing ourselves per-
petually consists in this, that we can de-
stroy ourselves within ourselves, and, as
a veritable Phoenix, be resurrected from
the ashes of self-immolation. Still, this
negative action suffices not for our free-
dom ; the Positive must be united to us ;
there must arise, with ' ; tremendous
quaking," the sun of new activity and
fresh endeavor, whereby the stillness of
nightly repose, the evanishment of all
thoughts and feelings which had become
stable, passes away in refreshing slum-
ber. Faust awakened, feels every pulse
of nature beating with fresh life. The
glare of the pure sunlight dazzles him —
the fall of waters through the chasms of
the rock depicts to him his own unrest ;
but from the sunlight and silvery vapor
of the whirlpool there is created the rich-
ly colored rainbow, which is always qui-
etly glistening, but is forever shifting: it
is Life. After this solitary encourage-
ment to new venture and endeavor, the
court of the Emperor receives as, where
a merry masquerade is about to take
place. But first, from all sides, the pro-
saic complaints of the Chancellor, the
Steward, the Commander-in-Chief, the
Trea-urer, fall upon the ear of the Em-
peror: money, the cement of all rela-
tion-. i~ wanting to the State; for com-
merce, for pleasure, for luxury, money
is the indispensable basis. At this point,
Mephistopheles presses forward to the
place of the old court-fool, who has just
disappeared, and excites the hope of
bringing to light concealed treasure. To
the Chancellor this way seems not exactly

Christian, the multitude raises a mur-
mur of suspicion, the Astrologer dis-
cusses the possibility — and the propo-
sition is adopted. After this hopeful
prospect, the masquerade can come off
without any secret anxieties disturbing
their merriment. The nature of the
company is represented in a lively man-
ner. No one is what he seems to be;
each has thrown over himself a conceal-
ing garment; each knows of the other
that he is not that which his appearance
or his language indicates ; this effort to
hide his own being — to pretend and to
dream himself into something different
from himself — to make himself a riddle
to others in all openness, is the deepest,
most piquant charm of social interests.

The company will have enjoyment — it
unites itself with devotion to the festive
play, and banishes rough egotism, whose
casual outbreaks the watchful herald
sharply reproves ; but still, in the heart of
every one, there remains some intention
which is directed to the accomplishment
of earthly aims. The young Florentine
women want to please ; the mother wish-
es her daughter to make the conquest of
a husband ; the fishermen and bird-catch-
ers are trying their skill; the wood-
chopper, buffoons, and parasites, are en-
deavoring, as well as they can, to make
themselves valid; the drunkard forgets
everything over his bottle; the poets,
who could sing of any theme, drown each
other's voices in their zeal to be heard,
and to the satirist there scarcely remains
an opportunity for a dry sarcasm. The
following allegorical figures represent to
us the inner powers which determine so-
cial life. First, the Graces appear, for
the first demand of society is to behave
with decency; more earnest arc the Par-
cae, the continuous change of duration — •
still, they work only mechanically; but
the Furies, although they come as beau-
tiful maids, work dynamically through
the excitement of the passions. Here
the aim is to conquer. Victoria is thron-
ed high upon a sure-footed elephant,
which Wisdom guides with skilful wand,
while Fear and Hope go along on each

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

side ; between these the Deed wavers un-
til it has reached the proud repose of vic-
tory. But, as soon as this happens, the
quarrelsome, hateful Thersites breaks
forth, to soil the glory with his biting
sneer. Bat his derision effects nothing.
The Herald, as the regulating Under-
standing and as distributive Justice, can
reconcile the differences and mistakes
which have arisen, and he strikes the
scoffer in such a manner that he bursts
and turns into an adder and a bat. Gra-
dually the company returns to its exter-
nal foundation ; the feeling of Wealth
must secure to it inexhaustible pleasure.
But Wealth is two-fold: the earthly, mo-
ney — the heavenly, poetry. Both must
be united in society, if it would not feel
weak and weary. The Boy Driver — that
is, Poetry, which knows how to bring
forth the Infinite in all the relations of
life, and through the same to expand,
elevate and pacify the heart — is acknow-
ledged by Plutus, the god of common
riches, as the one who can bestow that
which he himself is too poor to give. In
the proud fullness of youth, bounding
lightly around with a whip in his hand,
the lovely Genius, who rules all hearts,
drives with horses of winged speed
through the crowd. The buffoon of Plu-
tus, lean Avarice, is merrily ridiculed by
the women ; Poetry, warned by the fa-
therly love of Plutus, withdraws from
the tumult which arises for the posses-
sion of the golden treasures. Gnomes,
Giants, Satyrs, Nymphs, press on with
bacchantic frenzy; earthly desire glows
through the company, and it celebrates
great Pan, Nature, as its God, as the
Giver of powerful Wealth and fierce
Lust. A whirling tumult threatens to
seize hold of everybody — a huge tongue
of flame darts over all ; but the majesty
of the Emperor, the self-conscious dig-
nity of man, puts an end to the juggling
game of the half-unchained Earth-spirit,
and restores spiritual self-possession.

Still Mephistopheles keeps the promise
which he has made. He succeeds iu re-
vivifying the company by fresh sums of
money, obtained in conformity with his

nature, not by unearthing buried treas-
ures from the heart of the mountains by
means of the wishing-rod, but by mak-
ing paper money ! It is not, indeed, real
coin, but the effect is the same, for in so-
ciety everything rests upon the caprice
of acceptance ; its own life and preserva-
tion are thereby guaranteed by itself,
and its authority, here represented by
the Emperor, has infinite power. The
paper notes, this money stamped by the
airy imagination, spread everywhere
confidence and lively enjoyment. It is
evident that the means of prosperity have
not been wauting, nor stores of eatables
and drinkables, but a form was needed
to set the accumulated materials in mo-
tion, and to weave them into the changes
of circulation. With delight, the Chan-
cellor, Steward, Commander-in-Chief,
Treasurer, n port the flourishing con-
dition of the army and the citizens;
presents without stint give rise to the
wildest luxury, which extends from the
nobles of the realm down to the page
and fool, and in such joyfulness every-
body can unhesitatingly look about, him
for new means of pleasure. Because the
company has its essence in the produc-
tion of the notes, its internal must strive
for the artistic ; every one feels best
when he, though known, remains unre-
cognized, and thus a theatrical tendency
develops itself. For here the matter has
nothing to do with the dramatic as real
art, in reference to the egotism which
binds the company together. The thea-
tre collects the idle multitude, and it has
nothing to do but to see, to hear, to com-
pare, and to judge. Theatrical enjoy-
ment surpasses all other kinds in com-
fort, and is at the same time the most
varied. The Emperor wishes that the
great magician, Faust, should play a
drama before himself and the court, and
show Paris and Helen. To this design
Mephistopheles can give no direct aid ;
in a dark gallery he declares, in conver-
sation with Faust, that the latter himself
must create the shapes, aud therefore
must go the Mothers. Faust shudders at
their names. Mephistopheles gives him

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

a small but important key, with which
he must enter the shadowy realm of the
Mothers for a glowing tripod, and bring
back the same ; by burning incense upon
it, he would be able to create whatever
shape he wished. As a reason why he
is unable to form them, Mephistopheles
says expressly that he is in the service
of big-necked dwarfs and witches, and
not of heroines, and that t lie Heat lien
have their own Hell, with which he, the
Christian and romantic Devil, has noth-
ing to do. And yet he possesses the key
to it, and hence it is not unknown to
him. And why does Faust shudder at
the name of the Mothers? Who are these
women that are spoken of so mysteri-
ously? If it were said, the Imagination,
J/ottm would be an inept expression;
if it were said, the Past, Present, and
Future, Faust's shuddering could not be
sufficiently accounted for, since how
should Time frighten him who has al-
ready lived through the terrors of death?
From the predicates which are attached
to the Mothers, how they everlastingly
occupy the busy mind with all the forms
of creation; how from the shades which
surround them in thousand-fold variety,
from the Being which is Nothing, All
becomes; how from their empty, most
lonely depth the living existence comes
forth to the surface of Appearance; from
such designations scarcely anything else
can be understood by the realm of the
Mothers than the world of Pure Thought.
This explanation might startle at the first
glance, but we need only put Idea for
Thought — wc need only remember the
Idea-world of Plato in order to compre-
hend the matter better. The eternal
thoughts, the Ideas, are they not the still,
shadowy abyss in which blooming Life
buds — into whose dark, agitated depths
it sends down its roots? Mephistophe-
les has the key; for the Understanding,
which is negative Determination, is ne-
cessary in order not to perish in the infi-
nite universality of Thought ; it is itself,
however, only the Negative, and there-
fore cannot bring the actual Idea, Beau-
ty, to appearance, but he, in his devilish

barrenness, must hand this work over to
Faust; he can only recommend to the
latter moderation, so as not to lose him-
self among the phantoms, and he is curi-
ous to know whether Faust will return.
But Faust shudders because he is not to
experience earthly solitude alone, like
that of the boundless ocean, when yet
star follows star and wave follows wave;
the deepest solitude of the creative spi-
rit ; the retirement into the invisible,
yet almighty Thought, the sinking into
the eternal dea is demanded of him.
Whoever his had the boldness of this
Though! — whoever has ventured to pen-
etrate into the magic circle of the Logi-
cal, and its world-subduing Dialectic,
iuto this most simple element of infinite
formation and transformation, has over-
come all, and has nothing more to feai ,
as the Homunculus afterwards expresses
it, because he has beheld the naked es-
sence, because Necessity has stripped
herself to his gaze. But it is also to be
observed that the tripod is mentioned,
for by this there is an evident allusion
to subjective Enthusiasm and individual
Imagination, by wdiich the Idea in Art is
brought out of its universality to the de-
teimiuate existence of concrete Appear-
ance. Beauty is identical in content with
Truth, but its form belongs to the sphere
of the Sensuous.

While Faust is striving after Beauty,
Mephistopheles is besieged by women in
the illuminated halls, to improve their
looks and assist them in their love af-
fairs. After this delicate point is settled,
no superstition is too excessive, no sym-
pathetic cure too strange — as, for exam-
ple, a tread of the foot — and the knave
fools them until they, with a love-lorn
page, become too much for him.

Next, the stage, by its decorations,
which represents Grecian architecture,
causes a discussion of the antique and
romantic taste; Mephistopheles has hu-
morously taken possession of the promp-
ter's box, and so the entertainment goes
on, in par lor fashion, till Faust actually
appears, and Paris and Helen, in the
name of the all-powerful Mothers, are

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

formed from the incense which ascends
in magic power. The Public indulges
itself in an outpouring of egotistical
criticism , the men despise the unmanly
Paris, and interest themselves deeply in
the charms of Helen; the women ridi-
cule the coquettish beauty with envious
moralizing, and fall in love for the nonce
with the fair youth. But as Paris is
about to lead away Helen, Faust, seized
with the deepest passion lor her wonder-
ful beauty, falls upon the stage and de-
stroys his own work. The phantoms
vanish; still the purpose remains to ob-
tain Helen ; that is, the artist must hold
on to the Ideal, but he must know that
it is the Ideal. Faust confuses it with
common Actuality, and he has to learn
that absolute Beauty is not of an earthly,
but of a fleeting, etherial nature.

The second act brings us away from
our well-known German home to the
bottom of the sea and its mysterious se-
crets. Faust is in search of Helen; where
else can he find her, perfect Beauty, than
in Greece ? But first he seeks her, and
meets therefore mere shapes, which un-
fold themselves from natural existence,
which are not yet actual humanity. In-
deed, since he seeks natural Beauty — for
spiritual Beauty he has already enjoyed
in the heavenly disposition of Margaret
— the whole realm of Nature opens upon
us ; all the elements appear in succes-
sion ; the rocks upon which the earnest
Sphixes rest, in which the Ants, Dactyls,
Gnomes work, give the surrounding
ground ; the moist waters contain in
their bosom the seeds of all things. The
holy fire infolds it with eager flame: ac-
cording to the old legend, Venus sprang
from the foam of the sea.

Next we find ourselves at Wittenberg,
in the ancient dwelling, where it is easy
to see by the cobw r ebs, dried-up ink, tar-
nished paper, and dust, that many years
have passed ^ince Faust went out into
the world. Mephistopheles, from the
old coat in which lie once instructed the
knowledge-seeking pupil, shakes out the
lice and crickets, which swarm around
the old master with a joyful greeting, as

also Parseeism makes Ahriman the fa-
ther of all vermin. F lies on his bed,
sleeps and dreams the lustful story of
Leda, which, in the end, is nothing more
than the most decent and hence produci-
ble representation of generation. While
Mephistopheles in a humorous and, as
well as the Devil can, even in an idyllic
manner, amuses himself, while he in-
quires sympathetically after Wagner of
the present Famulus, a pupil, who, in the
meanwhile, has become a Baccalaureate,
comes storming in, in older to see what
the master is doing who formerly incul-
cated such wise doctrines, and in order
to show what a prodigiously reasonable
man he has himself become. A persi-
flage of many expi-essions of the modern
German Natural Philosophy seems re-
cognizable in this talk. Despising age,
praising himself as the dawn of a new
life, he spouts his Idealism, by means of
which he creates everything, Sun, Moon
and Stars, purely by the absoluteness
of subjective Thought. Mephistopheles,
though the pupil assails him bitterly, lis-
tens to his wise speeches with lamb-like
patience, and, after this refreshing scene,
goes into Wagner's laboratory. The good
man has stayed at home, and has applied
himself to Chemistry, to create, through
its processes, men. To his tender, hu-
mane, respectable, intelligent mind, the
common way of begetting children is too
vulgar, and unworthy of spirit. Science
must create man ; a real materialism will
produce him. Mephistopheles comes
along just at this time, to whom Wagner
beckons silence, and whispers anxiously
to him his undertaking, as in the glass
retort the hermaphroditic boy, the Ho-
munculus, begins to stir. But alas ! the
Artificial requires enclosed space. The
poor fellow can live only in the glass re-
tort, the outer world is too rough for
him, and still he has the greatest desire
to be actually born. A longing, univer-
sal feeling for natural life sparkles from
him with clear brilliancy, and cousin
Mephistopheles lakes him along to the
classic Walpurgisnachtf where Homun-
culus hopes to find a favorable moment.

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

Mephistopheles is related to the little
man for this reason, because the latter
is only the product of nature, because
God's breath has not been breathed into
him as into a real man.

After these ironical scenes, the fearful
night of the Pharsalian Fields succeeds,
where the antique world terminated its
free life. This plain, associated with dark
remembrances and bloody shadows, is
the scene of the classical Walpurgis-
nacht. Goethe could choose no other
spot, for just upon this battle-field the
spirit of Greek and Roman antiquity
ceased to be a living actuality. As an
external reason, it is well known that
Thesealy was to the ancients the land of
wizards, and especially of witches, so
that from this point of view the parallel
with the German Blocksberg is very
striking. Faust, driven by impatience
to obtain Helen, is in the begiuning sent
from place to place to learn her resi-
dence, until Chiron takes him upon the
neck which had once borne that most
loving beauty, and, with a passing sneer
at the conjectural troubles of the Philol-
ogist, tells him of the Argonauts, of the
most beautiful man, of Hercules, until
he stops his wild course at the dwell-
ing of the prophetic Manto, who prom-
ises to lead Faust to Helen on Olympus.
Mephistopheles wanders in the mean-
while among Sphinxes, Griffons, Sirens,
&c. To him, the Devil of the Christian
and Germanic world, this classic ground
is not at all pleasing; he longs for the ex-
cellent Blocksberg of the North, and its
ghostly visages ; with the Lamia? indeed
he resolves to have his own sport, but
is roguishly bemocked ; finally, he comes
to the horrible Phorcyads, and after
their pattern he equips himself with one
eye and a tusk for his own amusement;
that is. he becomes the absolutely Ugly,
while Faust is wooing the highest Beau-
ty. In the Christian world the Devil is
also represented as fundamentally ugly
and repulsive; but he can also, under all
fornix, appear as an angel of light. In
the Art-world, on the contrary, he can
be known only as the Ugly. In all these

scenes there is a mingling of the High
and the Low of the Horrible and the Ri-
diculous, of Vexation and Whimsicality,
of the Enigmatical and the Perspicuous,
so that no better contradiction- could be
wished for a Walpurgimackt. The Ho-
munculus on his part is ceaselessly striv-
ing to come to birth, aud betakes himself
to Thales and Anaxagoras, who dispute
whether the world arose in a dry or wet
way. Thales leads the little man to Ne-
reus, who, however, refuses to aid the
seeker, partly because he has become an-
gry with men who, like Paris and Ulys-
ses, have always acted against his advice,
and partly because he is about to cele-
brate a great feast. Afterwards they go
to Proteus, who at first is also reticent,
but soon takes an interest in Homuncu-
lus as he beholds his shining brilliancy,
for he feels that he is related to the chang-
ing fire, and gives warning that as the
latter can become everything, he should
be careful about becoming a man. for it
is the most miserable of all existences.
In the meanwhile, the Peneios roars ; the
earth-shaking Seismos breaks forth with
a loud noise: the silent and industrious
mountain-spirits become wakeful. But
always more clearly the water declares
itself as the womb of all things : the fes-
tive train of the Telchines point* to the
hoary Cabiri: bewitchingly resound the
songs of the Sirens; Hippocampi. Tri-
tons, Nereids, Pselli and Marci arise from
the green, pearl-decked ground ; the
throne of Nereus and Galatea arches over
the crystalline depths: at their feet the
e«°ger Homunculus falls to pieces, and
all-moving Eros in darting flames streams
forth. Ravishing songs float aloft, cele-
brating the holy elements, which the
ever- seating Love holds together and
purifies. Thales is just as little in the
right as Anaxagoras; together, both are
right, for Nature is kindled to perpetual
new life by the marriage of Are and water.
The difference between this Walpur-
gisnacht and the one in the Firsl Part
lies in the fact, that the principle of the
latter is the relation of Spirit to God.
In the Christian world the first question

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

is, what is the position of man towards
God? therefore there appear forms which
are self-contradictory, lacerated spiritu-
ally, torn in pieces by the curse of con-
demnation to all torture. Classic Life
has for its basis the relation to Nature ;
the mysterious Cabiri were only the mas-
ter-workmen of Nature. Nature finds in
man her highest goal; in his fair figure,
in the majesty of his form, she ends her
striving; and therefore the contradic-
tions of the classic Walpurgisnacht are
not so foreign to Mephistopheles, who
has to do with Good and Bad, that he does
not feel his contact with them, but still
they are not native to him. The general
contradiction which we meet with, and
which also in Mephistopheles expresses
itself by the cloven foot at least, is the
union of the human and animal frame-;
the human is at first only half existent,
on earth in Sphinxes, Oreads, Sirens,
Centaurs; in water, in Hippocamps, Tri-
tons, Nymphs, Dorids, &c. For the fair
bodies of the latter still share the moist
luxuriance of their element. Thus Na-
ture expands itself in innumerable crea-
tions in order to purify itself in man, in
the self-conscious spirit, in order to
pacify and shut off in him the infinite
impulse to formation, because it passes
beyond him to no new form. He is the
embodied image of God. The inclosed
Homuuculus, with his fiery trembling ea-
gerness to pass over into an independent
actuality, is, as it were, the serio-comic
representation of this tendency, until he
breaks the narrow glass, and now is what
he should be, the union of the elements,
for this is Eros according to the most an-
cient Greek conception, as we still find
even in the Philosophers.

In the third act Goethe has adhered to
the old legend, according to which, Faust,
by means of Mephistopheles, obtained
Helen as a concubine, and begat a son,
Justus Faustus. Certainly, the employ-
ment of this feature was very difficult; and
still, even in our days, a poet, L. Bech-
stein, has been wrecked upon this rock.
He has Helen marry Faust; they beget a
child; but finally, when Faust makes his

will, and turns away unlovingly from
wife and child, it is discovered that the
Grecian Helen, who in the copper-plates
is also costumed completely in the an-
tique manner, is a German countess of
real flesh and blood, who has been sub-
stituted by the Devil — an undeceiving
which ought to excite the deepest sym-
pathy. Goethe has finely idealized this
legend ; he has expressed therein the un-
ion of the romantic and classic arts. The
third art, this Phantasmagory, is perhaps
the most perfect of all, and executed in the
liveliest manner. Noble as is the diction
of the first and second acts, especially in
the lyrical portions, it is here neverthe-
less by far surpassed. Such a majesty and
simplicity, such strength and mildness,
unity and variety, in so small a space, are
astonishing. First resounds the inter-
change of the dignity of iEsch\ lus aud
Sophocles, with the sharp-steeled wit of
Aristophanes; then is heard the tone of
the Spanish romances, an agreeable iam-
bic measure — a sweet, ravishing melody ;
finally, new styles break forth, like the
fragments of a prophecy; ancient and
modern rhythms clash, and the harmony
is destroyed. — Helen returns, after the
burning of Troy, to the home of her
spouse, Menelaus ; the stewardess, aged,
wrinkled, ugly, but experienced and in-
telligent, Phorcyas, receives her mistress
in the citadel by command. Opposed to
Beauty, as was before said, Mephisto-
pheles can only appear as Ugliness, be-
cause in the realm of beautiful forms the
Ugly is the Wicked. There arises a quar-
rel between the graceful yet pretentious
youth of the Chorus and world-wise yet
stubborn Old Age. Helen has to appease
it, and she learns with horror from Phor-
cyas that Menelaus is going to sacrifice
her. — Still (as, on the one hand, Grecian
fugitives, after the conquest of Constan-
tinople, instilled everywhere into Ger-
man Life the taste for classic Beauty,
and as, on the other hand, one of the Ot-
tomans in Theophania — like Faust — won
a Helen, and thereby everywhere arose
a striving after the appropriation of the
Antique), the old stewardess saves her,

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

:.'

and bears her through the air together
with her beautiful train, to the Gothic
citadel of Faust, where the humble aud
graceful behavior of the iron men tow-
ard? the women, in striking contract to
their hard treatment on the banks of the
Eurotas, at once wins the female heart.
The watchman of the tower, Lynceus,
lost in wondering delight over the ap-
proaching beauty, forgets to announce
her, and has brought upon himself a
heavy punishment ; but Helen, the cause
of his misdemeanor, is to be judge in his
case, and she pardons him.

Faust and all his vassals do homage to
the powerful beauty, in whom the an-
tique pathos soon disappears. In the
new surroundings, in the mutual ex-
change of quick and confiding love, the
sweet rhyme soon flows from their kiss-
ing lips. An attack of Menelaus inter-
rupts the loving courtship; but Valor,
which in the battle for Beauty and favor
of the ladies, seeks its highest honor and
purport, is unconquerable, and the swift
might of the army victoriously opposes
Menelaus. Christian chivalry protects
the jewel of beauty which has fled to it
for safety, against all barbarism pressing
on from the East. — Thus the days of the
lovers pass rapidly away in secret grot-
toes amid pastoral dalliance ; as once
Mars refreshed himself in the arms of
Venus, so in the Middle Ages knights
passed gladly from the storm of war to
the sweet service of women in quiet
trustfulness. Yet the son whom they be-
get, longs to free himself from this idle,
Arcadian life. The natm-e of both the
mother and the father drives him for-
ward, and soon consummates the matter.
Beautiful and graceful as Helen, the in-
satiate longing for freedom glows in him
as in Faust. He strikes the lyre with
wonderful, enchanting power; he revels
wildly amid applauding maidens ; he
rushes from the bottom of the valley to
the tops of the mountains, to see far out
into the world, and to breathe freely in
the free air. His elastic desire raises
him, a second Icarus, high in the clouds ;
but he soon falls dead at the feet of the

parents, while an aureola, like a comet,
streaks the heavens. Thus perished Lord
Byron. He is a poet more romantic tliau
Goethe, to whom, however, Art gave no
final satisfaction, because he had a sym-
pathy for the sufferings of nations and of
mankind, which called him pressingly to
action. His poems arc full of this striv-
ing. In them he weep? away his grief
for freedom. Waller Scott, who never
passed out of the Middle Age?, i? read
more than Byron. But Byron i- more
powerful than he, because the Idea took
deeper root, and that demoniacal charac-
ter concentrated in itself all the strug-
gles of our agitated time. Divine pi
softened not the wild sorrow of his heart,
and the sacrifice of himself for the free-
dom of a beloved people and land could
not reproduce classic Beauty. The fair
mother, who evidently did not under-
stand the stormy, self-conscion ■• charac-
ter of her son, sinks after him into the
lower world. As everything in this phan-
tasmagory is allegorical, I ask whether
this can mean anything else than that
freedom is necessary for beauty, and
beauty also for freedom? Euphorion is
boundless in his striving; the warnings
of the parents are unavailing; he top-
ples over into destruction. But Helen,
i.e. Beauty, cannot survive him, for all
beauty is the expression of freedom,
of independence, although it does uot
need to know the fact. Only Faust,
who unites all in himself, who strives
to reach beyond Nature and Art, Pres-
ent and Past — that is, the knowing of
the True — survives her; upon her gar-
ments, which expand like a cloud, he
moves forth. What remains now, since
the impulse of spiritual Life, the clarifi-
cation of Nature in Art, the immediate
spiritual Beauty, have vanished? Noth-
ing but Nature in her nakedness, whose
choruses of Oreads, Dryads and Nj mphs
swarm forth into the mountain-, woods,
and vineyards, for bacchantic revelry—
an invention which belongs to the high-
est effort of all poetry. It is a great kind-
ness in the Devil, when Phorcyas at last
discloses herself as Mephistopheles, and

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

where there is need offers herself as com-
mentator.

The life of Art, of Beauty, darkens like
a mist ; upon the height of the mountain,
Faust steps out of the departing cloud,
and looks after it as it changes to other
forms. His restless mind longs for new
activity. He wants to battle with the
waters, and from them win land; that
is, the land shall be his own peculiar
property, since he brings it forth artifi-
cially. As that money which he gave to
the Emperor was not coined from any
metal, but was a product of Thought ; as
that Beauty which charmed him was
sought with trouble, and wrung from
Nature ; and as he, seizing the sword for
the protection of Beauty, exchanged
Love for the labor of chivalry,— so the
land, the new product of his endeavor,
not yet is, but he will first create it by
means of his activity. A war of the
Emperor with a pretender gives him an
opportunity to realize his wish. He sup-
ports the Emperor in the decisive battle.
Mephistopheles is indifferent to the Right
and to freedom ; the material gain of the
war is the principal thing with him ; so
he takes along the three mighty robbers,
Bully, Havequick, and Holdfast. (See
2d Samuel, 23: 8.) The elements must
also fight — the battle is won — and the
grateful Emperor grants the request of
Faust to leave the sea-shore for his pos-
session. The State is again pacified by
the destruction of the pretender; a rich
booty in his camp repays many an inju-
ry; the four principal officers promi-e a
joyful entertainment; but the Church
comes in to claim possession of the
ground, capital and interest, in order
that the Emperor may be purified from
the guilt of having had dealiugs with the
suspicious magician. Humbly the Em-
peror promises all; but as the archbishop
demands tithe from the strand of the sea
which is not- yet in existence, the Em-
peror turns away in great displeasure.
The boundless rapacity of the Church
causes the State to rise up against it.
This act has not the lyrical fire of the
previous ones; the action, if the war can

thus be called, is diffuse ; the battle, as
broad as it is, is without real tension;
the three robbers are allegorically true,
if we look at the meaning which they
express, but are in other respects not
very attractive. In all the brilliant par-
ticulars, profound thoughts, striking
turns, piquant wit, and wise arrange-
ment, there is still wanting the living
breath, the internal connection, to ex-
hibit a complete picture of the war. And
still, from some indications, we may be-
lieve that this tediousness is designed, in
order to portray ironically the dull uni-
formity, the spiritual waste of external
political life, and the littleness of Ego-
tism. For it must be remembered that
the war is a civil war; the genuine po-
etic war, where people is against people,
falls into Phantasmagory. The last scene
would be in this respect the most suc-
cessful. The continued persistency of
the spiritual lord to obtain, in the name
of the heavenly church, earthly posses-
sions, the original acquiescence of the
Emperor, but his final displeasure at the
boundless shamelessness of the priest,
are excellently portrayed, and the pre-
tentious pomp of the Alexandrine has
never done better service.

In the fifth act we behold a wander-
er, who is saved from shipwreck, and
brought to the house of an aged couple,
Philemon and Baucis. He visits the old
people, eats at their frugal table, sees
them still happy in their limited sphere,
but listens with astonishment to them as
they tell of the improvements of their
rich neighbor, and they express the fear
of being ousted by him Still, they pull
the little bell of their chapel to kneel and
pray with accustomed ceremony in pres-
ence of the ancient God. — The neighbor
is Faust. He has raised dams, dug ca-
nals, built palaces, laid out ornamental
gardens, educated the people, sent out
navies. The Industry Of our time occu-
pies him unceasingly; he revels in the
wealth of trade, in the turmoil of men, in
the commerce of the world. That those
aged people still have property in the
middle of his possessions is extremely

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

disagreeable to him, for just this little
spot where the old mossy church stands,
the sound of whose bell pierces his heart,
where the airy lindens unfold themselves
to the breeze, he would like to have as a
belvedere to look overall his creations at
a glance. Like a good man whose head
is always full of plans, he means well to
the people, and is willing to give them
larger possessions where they can qui-
etly await death, and he sends Mephis-
topheles to treat with them. But the
aged people, who care not for eating and
drinking, but for comfort, will not leave
their happy hut; their refusal brings on
disputes, and the dwelling, together with
the aged couple and the lindens, perishes
by Are in this conflict between the active
Understanding and the poetry of Feel-
ing, which, in the routine of pious cus-
tom, clings to what is old. Faust is vexed
over the turn which affairs have taken,
particularly over the loss of the beautiful
lindens, but consoles himself with the
purpose to build in their stead a watch-
tower. Then, before the palace, appear
in the night, announcing death, four
hoary women, Starvation, Want, Guilt,
and Care, as the Furies who accompa-
ny the external prosperity of our indus-
trial century. Still, Care can only press
through the key-hole of the chamber of
the rich man, and places herself with
fearful suddenness at his side. The Ne-
gative of Thought is to be excluded by
no walls. But Faust immediately col-
lects himself again ; with impressive
clearness he declares his opinion of life,
of the value of the earthly Present; Care
he hates, and does not recognize it as an
independent existence. She will never-
theless make herself known to him at the
end of his life, and passes over his face
and makes him blind. Still, Faust ex-
presses no solicitude, though deprived
of his eyes by Care; no alteration is no-
ticed in him, he is bent only upon his
aims; the energy of his tension remains
uniform : Spirit, Thought, is the true
eye; though the external one is blinded,
the internal oue remains open and wake-
ful. The transition from this point to
the conclusion is properly this : that from

the activity of the fiuite Understanding
only a Finite can result. All industry,
for whose development Mephistophelee
is so serviceable, as he once was in war.
cannot still the hunger of Spirit for Spi-
rit. Industry creates only an aggregate
of prosperity, no true happiness. Our
century is truly great in industrial acti-
vity. But it should only be the mean-.
the point of entrance for real freedom,
which is within itself the Infinite. And
Faust has come to this, even on the
brink of the grave. Mephistopheles, af-
ter this affair with Care, causes the grave
of the old man to be dug by the shaking
Lemures. Faust supposes, as he h<
the noise of the spades, that his work-
men are busily employed. Eagerly he
talks over his plan- with Mephistophe-
les, and at last he glows at the good for-
tune of standing upon free ground with
a free people. Daily he feels that man
must conquer Freedom and Life anew,
and the presentiment that the traces of
his uninterrupted striving would not
perish in the Ages, is the highest moment
of his whole existence. This confession
of satisfaction kills him. and he falls to
the earth dead. After trying everything,
after turning from himself to the future
of the race, after working unceasingly,
he has ripened to the acknowledgment
that the Individual only in the Whole,
that Man only in the freedom of huma-
nity, can have repose. Mephistopheles
believes that he has won his bet, cau-e-
the jaws of Hell to appear, and com-
mands the Devils to look to the soul of
Faust. But Angels come, strewing r
from above; the roses, the flowers of
Love, cause pain where they fall; the
Devils and Mephistophele- himself com-
plain uproariously. He lashes himself
with the falling roses, which cling to his
neck like pitch and brimstone, and burn
deeper than Hell-fire. First, he berates
the Angels as hypocritical puppets, yet.
more closely observed, he finds that they
are most lovely youths. Only the long
cloaks fit them too modestly, for, from
behind particularly, the rascals had a
very desirable look. While he is seek-
ing- out a tall fellow for himself, and is

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

plunged wholly in his pederastic lust,
the Angels carry away the immortal part
of Faust to Heaven. Mephistopheles
now reproaches himself with the great-
est bitterness, because he has destroyed,
through so trivial a desire, the fruits of
so long a labor. This reductio ad absur-
dum of the Devil must be considered as
one of the happiest strokes of humor.
The holy innocence of the Angels is not
for him; lie sees only their fine bodies;
his lowness carries him into the Unnatu-
ral aud Accidental, just where his great-
est interest aud egotism come in play.
This result will surprise most people;
but, if they consider the nature of the
Devil, it will be wholly satisfactory; in
all cunning he is at last bemocked as a
fool, and he destroys himself through
himself.

In conclusion, we see a woody, rocky
wilderness, settled with hermits. It is
not Heaven itself, but the transition to
the same, where the soul is united to
perfect clearness and happiness. Hence
we find the glowing devotion and re-
pentance of the Pater ecstaticus, the con-
templation of the Pater profundus, the
wrestling of the Pater serapticus, who,
taking into his eyes the holy little boys
because their organs are too weak for the
Earth, shows them trees, rocks, water-
falls. The Angels bring in Faust, who,
as Dr. Marianus, in the highest and pur-
est cell, with burning prayer to the ap-
proaching Queen of Heaven, seeks for
grace. Around Maria is a choir of peni-
tents, among whom are the Magna Pec-
catrix, the Mulier Samaritana, and Maria
.iEgyptiaca. They pray for the earthly
soul ; and one of the penitents, once
called Margaret, kneeling, ventures a
special intercession. The Mater Gloriosa
appoints Margaret to lead the soul of
Faust to higher spheres, for he shall fol-
low her in anticipation. A fervent prayer
streams from the lips of Doctor Mari-
anus ; the Chorus mysticus concludes
with the assurance of the certainty of
bliss through educating, purifying love.
Aspiration, the Eternal feminine, is in
Faust, however deeply he penetrates into
every sphere of worldly activity. The

analogy between Margaret and the Bea-
ti'ice of Dante is here undeniable ; also,
the further progress of Faust's life we
must consider similar, as he, like Dante,
grows in the knowledge and feeling of
the Divine till he arrives at its complete
intuition ; Dante beholds the Trinity
perfectly free and independent, without
being led farther by anybody. From this
point of view, that the poet wanted to
exhibit reconciliation as becoming, as a
product of infinite growth, is found the
justification of the fact that he alludes so
slightly to God the Father and to Christ
the Redeemer, aud, instead, hriugs out
so prominently the worship of the Vir-
gin, and the devotion of "Woman. De-
votion has a passive element which finds
its fittest poetical support in women.
These elements agree also very well
with the rest of the poem, since Goethe,
throughout the entire drama, has pre-
served the costume of the Middle Ages;
otherwise, on account of the evident
Protestant tendency of Faust, it would
be difficult to find a necessary connection
with the other parts of the poem.

As regards the history of Faust in it-
self, dramatically considered, the first
four acts could perhaps be entirely omit-
ted. The fifth, as it shows us that all
striving, if its content is not religion (the
freedom of the Spirit), can give no inter-
nal satisfaction, as it shows us that in the
earnest striving after freedom, however
much we may err, still the path to Hea-
ven is open, and is only closed to him
who does not strive, would have suffi-
ciently exhibited the reconciliation. But
Goethe wants to show not only this con-
clusion, which was all the legend de-
manded of him, but also the becoming
of this result. Faust was for him, and
through him for the nation, and indeed
for Europe, the representative of the
world-comprehending, self-conscious in-
ternality of Spirit, and therefore he caus-
ed all the elements of the World to crys-
tallize around this centre. Thus the acts
of the Second Part are pictures, which,
like frescoes, are painted beside one
another upon the same wall, and Faust
has actually become what was so often

Second Part of Goethe's Faust.

before said of him, a perfect manifesta-
tion of the Universe.

If we now cast a glance back to what
we said in the beginning, of the opposi-
tion between the characters of Wilhelm
Meister and Faust, that the former was
the determined from without, the latter
the self-determining from within, we can
also seize this opposition so that Meister
is always in pursuit of Culture, Faust of
Freedom. Meister is therefore always
desirous of new impressions, in order to
have them work upon himself, extend
his knowledge, complete his character.
His capacity and zeal for Culture, the
variety of the former, the diligeuce of the
latter, forced him to a certain lameness
and complaisance in relation to others.
Faust, on the contrary, will himself
work. He will possess only what he him-
self creates. Just for this reason he binds
himself to the Devil, because the latter
. has the greatest worldly power, which
Faust applies unsparingly for his own
purposes, so that the Devil in reality
finds in him a hard, whimsical, insatiate
master. To Wilhelm the acquaintance of
the Devil would indeed have been very
interesting from a moral, psychological,
and aesthetic point of view, but he never
would have formed a fraternity with
him. This autonomia and autarkia of
Faust have given a powerful impulse to
the German people and German litera-
ture. But if, in the continuation of
Faust, there was an expectation of the
same Titanic nature, it was disappoint-
ed. The monstrosity of the tendencies,
however, does not cease ; a man must be
blind not to see them. But in the place
of pleasure, after the catastrophe with
Margaret, an active participation in the
world enters ; a feature which Klinger
and others have retained. But Labor in
itself can still give no satisfaction, but
its content, too, must be considered. Or,
rather, the external objectivity of Labor
is indifferent; whether one is savant,
artist, soldier, courtier, priest, manufac-
turer, merchant, &c, is a mere accident;
whether he wills Freedom or not is not
accidental, for Spirit is in and for itself
free. With the narrow studio, in fellow-

ship with Wagner, Faust begins; with
Trade, with contests about boundaries,
with his look upon the sea, which unites
the nations, he ends his career.

In the World, Freedom indeed realizes
itself; but as absolute, it can only come
to existence in God.

It is, therefore, right when Goethe
makes the transition from civil to reli-
gious freedom. Men cannot accomplish
more than the realization of the freedom
of the nations, for Mankind has its con-
crete existence only in the nations ; if the
nations are free, it is also free. Faust
must thus be enraptured by this thought
in the highest degree. But with it, he
departs from the world — Heaven has
opened itself above him. But, though
Heaven sheds its grace, and lovingly re-
ceives the striving sold which has erred,
still it demands repentance and complete
purification from what is earthly. This
struggle, this wrestlingof the soul, I find
expressed in the most sublime manner in
the songs of the hermits and the chorus-
es, and do not know what our time has
produced superior in spiritual power, as
well as in unwavering hope, though I
must confess that I am not well enough
versed in the fertile modern lyric litera-
ture of Pietism, to say whether such
pearls are to be found in it.

Moreover, it is evident that the pliable
Meister and the stubborn Faust are the
two sides which were united in Goethe's
genius. He was a poet, and became a
courtier; he was a courtier, and remain-
ed a poet. But in a more extensive sense
this opposition is found in all modern na-
tions, particularly among the Germans.
They wish to obtain culture, and there-
fore shun no kind of society if they are
improved. But they wish also to be free.
They love culture so deeply that they
perhaps, for a while, have forgotten free-
dom. But then the Spirit warns them.
They sigh, like Faust, that they have sat
so long in a gloomy cell over Philosophy,
Theology, &c. With the fierceness of
lions, they throw all culture aside for the
sake of freedom, and in noble delusion
form an alliance— even with the Devil.

( 90 )

A CRITICISM OF PHILOSOPHICAL SYSTEMS.

Translated from the German of J. G. Fichte, by A. E. Kuoeger.

[Note. — Below -we give to our readers the translation of another Introduction to the Science
of Knowledge, written by Fichte immediately after the one published in our previous number.
Whereas that first Introduction was written for readers who have as yet no philosophical system
of their own. the present one is intended more particularly for those who have set philosophical
notions, of which they require to be disabused.— Editor.]

I believe the first Introduction pub-
lished in this Journal to be perfectly suf-
ficient for unprejudiced readers, i.e. for
readers who give themselves up to the
writer without preconceived opinions;
who, if they do not assist him, neither do
they resist him in his endeavors to carry
them along. It is otherwise with readers
who have already a philosophical system.
Such readers have adopted certain max-
ims from their system, which have be-
come fundamental principles for them;
and whatsoever is not produced accord-
ing to these maxims, is now pronounced
false by them without further investiga-
tion, and without even reading such pro-
ductions : it is pronounced false, because
it has been produced in violation of their
universally valid method. Unless this
class of readers is to be abandoned alto-
gether — and why should it be? — it is,
above all, necessary to remove the obsta-
cle which deprives us of their attention;
or, in other words, to make them distrust
their maxim-.

Such a preliminary investigation con-
cerning the method is, above all, neces-
sary in regard to the Science of Knowl-
edge, the whole structure and signifi-
cance whereof differs utterly from the
structure and significance of all philoso-
phical systems which have hitherto been
current. The authors of these previous
systems started from some conception
or another; and, utterly careless whence
they got it, or out of what material they
composed it, they then proceeded to
analyze it, to combine it with others,
regarding the origin whereof they were
equally unconcerned ; and this their ar-
gumentation itself is their philosophy.
Hence their philosophy consists in their

own thinking. Quite different does the
Science of Knowledge proceed. That h
which this Science makes the object of I
its thinking is not a dead conception, re-
maining passive under the investiga-i
tion, and receiving life only from it, but
is rather itself living and active ; generat-
ing out of itself and through itself cogni-lj
tions, which the philosopher merely ob-i
serves in their genesis. His business in
the whole affair is nothing further than
to place that living object of his investi-
gation in proper activity, and to observe,
grasp and comprehend this its activity as
a Unit. He undertakes an experiment.
It is his business to place the object in a
position which permits the observation
he wishes to make ; it is his business to
attend to all the manifestations of the
object in this experiment, to follow them
and connect them in proper order ; but
it is not his business to cause the mani-
festations in the object. That is the bu-
siness of the object itself: and he would
work directly contrary to his purpose if
he did not allow the object full freedom
to develop itself — if he undertook but
the least interference in this, its self-
developing.

The philosopher of the first mentioned
sort, on the contrary, does just the re-
verse. He produces a product of art. In
working out his object he only takes into
consideration its matter, and pays no
attention to an internal self-developing
power thereof. Nay, this power must be
deadened before he undertakes his work,
or else it might resist his labor. It is
from the dead matter, therefore, that he
produces something, and solely by means
of his own power, in accordance with his
previously resolved-upon conception.

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

While thus in the Science of Knowl-
edge there are two utterly distinct series
i of mental activity — that of the Ego,
which the philosopher observes, aud that
of the observations of the philosopher —
all other philosophical systems have only
I one series of thinking, viz., that of the
thoughts of the philosopher ; for his ob-
ject is not introduced as thinking at all.

One of the chief grounds of so many
objections to and misunderstandings of
the Science of Knowledge lies in this:
that these two series of thinking have not
been held apart, or that what belonged to
the one has beon taken to belong to the
other. This error occurred because Phi-
losophy was held to consist only of one
series. The act of one who produces a
work of art is most certainly — since his
object is not active — the appearance it-
self; but the description of him who has
undertaken an experiment, is not the
appearance itself, but the conception
thereof.*

* Note. — The same mistaking of one series of
thinking in transcendental idealism for the
other series, lies at the basis of the assertion,
that, besides the system of idealism, another
realistic system is also possible as a logical and
thorough system. The realism which forces it-
self upon all, even the most decided idealist —
namely, the assumption that things exist inde-
pendently and outside of us — is involved in the
idealistic system itself; and is. moreover, ex-
plained and deduced in that system. Indeed,
the deduction of an objective truth, as well in
the world of appearances as in the world of in-
tellect, is the only purpose of all philosophy.

^ It is the philosopher who says in his own name:
everything that is for the Ego is also through the
Ego. But the Ego itself, in that philosopher's
philosophy, says : as sure as I am I. there exists
outside of me a something which exists not
through me. The philosopher's idealistic asser-
tion is therefore met by the realistic assertion
of the Ego in the same one system; and it is the
philosopher's business to show from the funda.
mental principle of his philosophy how the Ego
comes to make such an assertion. The philoso-
pher's stand-point is the purely speculative ; the
Ego's stand-point in his system is the realistic
' stand-point of life and science ; the philosopher's
system is Science of Knowledge, whilst the Ego's
system is common Science. But common Sci-
ence is comprehensible only through the Sci-
ence of Knowledge, the realistic system com-*
prehensible only through the idealistic system.
Realism forces itself upon us ; but it lias in
itself no known and comprehensible ground.
Idealism furnishes this ground, and is only to

Vol. 1—6

After this preliminary remark, the fur-
ther application whereof we shall exam-
ine in the course of our article, let us
now ask : how does the Science of Know-
ledge proceed to solve its problem?

The question it will have to answer is,
as we well know, the following: whence
comes the system of those representa-
tions which are accompanied by the feel-
ing of necessity? Or, how do we come
to claim objective validity for what is
only subjective? Or, since objective va-
lidity is generally characterized as be-
ing, how do we come to accept a being?
Now, since this question starts from a
reflection that returns into itself — starts
from the observation, that the immediate
object of consciousness is after all mere-
ly consciousness itself, — it seems clear
enough that the question can speak of no
other being than of a being for us. It
would be indeed a complete contradic-
tion, to mistake it for a question con-
cerning some being which had no rela-
tion to our consciousness. Nevertheless,
the philosophers of our philosophical age
are of all things most apt to plunge into
such absurd contradictions.

The proposed question, how is a being
for us possible? abstracts itself from all .
being; i.e. it must not be understood, as
if the question posited a not-being; for
in that case the conception of being
would only be negated, but not abstract-
ed from. On the contrary, the question
does not entertain the conception of be-
ing at all, either positively or negative-
ly. The proposed question asks for the
ground of the predicate of being, wheth-
er it be applied positively or negatively;
but all ground lies beyond the grounded,
i.e. is opposed to it. The answer must
therelore, if it is to be an answer to this
question, also abstract from all being.
To maintain, a priori, in advance of an
attempt, that such an abstraction is im-
possible in the answer, because it is im-

make realism comprehensible. Speculation has
no other purpose than to furnish this compre-
hensibility of all reality, which in itself would
otherwise remain incomprehensible. Hence,
also. Idealism can never be a mode of thinking,
but can only be speculation.

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

possible in itself, would be to maintain
likewise, that such an abstraction is im-
possible in the question ; and hence, that
the question itself is not possible, and
that the problem of a science of meta-
physics, as the science which is to solve
the problem of the ground of beiug for
us, is not a problem for human reason.

That such an abstraction, and hence
such a question, is contrary to reason,
cannot be proven by objective grounds to
those who maintain its possibility ; for
the latter assert that the possibility and
necessity of the question is grounded
upon the highest law of reason — that of
self-determination (Practical legislation),
under which all other laws of reason are
subsumed, and from which they are all
derived, but at the same time determined
and limited to the sphere of their validi-
ty. They acknowledge the arguments of
their opponents willingly enough, but
deny their application to the present
case; with what justice, their opponents
can determine only by placing themselves
upon the basis of this highest law, but
hence, also, upon the basis of an answer
to the disputed question, by which act
they would cease to be opponents. Their
opposition, indeed, can only arise from
a subjective defect — from the conscious-
ness that they never raised this question,
and never felt the need of an answer to it.
Against this their position, no objective
grounds can, on the other hand, be made
valid by those who insist on an answer
to the question, for the doubt which
raises that question is grounded upon
/previous acts of freedom which no de-
monstration can compel from any one.
ill.

Let us now ask : who is it that under-
takes the demanded abstraction from all
being? or, in which of the two series
does it occur? Evidently, in the series
of philosophical argumentation, for an-
other series does not exist.

That to which the philosopher holds,
and from which he promises to explain
all that is to be explained, is the con-
sciousness, the subject. This subject he
will, therefore, have to comprehend free

from all representation of being, in or-
der first to show up in it the ground of
all being — of course, for itself. But if
he abstracts from all being of and for the
subject, nothing pertains to it but an act-
ing. Particularly in relation to being is
it the acting. The philosopher will there-
fore have to comprehend it in its acting,
and from this point the aforementioned
double series will first arise.

The fundamental assertion of the phi-
losopher, as such, is this : as soon as the
Ego isjjbr itself, there necessarily arises
for it at the same time an external being ;
the ground of the latter lies in the for-
mer; the latter is conditioned by the for-
(mer. Self-consciousness and conscious-
ness of a Something which is not that
; Self, is necessarily united ; but the former
is the conditioning and the latter the con-
ditioned. To prove this assertion — not,
perhaps, by argumentation, as valid for
a system of a being in itself, but by ob-
servation of the original proceeding of
reason, as valid for reason — the philoso-
pher will have to show, firstly, how the
! Ego is and becomes for itself; and se- -
condly, that this its own being for itself
is not possible, unless at the same time
there arises for it an external being which
is not it.

The first question, therefore, would be:
how is the Ego for itself? and the first
postulate: think thyself! construe the
conception of thyself, and observe how
thou proceedest in this construction.

The philosopher affirms that every one
who will but do so, must necessarily dis-
cover that in the thinking of that concep-
tion, his activity, as intelligence, returns
into itself, makes itself its own object.

If this is correct and admitted, the
manner of the construction of the Ego,
the manner of its being for itself (and we
never speak of another being), is known ;
and the philosopher may then proceed to
prove that this act is not possible without
another act, whereby there arises for the
Ego an external being.

It is thus, indeed, that the Science of
Knowledge proceeds. Let us now con-
sider with what justice it so proceeds.

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

IV.

First of all : what in the described act
belongs to the philosopher as philoso-
pher, and what belongs to the Ego he is
to observe? To the Ego nothing but the
return to itself; everything else to the de-
scription of the philosopher, for whom,
as mere fact, the system of all experi-
ence, which in its genesis the Ego is now
to produce under his observation, has
already existence.

The Ego returns into itself, is the as-
sertion. Has it not then already being
in advance of this return into itself, and
independently thereof? Nay, must it not
already be for itself, if merely for the pos-
sibility of making itself the object of its
action? Again, if this is so, does not
the whole philosophy presuppose what it
ought first to explain?

I answer, by no means. First through
this act, and only by means of it — by
means of an acting upon an acting — does
the Ego originally come to be for itself.
It is only for the philosopher that it has
previous existence as a fact, because the
philosopher has already gone through
the whole experience. He must express
himself as he does, to be but understood,
and he can so express himself, because
he long since has comprehended all the
conceptions necessary thereunto.

Now, to return to the observed Ego:
what is this its return into itself? Under
what class of modifications of conscious-
ness is it to be posited? It is no compre-
hending, for a comprehending first arises
through the opposition of a non-Ego, and
by the determining of the Ego in this op-
position. Hence it is a mere contempla-
tion. It is therefore not consciousness,
not even , self-consciousness. Indeed, it
is precisely because this act alone pro-
duces no consciousness, that we proceed
to another act through which a non-Ego
originates for us, and that a progress of
philosophical argumentation and the re-
quired deduction of the system of expe-
rience becomes possible. That act only
places the Ego in the possibility of self-
consciousness — and thus of all other con-
sciousness — but does not generate real

consciousness. That act is but a part of
the whole act of the intelligence, where-
by it effects its consciousness; a part
which only the philosopher separates
from the whole act. but which is not ori-
ginally so separated in the Ego.

But how about the philosopher, as
such? This self-constructing Ego is none
other than his own. He can contemplate
that act of the Ego only in himself, and,
in order to contemplate it, must realize
it. He produces that act arbitrarily and
with freedom.

But — this question may and has been
raised — if your whole philosophy is erect-
ed upon something produced by an act of
mere arbitrariness, does it not then be-
come a mere creature of the brain, a pure
imaginary picture? How is the philoso-
pher going to secure to this purely sub-
jective act its objectivity? How will he
secure to that which is purely empirical
and a moment of time — i.e. the time in
which the philosopher philosophizes — its
originality? How can he prove that his
present free thinking in the midst of the
series of his representations does corre-
spond to the necessary thinking, whereby
he first became for himself, and through
which the whole series of his representa-
tions has been started?

I answer: this act is in its nature ob-
jective. I am for myself; this is a fact.
Now I could have thus come to be fur my-
self only through an act, for I am free;
and only through this thus determined
act, for only through it do I become for
myself every moment, and through every
other act something quite different is
produced. That acting, indeed, is the
very conception of the Ego ; and the con-
ception of the Ego is the conception of
that acting; both conceptions are quite
the same ; and that conception of the Ego
can mean and cannot be made to mean
anything but what has been stated. It
is so, because I make it so. The philoso-
pher only makes clear to himself what
he really thinks, and has ever thought,
when he thinks or thought himself; but
that he does think himself is to him im-
mediate factof consciousness. That ques-

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

tion concerning the objectivity is ground-
ed on the very curious presupposition
that the Ego is something else than its
own thought of itself, and that some-v
thing else than this thought and outside
of it — God may know what they do mean !
— is again the ground of it, concerning the
actual nature of which outside something
they are very much troubled. Hence, if
they ask for such an objective validity of
the thought, or for a connection between
this object and the subject, I cheerfully
confess that the Science of Knowledge
can give them no instruction concerning
it. If they choose to, they may them-
selves enter, in this or any other case,
upon the discovery of such a connection,
until they, perhaps, will recollect that
this Unknown which they are hunting
is, after all, again their thought, and
that whatsoever they may invent as its
ground will also be their thought, and
thus ad infinitum ; and that, indeed, they
cannot speak of or question about any-
thing without at the same time think-
king it.

Now, in this act, which is arbitrary and
in time for the philosopher as such, but
which is for the Ego — which he con-
structs, by virtue of his just deduced
right, for the sake of subsequent obser-
vations and conclusions — necessarily and'
oi'iginally ; in this act, I say, the philoso-
pher looks at himself, and immediately
contemplates his own acting; he knows
what he does, because he does it. Does
a consciousness thereof arise in him?
Without doubt; for he not only contem-
plates, but comprehends also. He com-
prehends his act as an acting generally,
of which he has already a conception by
virtue of his previous experience; and
as this determined, into itself returning
acting, as which he contemplates it in
himself. By this characteristic deter-
mination he elevates it above the sphere
of general acting.

What acting may be, can only be
contemplated, not developed from and
through conceptions; but that which this
contemplation contains is comprehended
by the mere opposition of pure being.

Acting is not being, and being is not
acting. Mere conception affords no other
determination for each link ; their real
essence is only discovered in contempla-
tion .

Now this whole procedure of the phi-
losopher appears to me, at least, very pos-
sible, very easy, and even natural; and I
can scarcety conceive how it can appear
otherwise to my readers, and how they
can see in it anything mysterious and
marvellous. Every one, let us hope, can
think himself. He will also, let us hope,
learn that by being required to thus think
himself, he is required to perform an act
dependent upon his own activity, an in-
ternal act ; and that if he realizes this de-
mand, if he really affects himself through
self-activity, he also most surely acts
thus. Let us further hope that he will be
able to distinguish this kind of acting
from its opposite, the acting whereby he
thinks external objects, and that he will
find in the latter sort of thinking the
thinking and the thought to be opposites
(the activity, therefore, tending upon
something distinct from itself), while in
the former thinking both were one and
the same (and hence the activity a return
into itself). He will comprehend, it is
to be hoped, that — since the thought of
himself arises only i.i this manner (an
opposite thinking producing a quite dif-
ferent thought) — the thought of himself
is nothing but the thought of this act,
and the word Ego nothing but the desig-
nation of this act — that Ego and an into
itself returning activity are completely
identical conceptions. He will under-
stand, let us hope, that if he but for
the present problematically presupposes
with transcendental Idealism that all
consciousness rests upon and is depend-
ent upon self-consciousness, he must also
think that return into itself as preceding
and conditioning all other acts of con-
sciousness ; indeed, as the primary act of
the subject; and, since there is nothing
for him which is not in his consciousness,
and since everything else in his con-
sciousness is conditioned by this act,
and therefore cannot condition the act in

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

the same respect, — as an act, utterly un-
conditioned and hence absolute for him;_
and he will thus further understand that
the above problematical presupposition,
and this thinking oftheEyo as original-
ly posited through itself, are again quite
identical ; and that hence transcendental
Idealism, if it proceeds systematically,
, can proceed in no other manner than it
does in the Science of Knowledge.

This contemplation of himself, which
is required of the philosopher in his re-
alization of the act through which the
Ego arises for him, I call intellectual
contemplation. It is the immediate con-
sciousness that I act and what I act; it
is that through which I know something
because I do it. That there is such a
power of intellectual contemplation can-
not be demonstrated by conceptions, nor
can conception show what it is. Every
one must find it immediately in himself,
or he will never learn to know it. The
requirement that we ought to show it
what it is by argumentation, is more
marvellous than would be the require-
ment of a blind person to explain to him,
without his needing to use sight, what
colors are.

But it can be certainly proven to every
one in his own confessed experience that
this intellectual contemplation does oc-
cur in every momentof his consciousness.
I can take no step, cannot move hand or
foot, without the intellectual contempla-
tion of my self-consciousness in these
acts; only through this contemplation do
I know that /do it, only through it do I
distinguish my acting and in it myself
from the given object of my acting. Ev-
ery one who ascribes an activity to him-
self appeals to this contemplation. In
it is the source of life, and without it is
death.

But this contemplation never occurs
alone as a complete act of consciousness,
as indeed sensuous contemplation also
never occurs alone, nor completes con-
sciousness; both contemplations must be
comprehended. Not only this, but the in-
tellectual contemplation is also always
connected with a sensuous contempla"

tion. I cannot find myself acting with-
out finding an object upon which I act,
and this object in a sensuous contempla-
tion which I comprehend; nor without
sketching.an image of what. I intend to
produce by my act, which image I also
comprehend. Now, then, how. do I know
and how can I know what I intend to
produce, if I do not immediately contem-
plate myself in this sketching of the im- '
age which I intend to produce, i.e. in
this sketching of the conception of my
purpose, which sketching is certainly an
act. Only the totality of this condition
in uniting a given manifold completes
consciousness. I become conscious only
of the conceptions, both of the object upon
which I act, and of the purpose I intend
to accomplish; but I do not become con-
scious of the contemplations which are at
the bottom of both conceptions.

Perhaps it is only this which the zeal-
ous opponents of intellectual contempla-
tion wish to insist, upon, namely, that
that contemplation, i.>. only possible in
connection with a sensuous contempla-
tion; and surely the Science of Knowl-
edge is not going to deny it. But this is
no reason why they should deny intel-
lectual contemplation. For with the
same right we might deny sensuous con-
templation, since it also is possible only
in connection with intellectual contem-
plation ; for whatsoever is to become tag
representation must be related to me,
and the consciousness (1) occurs only
through intellectual contemplation. (It
is a remarkable fact of our modern his-
tory of philosophy, that it has not been
noticed as yet how all that may be ob-
jected to intellectual contemplation can
also be objected to sensuous contempla-
tion, and that thus the arguments of its
opponents turn against themselves.)

But if it must be admitted that there
is no immediate, isolated consciousness
of intellectual contemplation, how does
the philosopher arrive at a knowledge
and isolated representation thereof? I
answer, doubtless in thesame manner in
which he arrives at the isolated represen-
tation of sensuous contemplation, by

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

drawing a conclusion from the evident
facts of consciousness. This conclusion
runs as follows : I propose to myself to
think this or that, and the required
thought arises ; I propose to myself to do
this or that, and the representation that
it is being done arises. This is a fact of
consciousness. If I look at it by the light
of the laws of mere sensuous conscious-
ness, it involves no more than has just
been stated, i.e. a sequence of certain
representations. I become conscious
only of this sequence in a series of time
movements, and only such a time se-
quence can I assert. I can merely state:
I know that if I "propose to myself a cer-
tain thought, with the characteristic that
it i« to have existence, the representation
ot this thought, with the characteristic
that it really has existence, follows; or,
that the representation of a certain mani-
festation as one which ought to occur, is
immediately followed in time by the rep-
resentation of the same manifestation as
one which really did occur. But I can,
on no account, state that the first repre-
sentation contains the real ground of the
second one which followed; or, that by
thinking the first one the second one be-
came real for me. I merely remain pas-
sive, the placid scene upon which repre-
sentations follow representations, and
am on no account the active principle
which produces them. Still I constantly
assume the latter, and cannot relinquish
that assumption without relinquishing
my self. What justifies me in it?. In the
sensuous ingredients I have mentioned,
there is no ground to justify such an as-
sumption; hence it is a peculiar and im-
mediate consciousness, that is to say, a
contemplation, and not a sensuous con-
templation, which views a material and
permanent being, but a contemplation of
a pure activity, which is not permanent
but progressive, not a being but a life.

The philosopher, therefore, discovers
this intellectual contemplation as fact of
consciousness (for him it is a fact, for
the original Ego a fact and act both to-
gether — a deed-act), and he thus discov-
ers it not immediately, as an isolated

part of his consciousness, but by distin-
guishing and separating what in com-
mon consciousness occurs in unseparat-
ed union.

Quite a different problem it is to ex-
plain this intellectual contemplation,
which is here presupposed as fact in its
possibility, and by means of this expla-
nation to defend it against the charge of
deception and deceptiveness which is
raised by dogmatism ; or, in other words,
to prove the faith in the reality of this
intellectual contemplation, from which
faith transcendental idealism confessedly
starts — by a something still higher ;l and
to show up the interest which leads us
to place faith in its reality, or in the sys-
tem of Reason! This is accomplished by
showing up the Moral Law in us, in
which the Ego is characterized as ele-
vated through it above all the original
modifications, as impelled by an absolute,
or in itself (in the Ego), grounded acti-
vity; and by which the Ego is thus dis-
covered to be art absolute Active. In the
consciousness of this law, which doubt-
less is an immediate consciousness, and
not derived from something else, the
contemplation of self-activity and free-.f
dom is grounded. I am given to myself]
through myself as something which is to
be active in a certain manner; hence, I
am given to myself through myself as
something active generally; I have the
life in myself, and take it from out of
myself. Only through this medium of
the Moral Law do Lsee myself ; and if
I see myself through that law, L necessa-
rily see myself as self active; and it is
thus that there arises in a consciousness
— which otherwise would only be the
consciousness of a sequence of my repre-
sentations — the utterly foreign ingredi-
ent of an activity of myself

This intellectual contemplation is the
only stand-point for all Philosophy.
From it all that occurs in consciousness
may be explained, but only from it.
Without self-consciousness there is no
consciousness at all; but self-conscious-
ness is only possible in the way we have
shown, i.e. I am only active. Beyond it

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

I cannot be driven ; my philosophy then
becomes altogether independent of all
arbitrariness, and a product of stern ne-
cessity, i.e. in so far as necessity exists
for free Reason ; it becomes a product of
j practical necessity. I can not go beyond
this stand-point, because conscience says
I shall not go beyond it; and thus trans-
cendental idealism shows itself up to be
the only moral philosophy — the philoso-
phy wherein speculation and moral law
are intimately united. Conscience says:
I shall start in my thinking from the
pure Ego, and shall think it absolutely
self-active; not as determined by the
things, but as determining the things.

The conception of activity which be-
comes possible only through this intel-
lectual contemplation of the self-active
Ego, is the only one which unites both
the worlds that exist for us — the sensu-
ous and the intelligible world. Whatso-
ever is opposed to my activity — and I
must oppose something to it, for I am
finite — is the sensuous, and whatsoever
is to arise through my activity is the in-
telligible (moral) world.

I should like to know how those who
6mile so contemptuously whenever the
words ''intellectual contemplation" are
mentioned, think the consciousness of the
moral law; or how they are enabled to
entertain such conceptions as those of
Virtue, of Right, &c, which they doubt-
less do entertain. According to them,
there are only two contemplations a pri-
ori— Time and Space. They surely form
these conceptions of Virtue, &c, in Time
(the form of the inner sense), but they
certainly do not hold them to be time it-
self, but merely a certain filling up of
time. What is it, then, wherewith they
fill up time, and get a basis for the con-
struction of those conceptions? There

is nothing left to them but Space ; and
hence their conceptions of Virtue, Right;
&c, are perhaps quadrangular and cir-
cular; just as all the other conceptions
which they construct (for instance, tha£
of a tree or of an animal) are nothing
but limitations of Space. But they do
not conceive their Virtue and their Right
in this manner. What, then, is the basis
of their construction? If they attend
properly, they will discover that this ba-
sis is activity in general, or freedom.
Both of these conceptions of virtue and
right are to them certain limitations of
their general activity, exactly as their
sensuous conceptions are limitations of
space. How, then, do they arrive at this
basis of their construction? We will
hope that they have not derived activity
from the dead permanency of matter, nor
freedom from the mechanism of nature.
They have obtained it, therefore, from
immediate contemplation, and thus they
confess a third contemplation besides
their own two.

It is, therefore, by no means so unim-
portant, as it appears to be to some,
whether philosophy starts from a fact or
from a deed-act (i.e. from an activity
which presupposes no object, but produ-
ces it itself, and in which, therefore, the
acting is immediately deed). If philoso-
phy starts from a fact, it places itself in
the midstof being and finity, and will find
it difficult to discover therefrom a road
to the infinite and- super-sensuous; but
if it starts from a deed-act, it places itself
at once in the point which unites both
worlds and from which both can be over-
looked at one glance.

[Translators frequently use the term
"intuition'; for what I have here called
"contemplation"; "deed-act" is my ren-
dering of "That-Handluug." a. e. k.]

( 88 )

NOTES ON MILTON'S LYCIDAS,

By Anna C. Bkackett.

Every work of art, whether in sculp-
ture, painting, or music, must have a de-
finite content; and only in having such
has it any claim to be so called. This
content must be spiritual ; that is, it must
come from the inner spirit of the artist,
and translate itself by means of the work
into spirit in the spectator or listener.
Only in the recognition of this inner
meaning, which lives behind the outside
and shimmers through it, can consist the
difference between the impression made
on me by the sight of a beautiful paint-
ing and that produced on an inferior ani-
mal, as the retina of his eye paints with
equal accuracy the same object. For
what is this sense of beauty which thrills
through me, while the dog at my side
looks at the same thing and sees nothing
in seeing all which the eye can grasp?
Is it not the response in me to the in-
forming spirit behind all the outward
appearance ?

But if this sense of beauty stops in pas-
sive enjoyment, if the sense of sight or of
hearing is simply to be intoxicated with
the feast spread before it, we must con-
fess that our appreciation of beauty is a
very sensuous thing. Content though
some may be simply to enjoy, in the
minds of others the fascination of the
senses only provokes unrest. We sav
with Goethe: "I would fain understand
that which interests me in so extraordi-
nary a manner"; for this work of art, the
product of mind, touches me in a won-
derful way, and must be of universal
essence. Let me seek the reason, and if
I find it, it will be another step towards
" the solvent word."

Again, in a true work of art this con-
tent must be essentially one; that is, one
profound thought, to which all others,
though they may be visible, must be
gracefully subordinate ; otherwise we
are lost in a multiplicity of details, and
miss the unity which is the sole sign of
the creative mind.

Nor need we always be anxious as to
whether the artist consciously meant to
say thus and so. Has there ever lived a
true artist who has not " builded better
than he knew" ? If this were not so, all
works of art would lose their significance
in the course of time. Are the half-
uttered meanings of the statues of the
Egyptian gods behind or before us to-
day? Do they not perplex us with pro-
phecies rather than remembrances as we
wander amazed among them through the
halls of the British Museum? A whole
nation striving to say the one word, and
dying before it was uttered ! Have we
heard it clearly yet?

The world goes on translating as it
gains new words with which to carry on
the work. It is not so much the artist that
is before his age as the divine afflatus
guiding his hand, which leads not only
the age but him. Through that divine
inspiration he speaks, and he says myste-
rious words which perhaps must wait for
centuries to be understood. In that fact
lies his right to his title ; in that, alone,
lies the right of his production to be
called a work of art.

Doubtless all readers are familiar with
Dr. Johnson's criticisms on Milton's Ly-
cidas, and these we might pass by with-
out comment, for it would evidently be
as impossible for Dr. Johnson's mind to
comprehend or be touched by the poetry
of Lycidas as for a ponderous sledge-
hammer to be conscious of the soft, per-
fume-laden air through which it might
move. The monody is censured by him
because of its irregularly recurring
rhymes ; and in the same breath we are
told that it is so full of art that the author
could not have felt sorrow while writing
it. We know how intricately the rhymes
are woven in Milton's sonnets, where he
seems to have taken all pains to select
the most difficult arrangements, and to
carry them through without deviation,
and we sav only that the first criticism

Notes on Milton's Lycidas.

contradicts the last. But some more ap-
preciative ci'itics, while touched by the
beauty, repeat the same, and say there is
"more poetry than sorrow" in the poem.
More poetry than sorrow ! Sorrow is the
grand key-note, and strikes in always
over and through all the beauty and
poetry like a wailing chord in a sym-
phony, that is never absent long, and
ever and anon drowns out all the rest.
Sorrow, pure and simple, is the thread
on which all the beautiful fancies are
strung. It runs through and connects
them all, and there is not a paragraph in
the whole poem that is not pierced by it.
It is the occasion, the motive, the inner
inspiration, and the mastery over it is the
conclusion of all. Around it, the constant
centre, group themselves all the lovely
pictures, and they all face it and are sub-
ordinate to it.

The soul of the poet is so tossed by the
immediate sorrow that it surrenders it-
self entirely to it, and so, losing its will,
is taken possession of by whatever
thought, evoked by the spell of associa-
tion, rises in his mind ; as when he speaks
of Camus and St. Peter. Ever and anon
the will makes an effort to free itself and
to determine its own course, but again
and again the wave of sorrow sweeps up,
and the vainly struggling will goes down
before it.

Nothing lay closer to Milton's heart
than the interests of what he believed the
true church; and nothing touched him
more than the abuses which were then
prevalent in the church of England. In
the safe harbor of his father's country
home, resting on his oars before the ap-
pointed time for the race in which he was
to give away all his strength and joy,
surrounded and inspired by the fresh,
pure air from the granite rocks of Puri-
tanism, all his growing strength was
gathering its energies for the struggle.
This just indignation and honest protest
must find its way in the poem through
the grief that sweeps over him, and
which, because so deep, touches and vivi-
fies all his deepest thoughts. But even
that strong under-current of conviction

has no power long to steady him against
the wave of sorrow which breaks above
his head, none the less powerful because
it breaks in a line of white and shivers
itself into drops which flush diamond col-
ors in the warm and pure sunlight of his
cultured imagination. More poetry than
sorrow ! Then there is more poetry in
Lycidas than in any other poem of the
same length in our language.

It would be impossible here to go
through the poem with the close care to
all little points which is necessary to en-
able one fully to comprehend its exquisite
beauty and finish. It is like one of Bee-
thoven's symphonies,where at first we are
so occupied with the one grand thought
that we surrender ourselves entirely to it,
aud think ourselves completely satisfied.
But as we appropriate that more and
more fully, within and around it wonder-
ful melodies start and twine, and this ex-
perience is repeated again and again till
the music seems almost infinite in its con-
tents. Let us, then, briefly go over the
burden of the monody, our chief effort
being to show how perfectly at one it is
throughout, how natural the seemingly
abrupt changes, — only pausing now and
then to speak of some special beauty
which is so marked that one cannot pass
it by in silence. If we succeed in show-
ing a continued and natural thought in
the whole, and a satisfactory solution for
the collision which gives rise to the poem,
our end will have been accomplished.

Milton begins in due order by giving,
as prelude, Ms reason for singing. But
he has written only seven full lines be-
fore, in the eighth, the key-note is struck
by the force of sorrow, which, after say-
ing " Lycidas is dead,'* lingers on the
strain , and repeats, to heighten the grief,
"dead ere his prime.*' The next line, the
ninth, is still more pathetic in its echoing
repetition and its added cause lor mourn-
ing. (In passing, let us say that the ef-
fect is greatly increased in leading this
line if the first word be strongly empha-
sized.) Because he hath not let! his peer,
all should sing for him. Xo more excuse
is needed. Sorrow pleases itself in call-

Notes on Milton's Lycidas.

ing up the neglected form, and then pas-
sionately turns to the only solace that it
can have — "Some melodious tear."

This, of course, brings the image of the
Muses, and, as that thought comes, once
more we have a new attempt at a formal
beginning in the second paragraph (line
15). First, is the invocation, and then,
recurring to the first thought, Milton says
it is peculiarly appropriate for him to
sing of Lycidas. Why ? Because they
had been so long together ; and as the
thought of happier things arises, the
sweet memories, linked by the chain of
association, come thronging so tumultu-
ous! y that he forgets himself in reverie.
The music, at first slow and sweet, grows
more and more strong and rapid till even
the rustic dance-measure comes in merri-
ly. Most naturally here the key-note is
again struck by the force of contrast, and
the despair of the sorrow that wakes from
the forgetful ness of pleasant dreams to
the consciousness of loss, strikes as ra-
pidly its minor chords till it seems as if
hope were entirely lost.

Nothing is more unreasonable than this
despair of sorrow. Tossed in its own wild
passion, it sees nothing clearly, and, seek-
ing for some adequate cause, heaps blind-
ly unmerited reproaches on anything, on
all tilings. So, recoiling before its power,
stung with its pain, the poet turns re-
proachfully to the nymphs, blaming them
for their negligence. But before the
words are fairly uttered he realizes his
folly. Lycidas was beloved by them, but
if Calliope could not save even her own
son, how powerless are they against the
step of inevitable fate ! This strikes deep
down in the thunder of the bass notes, and
the thought comes which perhaps cannot
be more powerfully expressed than by the
old Hebrew refrain, "Vanity of vanities,
all is vanity." After all, why seek for
anything, even for fame? Man's destiny
is ruled by irresponsible necessity. Life
is worth nothing, and would it not be
better, instead of "scorning delights and
hiving laborious days," to yield one's self
to the pleasures of the passing moment?
"All is vanity and vexation of spirit."

When any soul reaches this point, it seems
as if help must come from outside of itself
or it will go irrevocably down. Sorrow,
despair, are always represented by dark-
ness. Is it an accident that the celestial
notes which first strike through the de-
scending bass, come from the god of light,
Phoebus Apollo? Clear, and sweet, and
sudden, they cleave the closing shadows ;
the sun-light comes in again, and the mu-
sic climbs up and grows serenely steady.

Relieved from this Inferno, the soul
comes once more to self-consciousness,
and, in its effort to guide itself, what more
natural than that it should recur to the
idea expressed in the fiftieth line, and at-
tempt to make something like order by
carrying out that idea. Reason takes
command, and the strain flows smoothly,
till, by the exercise of her power, the true
cause of the misfortune is recognized and
a just indignation (line 100) takes its
place. But, in yielding to this, the imme-
diate feeling regains possession, reason
resigns her sway, and the soul is set afloat
again on the uncertain sea of association.
See how sudden and sweet the transition
from fiery reproach and invective to the
gentlest tenderness, in line 102. It be-
gins with a thunder-peal and dies out in
a wail of affection, expressed by the one
word "sacred." This forms the connec-
tion between this paragraph and the next,
a delicate yet perfect link, for as all his
love overflows in that one word, the old
happier days come up again ; and where
should these memories carry him but to
the university where they had found so
much common pleasure and inspiration?
Here the sorrow, before entirely person-
al, becomes wider as the singer feels that
others grieve with him for lost talent
and power.

Were they not both destined for the
church for which their university studies
were only a preparation? Most naturally
the subtle chain of association brings up
the thought of the great apostle with the
keys of heaven and hell. How sorely the
church needed true teachers ! The earn-
est spirit that was ready to assail every
form of wrong, eagerly followed out the

Notes on Milton's Lycidas.

thought which was in the future (o burn
into its very life. From line 113 to line
131 notice the succession of feelings. A
sense of irreparable loss — indignation —
mark the three words, ''creep," "in-
trude," and " climb," no one of which
could be spared. Then comes disgust,
expressed by "Blind mouths." Ruskin,
in his "King's Treasures," very happily
observes that no epithet could be more
sweeping than this ; for, as the office of
a bishop is to oversee the flock, and that
of a pastor to feed it, the utter want of
all qualification for the sacred office is
here most forcibly expressed. Contempt
follows ; then pity for those who, desiring
food, are fed only with wind ; detestation
of the secret and corrupt practices of the
Romish church ; and finally hope, com-
ing through the possible execution of
Archbishop Laud, whose death, it seem-
ed to the young Puritan, was the only
thing needed to bring back truth, sim-
plicity, and safety. Drifting with these
emotions, the singer has followed the
lead of his fancies, and, just as before,
when light came with healing for his de-
spair, Hope recalls him to himself, till he
returns again in line 132, as in line 85, to
the regular style of his poem. He is as
one who, waking from wildering dreams,
collects his fugitive thoughts, and tries
to settle them down for the necessary
routine of the day. A more regular and
plainly accented strain, recognized as
heard before, comes into the music, as
he pleases himself in fancying that the
sad consolation is still left him of orna-
menting the hearse. It is useless to speak
of the exquisite finish of these lines, or
of how often one word — as " fresh," for
instance, in line 138 — calls up before the
mind such pictures that one lingers and
lingers over the passage, as the poet's
fancy in vain effort lingered, striving to
forget his sorrow. This strain comes in
like some of the repeating melodies in
the second part of Beethoven's Fifth
Symphony, where it seems as if the soul
had found a new, sweet thought, and
was turning it over and over as loth to
pause, and as in sudden hope of some

relief through its potency. But the heavy
key-note strikes again through it all, in
line 154, with a crash that drowns all the
sweetness and beauty. "We hear the rush
of the cruel, insatiate sea, as its waves
dash against the shore of the stormy He-
brides, and the conflict of wave and wind
takes possession of us. What thought is
more desolate than that of a solitary hu-
man form, tossed hither and thither in
the vast immensity of ocean ! Perhaps,
even now, it floats by " the great vision
of the guarded mount." It seems to the
poet that all should turn toward England
in her sorrow, and it pains him to think
of St. Michael's steadfast eyes gazing
across the waves of the bay toward "Na-
mancos and Bayona's hold." "Rather
turn hither, and let even your heavenly
face relax with human grief; and ye, un-
heeding monsters of the deep, have pity,
and bear him gently over the roughening
waves." This he says because he feels
his own impotence. All the love he bears
Lycidas cannot serve him now ; he is lost,
and helpless, and alone, and uncared for.
By opposition here, the light strikes in
once more, and now with a clearer, full-
er glow than at either previous time. At
first (line 76) it came in the form of trust
in " all-judging Jove"; then (line 130)
in hope, through belief in impersonal
justice; now it takes the form of Chris-
tian faith. The music mounts higher
and higher into celestial harmonies, los-
ing entirely its original character, and
sounds like a majestic choral of triumph
and peace.

This properly ends the poem with line
185. There is nothing more to be said.
The tendency is all upward, and the col-
lisions are overcome. One knows that
here, and here for the first time, have
we reached a movement that is self-
sustained. There is no more danger of
being carried off our basis by any wave
of despairing sorrow. The soul has found
a solution at last, and it knows that it is
a trustworthy one.

The music is finished ; but now, that
nothing may be wanting for perfect ef-
fect, we have the scenery added, and

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

this in such word-painting as has never
been surpassed. Who could ever wea-
ry of line 187 — "While the still morn
went out with sandals gray" — either for
its melody, or for its subtle appeal to our
senses of hearing and sight? And the
slowly growing and dying day! Who
else has ever so "touched the tender
stops" of imagination?

But these woods and pastures are too
full of haunting memories ; we seek for
newer ones, where the soul, relieved from
the associations which perpetually call
up the loss of the human and now life-
less embodiment of spirit, shall be free
to think only of the eternal holding and
possessing which can be sundered by no
accident of time or space.

ANALYSIS OF HEGEL'S ESTHETICS.

Translated from the French of M. Ch. Benatcd, by J. A. Martling.

Part II.

OF THE GENERAL FORMS OF ART AND ITS HISTORIC DEVELOPMENT.

The first part of Hegel's ^Esthetics con-
tains the questions relating to the nature
of art in general. The second unfolds its
principal forms in the different historic
epochs. It is a species of philosophy of
the history of art, and contains a great
number of views and descriptions which
cannot appear in this analysis. We shall
take so much the more care, without suf-
fering ourselves to be turned aside by
details, to indicate plainly the course of
the ideas, and to omit nothing essential.

The idea of the Beautiful, or the Ideal,
manifests itself under three essential and
fundamental forms — the symbolic, the
classic, and the romantic. They represent
the three grand epochs of history — the
oriental, the Greek, and the modern.

In the East, thought, still vague and
indeterminate, seeks its true expression,
and cannot find it. In the presence of
the phenomena of nature and of human
life, spirit, in its infancy, incapable of
seizing the true tense of things, and of
comprehending itself, exhausts itself in
vain efforts to express certain grand but
confused or obscure conceptions. Instead
of uniting and blending together in a har-
monious whole the content and the form,
the idea and its image, it attains only a
rude and superficial approximation, and
the result is the symbol with its enigma-
tic and mysterious meaning.

In classic art, on the contrary, this har-
monious blending of the form and the
idea is accomplished. Intelligence, hav-
ing taken cognizance of itself and of its
freedom, capable of self-control, of pene-
trating the significance of the phenomena
of the universe, and of interpreting its
laws, finds here also the exact correspon-
dence, the measure, and the proportion,
which are the characteristics of beauty.
Art creates works which represent the
beautiful under its purest and most pei'-
fect form.

But spirit cannot rest in this precise
accord of the form and the idea in which
the infinite aud the finite blend. When
it comes to be reflected upon itself, to
penetrate farther into the depths of its
inner nature, to take cognizance of its
spirituality and its freedom, then the
idea of the infinite appears to it stripped
of the natural forms which envelop it.
This idea, present in all its conceptions,
can no longer be perfectly expressed by
the forms of the finite world ; it trans-
cends them, and then this unity, which
constitutes the characteristic of classic
art, is broken. External forms, sensu-
ous images, are no longer adequate to
the expression of the soul and its free
spirituality.

I. Of Symbolic Art.

After these general considerations r

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

<X)

Hegel treats successively the different
forms of art. Before speaking of sym-
bolic art, he furnishes an exposition of
the symbol, in general.

The symbol is an image which repre-
sents an idea. It is distinguished from
the signs of language in this, that be-
tween the image and the idea which it
represents there is a natural relation, not
an arbitrary or conventional one. It is
thus that the lion is the symbol of cour-
age ; the circle, of eternity ; the triangle,
of the Trinity.

The symbol, however, does not repre-
sent the idea perfectly, but by a single
side. The lion is not merely courageous,
the fox cunning. Whence it follows that
the symbol, having many meanings, is
equivocal. This ambiguity ceases only
when the two terms are conceived sepa-
rately and then brought into relation ; the
symbol then gives place to comparison.

Thus conceived, the symbol, with its
enigmatic and mysterious character, is
peculiarly adapted to an entire epoch of
history, to oriental art and its extraordi-
nary creations. It characterizes that or-
der of monuments and emblems by which
the people of the East have sought to ex-
press their ideas, and have been able to
do it only in an equivocal and obscure
manner. These works of art present to
us, instead of beauty and regularity, a
strange, imposing, fantastic aspect.

In the development of this form of art
in the East, many degrees are noticeable.
Let us first examine its origin.

The sentiment of art, like the religious
sentiment or scientific curiosity, is born
of ivonder. The man who is astonished
at nothing lives in a state of imbecility
and stupidity. This state ceases when
his spirit, freeing itself from matter and
from physical wants, is struck by the
spectacle of the phenomena of nature,
and seeks their meaning, when it has the
presentiment of something grand and
mysterious in them, of a concealed power
which is revealed there.

Then it experiences also the need of
representing that inner sentiment of a
general and universal power. Particular

objects— the elements, the sea, rivers,
mountains — lose their immediate sense
and significance, and become for spirit
images of this invisible power.

It is then that art appears: it arises
from the necessity of representing this
idea by sensuous images, addressed at
once to the senses and the spirit.

The idea, in religions, of an absolute
power, is manifested at first by the wor-
ship of physical objects. The Divinity
is identified with nature itself. But this
rude worship cannot endure. Instead of
seeing the absolute in real objects, man
conceives it as a distinct and universal
being; he seizes, although very imper-
fectly, the relation which unites this in-
visible principle to the objects of nature;
he fashions an image, a symbol designed
to represent it. Art is then the inter-
preter of religious ideas.

Such is art in its oi'igin ; the symbolic
form is born with it. Let us now follow
it in the successive stages of its develop-
ment, and indicate its progress in the
East before it attained to the Greek ideal.

That which characterizes symbolic art
is that it strives in vain to discover pure
conceptions, and a mode of representa-
tion which befits them. It is the conflict
between the content and the form, both
imperfect and heterogeneous. Hence
the incessant struggle of these two ele-
ments of art, which vainly seek to har-
monize. The stages of its development
exhibit the successive phases or modes
of this struggle.

At the outset, however, this conflict
does not yet exist, or art is not conscious
of it. The point of departure is a unity
yet undivided, in whose depths the dis-
cord between the two principles fer-
ments. Thus the creations of art, but
little distinct from the objects of nature,
are as yet scarcely symbols.

The end of this epoch is the disappear-
ance of the symbol. It takes place by the
reflective separation of the two terms.
The idea being clearly conceived, the
symbol on its side being perceived as
distinct from the idea, from their con-
junction arises the reflex symbol, or the

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

comparison, the allegory, etc. — These
principles having been laid down a pri-
ori, Hegel seeks among the people of the
East the forms of art which correspond
to these various degrees of oriental sym-
bolism. He finds them chiefly among
the ancient Persians, in India, and in
Egypt.

1. Persian Art. — At the first moment
of the history of art, the divine principle,
God, appears identified with nature and
man. In the worship of the Lama, for
example, a real man is adored as God.
In other religions, the sun, the moun-
tains, the rivers, the moon, and animals,
are also the objects of religious worship.

The spectacle of this unity of God and
nature is presented to us in the most
striking manner in the life and religion of
the ancient Persians, in the Zend-Avesta.

In the religion of Zoroaster, light is
God himself. God is not distinguished
from light viewed as a simple expression,
an emblem or sensuous image of the Di-
vinity. If light is taken in the sense of
the good and just Being, of the conserv-
ing principle of the Universe which dif-
fuses everywhere life and its blessings,
it is not merely an image of the good
principle ; the sovereign good itself is
light. It is the same with the opposition
of light and darkness, the latter being
considered as the impure element in ev-
erything — the hideous, the bad, the prin-
ciple of death and destruction.

Hegel seeks to demonstrate this opin-
ion by an analysis of the principal ideas
which form the content of the Zend-
Avesta. According to him, the worship
which the Zend-Avesta describes is still
less symbolic. All the ceremonies which
it imposes as a religious duty upon the
Par.sees are those serious occupations
that seek to extend to all purity in the
physical and moral sense. One does not
find here any of those symbolic dances
which imitate the course of the stars, or
any of those religious acts which have no
value except as images and signs of gen-
eral conceptions. There is, then, in it
no art properly so called. Compared
with ruder images, or with the insignifi-

cant idols of other peoples, the worship
of light, as pure and universal substance,
presents something beautiful, elevated,
grand, more conformable to the nature
of the supreme good and of truth. But
this conception remains vague ; the ima-
gination creates neither a profound idea
nor a new form. If we see appearing
general types, and the forms which cor-
respond to them, it is the result of an
artificial combination, not a work of
poetry and art.

Thus this unity of the invisible princi-
ple and visible objects constitutes only
the first form of the symbol in art. To
attain to the symbolic form pi*operly so
called, it is necessary that the distinction
and the separation of the two terms ap-
pear clearly indicated and represented
to us. It is this which takes place in
the religion, art, and poetry of India,
which Hegel calls the symbolic of the
imagination.

2. Indian Art. — The character of the
monuments which betray a more advan-
ced form, and a superior degree of art,
is then the separation of the two terms.
Intelligence forms abstract conceptions,
and seeks forms which express them.
Imagination, properly so called, is born;
art truly begins. It is not, however, yet
the true symbol.

What we encounter at first are the pro-
ductions of an imagination which is in a
state of complete ferment and agitation.
In the first attempt of the human spirit
to separate the elements and to reunite
them, its thought is still confused and
vague. The principle of things is not
conceived in its spiritual nature ; the
ideas concerning God are empty abstrac-
tions; at the same time, the forms which
representllirn bear a character exclusive-
ly sensuous and material. Still plunged
in the contemplation of the sensuous
world, having neither measure nor fixed
rule to determine reality, man exhausts
himself in useless efforts to penetrate
the general meaning of the universe, and
can employ, to express the profouudest
thoughts, only rude images and repre-
sentations, in which there flashes out the

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

opposition between the idea and the form.
The imagination passes thus from one
extreme to the other, lifting itself very
high to plunge yet lower, wandering
without support, without guide, and
without aim, in a world of representa-
tions at once imposing, fantastic, and
grotesque.

Hegel characterizes the Indian mythol-
ogy and the art which corresponds to it,
thus : " In the midst of these abrupt and
inconsiderate leaps, of this passage from
one excess to another, if we find anything
of grandeur and an imposing character in
these conceptions, we see afterwards the
universal being precipitated into the most
ignoble forms of the sensuous world.
The imagination can escape from this
contradiction only by extending indefi-
nitely the dimensions of the form. It
wanders amid gigantic creations, charac-
terized by the absence of all measure, and
loses itself in the vague or the arbitrary."

Hegel develops and confirms these pro-
positions by following the Indian imagi-
nation in the principal points which dis-
tinguish its art, its poetry, and its my-
thology. He makes it apparent that, in
spite of the fertility, the splendor, and the
grandeur of these conceptions, the Indi-
ans have never had a clear idea of persons
and events — a faculty for history ; that
in this continual mingling of the finite
and the infinite there appears the com-
plete absence of practical intelligence
and reason. Thought is suffered to run
after the most extravagant and monstrous
chimeras that the imagination can bring
forth. Thus the conception of Brahma is
the abstract idea of being with neither
life nor reality, deprived of real form and
personality. From this idealism pushed
to the extreme, the intelligence precipi-
tates itself into the most unbridled natu-
ralism. It deifies objects of nature, the
animals. The divinity appears under the
form of an idiot man, deified because he
belongs to a caste. Each individual, be-
cause he is born in that caste, represents
Brahma in person. The union of man
with God is lowered to the level of a sim-
ply material fact. Thence also the role

which the law of the generation of beings
plays in this religion, which gives rise to
the most obscene representations. Hegel,
at the same time, sets forth the contradic-
tions which swarm in this religion, and
the confusion which reigns in all this
mythology. He establishes a parallel be-
tween the Indian trinity and the Christian
Trinity and shows their difference. The
three persons of this trinity are not per-
sons ; each of them is an abstraction in
relation to the others ; whence it follows
that if this trinity has any analogy with
the Christian Trinity, it is inferior to it,
and we ought to be guarded against re-
cognizing the Christian tenet in it.

Examining next the part which corre-
sponds to Greek polytheism, he demon-
strates likewise its inferiority; he makes
apparent the confusion of those innumer-
able theogouies and cosmogonies which
contradict and destroy themselves; and
where, in fine, the idea of natural and
not of spiritual generation is uppermost,
where obscenity is frequently pushed to
the last degree. In the Greek fables, in
the theogony of Hesiod in particular, one
frequently obtains at least a glimpse of a
moral meaning. All is more clear and
more explicit, more strongly coherent,
and we do not remain shut up in the cir-
cle of the divinities of nature.

Nevertheless, in refusing to Indian art
the idea of the truly beautiful, and indeed
of the truly sublime, Hegel recognizes
that it offers to us, principally in its po-
etry, "scenes nf human life full of at-
tractiveness and sweetness, many agree-
able images and tender sentiments, most
brilliant descriptions of nature, eh;. lin-
ing features of childlike simplicity and
artless innocence in love; at the same
time, occasionally, much grandeur and
nobleness."

But as to that which c( erns funda-
mental conception- in their totality, the
spiritual cannot disengage itself from the
sensuous. We encounter the most insipid
triviality in connection with the most
elevated situations— a complete absence
of precision and proportion. The sub-
lime is only the measureless; and as to

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

whatever lies at the foundation of the
myth, the imagination, dizzy, and inca-
pable of mastering the flight of the
thought, loses itself in the fantastic, or
brings forth only enigmas which have no
significance for reason.

3. Egyptian Art. — Thus the creations
of the Indian imagination appear to re-
alize only imperfectly the idea of the
symbolic form itself. It is in Egypt,
among the monuments of Egyptian art,
that we find the type of the true symbol.
It is thus characterized :

In the first stage of art, we started from
the confusion and identity of content and
form, of spirit and nature. Next form
and content are separated and opposed.
Imagination has sought vainly to com-
bine them, and is successful only in mak-
ing clear their disproportion. In order
that thought may be free, it is necessary
that it get rid of its material form — that
it destroy it. The moment of destruction,
of negation, or annihilation, is then ne-
cessary in order that spirit arrive at con-
sciousness of itself and its spirituality.
This idea of death as a moment of the di-
vine nature is already contained in the In-
dian religion ; but it is only a changing, a
transformation, and an abstraction. The
gods are annihilated and pass the one
into the other, and all in their turn into
a single being — Brahma, the universal
being. In the Persian religion, the two
principles, negative and positive — Or-
mnzd and Ahriman — exist separately and
remain separated. Now this principle of
negation, of death and resurrection, as
moments and attributes of the divine na-
ture, constitutes the foundation of a new
religion ; this thought is expressed in it
by the forms of its worship, and appears
in all its conceptions and monuments.
It is the fundamental characteristic' of
the art and religion of Egypt. Thus we
see the glorification of death and of suf-
fering, as the annihilation of sensuous
nature, appear in the consciousness of
peoples in the worships of Asia Minor,
of Phrygia and Phoenicia.

But if death is a necessary "moment"
in the life of the absolute, it does not rest

in that annihilation ; this is, in order to
pass to a superior existence, to arrive,
after the destruction of visible existence,
by resurrection, at divine immortality.
Death is only the birth of a more eleva-
ted principle and the triumph of spirit.

Henceforth, physical form, in art, loses
its independent value and its separate
existence ; still further, the conflict of
form and idea ought to cease. Form is
subordinated to idea. That fermentation
of the imagination which produces the
fantastic, quiets itself and is calm. The
previous conceptions are replaced by a
mode of representation, enigmatic, it is
true, but superior, and which offers to
us the true character of the symbol.

The idea begins to assert itself. On its
side, the symbol takes a form more pre-
cise; the spiritual principle is revealed
more clearly, and frees itself from physi-
cal nature, although it cannot yet appear
in all its clearness.

The following mode of representation
corresponds to this idea of symbolic art:
in the first place, the forms of nature and
human actions express something other
than themselves ; they reveal the divine
principle by qualities which are in real
analogy with it. The phenomena and
the laws of nature which, in the different
kingdoms, represent life, birth, growth,
death and the resurrection of beings, are
preferred. Such are the germination and
the growth of plants, the phases of the
course of the sun, the succession of the
seasons, the phenomena of the increase
and decrease of the Nile, etc. Here, be-
cause of the real resemblance and of
natural analogies, the fantastic is aban-
doned. One observes a more intelligent
choice of symbolic forms. There is an
imagination which already knows how
to regulate itself and to control itself —
which shows more of calmness and
reason.

Here, then, appears a higher concilia-
tion of idea and form, and at the same
time an extraordinary tendency towards
art, an irresistible inclination which is
satisfied in a manner wholly symbolic,
but superior to the previous modes. It

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

is the proper tendency towards art, and
principally towards the figurative arts.
Hence the necessity of finding and fash-
ioning a form, an emblem which may ex-
press the idea and may be subordinated
to it; of creating a work which may re-
veal to spirit a general conception ; of
presenting a spectacle which may show
that these forms have been chosen for the
purpose of expressing profound ideas.

This emblematic or symbolic combina-
tion can be effected in various ways. The
most abstract expression is number. The
symbolism of numbers plays a very im-
portant part in Egyptian art. The sacred
numbers recur unceasingly in flights of
steps, columns, etc. There are, more-
over, symbolic figures traced in space,
the windings of the labyrinth, the sacred
dances which represent the movements
of the heavenly bodies. In a higher grade
is placed the human form, already mould-
ed to a higher perfection than in India.
A general symbol sums up the principal
idea; it is the phoenix, which consumes
itself and rises from its ashes.

In the myths which serve for the tran-
sition, as those of Asia Minor — in the
myth of Adonis mourned by Venus ; in
that of Castor and Pollux, and in the fa-
ble of Proserpine, this idea of death and
resurrection is very apparent.

It is Egypt, above all, which has sym-
bolized this idea. Egypt is the land of
the symbol. However, the problems are
not resolved. The enigmas of Egyptian
art were enigmas to the Egyptians them-
selves. — However this may be in the
East, the Egyptians, among eastern na-
tions, are the truly artistic people. They
show an indefatigable activity in satisfy-
ing that longing for symbolic rep-esen-
tation which torments them. But their
monuments remain mysterious and mute.
The spirit has not yet found the form
which is appropriate to it; it does not
yet know how to speak the clear and
intelligible language of spirit. " They
were, above all, an architectural peo-
ple; they excavated the soil, scooped out
lakes, and, with their instinct of art, ele-
vated gigantic structures into the light of

Vol. l- 7

day, and executed under the soil works
equally immense. It was the occupa-
tion, the life of this people, which cov-
ered the laud with monuments, nowhere
else in so great quantity and under forms
so varied."

If we wish to characterize in a more
precise manner the monuments of Egyp-
tian art, and to penetrate the sense of
them, we discover the following aspects:

In the first place, the principal idea, the
idea of death, is conceived as a ''moment"
of the life of spirit, not as a principle of
evil; this is the opposite of the Persian
dualism. Nor is there an absorption of
beings into the universal Being, as in the
Indian religion. The invisible preserves
its existence and its personality; it pre-
serves even its physical form. Hence the
embalmings, the worship of the dead.
Moreover, the imagination is lifted high-
er than this visible duration. Among the
Egyptians, for the first time, appears the
clear distinction of soul and body, and
the dogma of immortality. This idea,
nevertheless, is still imperfect, for they
accord an equal importance to the dura-
tion of the body and that of the soul.

Such is the conception which serves as
a foundation for Egyptian art, and which
betrays itself under a multitude of sym-
bolic forms. It is in this idea that we
must seek the meaning of the works of
Egyptian architecture. Two worlds — the
world of the living and that of the dead;
two architectures — the one on the surface
of the ground, the other subterranean.
The labyrinths, the tombs, and, above all,
the pyramids, represent this idea.

The pyramid, image of symbolic art, is
a species of envelope, cut in crystalline
form, which conceals a mystic object, an
invisible being. Hence, also, the exterior,
superstitious side of worship, an excess
difficult to escape, the adoration of the
divine principle in animals, a gross wor-
ship which is no longer even symbolic.

Hieroglyphic writing, another form of
Egyptian art, is itself in great part sym-
bolic, since it makes ideas known by im-
ages borrowed from nature, and which
have some analogy with those ideas.

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

But a defect betrays itself, especially in
the representations of the human form.
In fact, though a mysterious and spiritual
force is there revealed, it is not true per-
sonality. The internal principle fails;
action and impulse come from without.
Such are the statues of Memnon, which
are animate, have a voice, and give forth
a sound, only when struck by the rays of
the sun. It is not the human voice which
comes from within — an echo of the soul.
This free principle, which animates the
human form, remains here concealed,
wrapped up, mute, without proper spon-
taneity, and is only animated under the
influence of nature.

A superior form is that of the myth of
Osiris, the Egyptian god par excellence —
that god who is engendered, born, dies,
and is resuscitated. In this myth, which
offers various significations, physical,
historical, moral, and religious or me-
taphysical, is shown the superiority of
these conceptions over those of Indian
art.

In general, in Egyptian art, there is re-
vealed a profounder, more spiritual, and
more moral character. The human form
is no longer a simple, abstract personifi-
cation. Religion and art attempt to spi-
ritualize themselves ; they do not attain
their object, but they catch sight of it
and aspire to it. From this imperfection
arises the absence of freedom in the hu-
man form. The human figure still re-
mains without expression, colossal, seri-
ous, rigid. Thus is explained those atti-
tudes of the Egyptian statues, the arms
stiff, pressed against the body, without
grace, without movement, and without
life, but absorbed in profound thought,
and full of seriousness.

Hence also the complication of the
elements and symbols, which are inter-
mingled and reflected the one in the oth-
er; a thing which indicates the freedom
of spirit, but also an absence of clearness
and defluiteness. Hence the obscure,
enigmatic character of those symbols,
which always cause scholars to despair
— enigmas to the Egyptians themselves.
These emblems involve a multitude of

profound meanings. They remain there
as a testimony of fruitless efforts of spi-
rit to comprehend itself, a symbolism
full of mysteries, a vast enigma repre-
sented by a symbol which sums up all
these enigmas — the sphinx. This enigma
Egypt will propose to Greece, who her-
self will make of it the problems of reli-
gion and philosophy. The sense of this
enigma, never solved, and yet always
solving, is — "Man, know thyself." Such
is the maxim which Greece inscribed on
the front of her temples, the problem
which she presented to her sages as the
very end of wisdom.

4. Hebrew Poetry. — In this review of
the different forms of art and of worship
among the different nations of the East,
mention should be made of a religion
which is characterized precisely by the
rejection of all symbol, and in this respect
is little favorable to art, but whose poetry
bears the impress of grandeur and sub-
limity. And thus Hegel designates He-
brew Poetry by the title of Art of the
Sublime. At the same time he casts a
glance upon Mahometan pantheism,
which also proscribes images, and ban-
ishes from its temples every figurative
representation of the Divinity.

The sublime, as Kant has well describ-
ed it, is the attempt to express the infinite
in the finite, without finding any sensu-
ous form which is capable of represent-
ing it. It is the infinite, manifested
under a form which, making clear this
opposition, reveals the immeasurable
grandeur of the infinite as surpassing all
representation in finite forms.

Now, here, two points of view are to be
distinguished. Either the infinite is the
Absolute Being conceived by thought as
the immanent substanee of things, or it
is the Infinite Being as distinct from the
beings of the real world, but elevating
itself above them by the entire distance
which separates it from the finite, so that,
compared with it, they are only pure
nothing. God is thus purified from all
contact, from all participation with sen-
suous existence, which disappears and is
annihilated in His presence.

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

To the first point of view corresponds
oriental pantheism. God is there con-
ceived as the absolute Being, immanent
in objects the most diverse, in the sun,
the sea, the rivers, the trees, etc.

A conception like this cannot be ex-
pressed by the figurative arts, but only
by poetry. "Where pantheism is pure, it
admits no sensuous representation, and
proscribes images. We find this panthe-
ism in India. All the superior gods of
the Indian mythology are absorbed in the
Absolute unity, or in Brahm. Oriental
pantheism is developed in a more formal
and brilliant manner in Mahometanism,
and in particular among the Persian Ma-
hometans.

But the truly sublime is that which is
represented by Hebrew poetry. Here,
for the first time, God appears truly as
Spirit, as the invisible Being in opposi-
tion to nature. On the other side, e
entire universe, in spite of the richness
and magnificence of its phenomena, com-
pared with the Being supremely great,
is nothing by itself. Simple creation of
God, subject to his power, it only exists
to manifest and glorify him.

Such is the idea which forms the ground
of that poetry, the characteristic of which
is sublimity. In the beautiful, the idea
pierces through the external reality of
which it is the soul, and forms with it a
harmonious unity. In the sublime, the
visible reality, where the Infinite is man-
ifested, is abased in its presence. This
superiority, this exaltation of the Infinite
over the finite, the infinite distance which
separates them, is what the art of the
sublime should express. It is religious
art — preeminently, sacred art ; its unique
design is to celebrate the glory of God.
This role, poetry alone can fill.

The prevailing idea of Hebrew poetry
is 'God as master of the world, God in
his independent existence and pure es-
ence, inaccessible to sense and to all
sensuous representation which does not
correspond to his grandeur. God is the
Creator of the universe. All gross ideas
concerning the generation of beings give
place to that of a spiritual creation: —

"Let there be light ; and there was light."
That sentence indicates a creation by
word — expression of thought and of will.

Creation then takes a new aspect, na-
ture and man are no longer deified. To
the Infinite is clearly opposed the finite,
which is no longer confounded with the
divine principle as in the symbolic con-
ceptions of other peoples. Situations and
events are delineated more clearly. The
characters assume a more fixed and pre-
cise meaning. They are human figures
which offer no more anything fantastic
and strange ; they are perfectly intelligi-
ble and accessible to us.

On the other side, in spite of his pow-
erlessness and his nothingness, man ob-
tains here freer, and more independent
place than in other religions. The immu-
table character of the divine will gives
birth to the idea of law to which man
must be subject. His conduct becomes
enlightened, fixed, regular. The perfect
distinction of human and divine, of finite
and infinite, brings in that of good and
evil, and permits an enlightened choice.
Merit and demerit is the consequence of
it. To live according to justice in the ful-
filment of law is the end of human exist-
ence, and it places man in direct commu-
nication with God. Here is the principle
and explanation of his whole life, of his
happiness and his misery. The events of
lite are considered as blessings, as recom-
penses, or as trials and chastisements.

Here also appears the miracle. Else-
where, all was prodigious, and, by con-
sequence, nothing was miraculous. The
miracle supposes a regular succession, a
constant order, and an interruption of
that order. But the whole entire creation
is a perpetual miracle, designed for the
glorification and praise of God.

Such are the ideas which are expressed
with so much splendor, elevation and po-
etry in the Psalms — classic examples of
the truly sublime — in the Prophets, and
the sacred books in general. This recog-
nition of the nothingness of things, of the
greatness and omnipotence of God, of the
unw r orthiness of man in his presence, the
complaints, the lamentations, the outcry

100

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

of the soul towards God, constitute their
pathos and their sublimity.

OF THE REFLEX SYMBOL.

Fable, Apologue, Allegory, etc. — "We
have run over the different forms which
symbolism presents among the different
peoples of the East, and we have seen it
disappear in the sublime, which places
the infinite so far above the finite that it
can no longer be represented by sensu-
ous forms, but only celebrated in its
grandeur and its power.

Before passing to another epoch of art,
Hegel points out, as a transition from the
oriental symbol to the Greek ideal, amix-
ed form whose basis is comparison. This
form, which also belongs principally to
the East, is manifeste'd in different kinds
of poetry, such as the fable, the apologue,
the proverb, allegory, and comparison,
properly so called.

The author develops in the following
manner the nature of this form, and the
place which he assigns to it in the devel-
opment of art :

In the symbol, properly so called, the
idea and the form, although distinct and
even opposed, as in the subliine, are re-
united by an essential and necessary tie ;
the two elements are not strangers to one
another, and the spirit seizes the relation
immediately. Now the separation of the
two terms, which has already its begin-
ning in the symbol, ought also to be clear-
ly effected, and find its place in the devel-
opment of art. And as spirit works no
longer spontaneously but with reflection,
it is also in a reflective manner that it
brings the two terms together. This form
of art, whose basis is comparison, may
be called the reflexive symbolic in oppo-
sition to the irreflexive symbolic, whose
principal forms we have studied.

Thus, in this form of art, the connec-
tion of the two elements is no more, as
heretofore, a connection founded upon
the nature of the idea; it is more or less
the result of an artificial combination
which depends upon the will of the poet,
or his vigor of imagination, and on his
genius, for invention. Sometimes it
starts from a sensuous phenomenon to

which he lends a spiritual meaning, an
idea, by making use of some analogy.
Sometimes it is an idea which he seeks
to clothe with a sensuous form, or with
an image, by a certain resemblance.

This mode of conception is clear but
superficial. In the East it plays a distinct
part, or appears to prevail as one of the
characteristic traits of oriental thought.
Later, in the grand composition of classic
or romantic poetry, it is subordinated;
it furnishes ornaments and accessories,
allegories, images, and metaphors; it
constitutes secondary varieties.

Hegel then divides this form of art, and
classes the varieties to which it gives rise.
He distinguishes, for this purpose, two
points of view: first, the case when the
sensuous fact is presented first to spirit,
and spirit afterwards gives it a significa-
tion, as in the fable, the parable, the
apologue, the proverb, the metamorpho-
ses; second, the case where, on the other
hand, it is the idea which appears first to
the spirit, and the poet afterwards seeks
• to adapt to it an image, a sensuous form,
by way of comparison. Such are the
enigma, the allegory, the metaphor, the
image, and the comparison.

We shall not follow the author in the
developments which he thinks necessary
to give to the analysis of each of these in-
ferior forms of poetry or art.*
II. Of Classic Art.

The aim of art is to represent the ideal,
that is to say, the perfect accord of the

* One cannot but be astonished not to see, in
this review of the principal forms of Oriental
art. Chinese art at least mentioned. The reason
is, that, according to Hegel, art— the fine arts,
properly speaking — have no existence among
the Chinese. The spirit of that people seems to
him anti-artistic and prosaic. He thus charac-
terizes Chinese art in his Philosophy of History :
"This race, in general, has a rare talent for imita-
tion, which is exercised not only in the things of
daily life, but also in art. It has not yet arrived at
the representation of the beautiful as beautiful.
In painting, ii lacks perspective and shading.
European images, like everything else, it copies
well. A Chinese painter knows exactly how ma-
ny scales there are on the back of a carp, how
many notches a leaf has ; he knows perfectly the
form of trees and the curvature of their branch-
es; but the sublime, the ideal, and the beautiful,
do not belong at all to the domain of his art and
his ability." — Philosophie aer Gc&chichlc.

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

101

two elements of the beautiful, the idea
and the sensuous form. Now this object
symbolic art endeavors vainly to attain.
Sometimes it is nature with its blind force
which forms the ground of its representa-
tions ; sometimes it is the spiritual Being,
which it conceives in a vague manner,
and which it personifies in inferior di-
vinities. Between the idea and the form
there is revealed a simple affinity, an ex-
ternal correspondence. The attempt to
reconcile them makes clearer the opposi-
tion ; or art, in wishing to express spirit,
only creates obscure enigmas. Every-
where there is betrayed the absence of
true personality and of freedom. For
these are able to unfold, only with the
clear consciousness of itself that spirit
achieves. We have met, it is true, this
idea of the nature of spirit as opposed to
the sensuous world, clearly expressed in
the religion and poetry of the Hebrew
people. But what is born of this oppo-
sition is not the Beautiful; it is the Sub-
lime. A living sentiment of personality
is further manifest in the East, in the
Arabic race. In the scorching deserts, in
the midst of free space, it has ever been
distinguished by this trait of indepen-
dence and individuality, which betrays
itself by hatred of the stranger, thirst for
vengeance, a deliberate cruelty; also by
love, by greatness of soul and devotion,
and above all, by passion for adventure.
This race is also distinguished by a mind
free and clear, ingenious and full of
subtlety, lively, brilliant — of which it has
given so many proofs in the arts and sci-
ences. But we have here only a super-
ficial side, devoid of profundity and
universality; it is not true personality
supported on a solid basis, on a knowl-
edge of the spirit and of the moral nature.
All these elements, separate or united,
cannot, then, present the Ideal. They are
antecedents, conditions, and materials,
and, together, offer nothing which corre-
sponds to the idea of real beauty. This
ideal beauty we shall find realized, for
the first time, among the Greek race and
in Classic art, which we now propose to
characterize.

In order that the two elements of beau-
ty may be perfectly harmonized, it is
necessary that the first, the idea, be the
spirit itself, possessed of the conscious-
ness of its nature and of its free person-
ality. If one is then asked, what is the
form which corresponds to this idea,
which expresses the personal, individual
spirit? the only answer is, the human
form; for it alone is capable of manifest-
ing spirit.

Classic art, which represents free spi-
rituality under an individual form, is
then necessarily anthropomorphic. An-
thropomorphism is its very essence, and
we shall do it wrong to make of this a
reproach. Christian art and the Chris-
tian religion are themselves anthropo-
morphic, and this they are in a still
higher degree since God made himself
really mau, since Christ is not a mere
divine personification conceived by the
imagination, since he is both truly God
and truly man. He passed through all
the phases of earthly existence; he was
born, he suffered, and he died. In classic
art sensuous nature does not die, but it
has no resurrection. Thus this religion
does not fully satisfy the human soul.
The Greek ideal has for basis an un-
changeable harmony between the spirit
and the sensuous form, the unalterable
serenity of the immortal gods ; but this
calm is somewhat frigid and inanimate.
Classic art did not take in the true es-
sence of the divine nature, nor penetrate
the depths of the soul. It could not un-
veil the innermost powers in their oppo-
sition, or re-establish their harmony.
All this phase of existence, wickedness,
misfortune, moral suffering, the revolt
of the will, gnawings and rendings of
the Boul, were unknown to it. It did
not pass beyond the proper domain of
sensuous beauty, but it represented it
perfectly.

This ideal of classic beauty was real-
ized by the Greeks. The most favorable
conditions for unfolding if were found
combined among them. The geographi-
cal position, the genius of that people,
its moral character, its political life, all

102

Meg el's Philosophy of Art.

could not but aid the accomplishment of
that idea of classic beauty whose charac-
teristics are proportion, measure, and
harmony. Placed between Asia and Eu-
rope, Greece realized the accord of per-
sonal liberty and public manners, of the
state and the individual, of spirit gene-
ral and particular. Its genius, a mixture
of spontaneity and reflection, presented
'an equal fusion of contraries. The feel-
ing of this auspicious harmony pierces
through all the productions of the Greek
mind. It was the moment of youth in
the life of humanity — a fleeting age, a
moment unique and irrevocable, like
that of beauty in the individual.

Art attains, then, the culminating point
of sensuous beauty under the form of
plastic individuality. The worship of the
Beautiful is the entire life of the Greek
race. Thus religion and art are identi-
fied. All forms of Greek civilization are
subordinate to art.

It is important here to determine the
new position of the artist in the produc-
tion of works of art.

Art appears here not as a production
of nature, but as a creation of the indi-
vidual spirit. It is the work of a free
spirit which is conscious of itself, which
is self-possessed, which has nothing
vague or obscure in its thought, and
finds itself hindered by no technical dif-
ficulty.

•This new position of the Greek artist
manifests itself in content, form, and
technical skill.

With regard to the content, or the ideas
which it ought to represent, in opposition ■
to symbolic art, where the spirit gropes
and seeks without power to arrive at a
clear notion, the artist finds the idea al-
ready made in the dogma, the popular
faith, and a complete, precise idea, of
which he renders to himself an account.
Nevertheless, he does not enslave him-
self with it; he accepts it, but reprodu-
ces it freely. The Greek artists received
their subjects from the popular religion ;
which was an idea originally transmitted
from the East, but already transformed
in the consciousness of the people. They,

in their turn, transformed it into the
sense of the beautiful ; they both repro-
duced and created it.

But it is above all upon the form that
this free activity concentrates and exer-
cises itself. "While symbolic art wearies
itself in seeking a thousand extraordina-
ry forms to represent its ideas, having
neither measure nor fixed rule, the Greek
artist confines himself to his subject, the
limits of which he respects. Then be-
tween the content and the form he esta-
blishes a perfect harmony, for, in elabo-
rating the form, he also perfects the con-
tent. He frees them both from useless
accessories, in order to adapt the one to
the other. Henceforth he is not checked
by an immovable and traditional type ;
he perfects the whole, for content and
form are inseparable ; he develops both
in the serenity of inspiration.

As to the technical element, ability
combined with inspiration belongs to
the classic artist in the highest degree.
Nothing restrains or embarrasses him.
Here are no hindrances as in a station-
ary religion, where the forms are conse-
crated by usage — in Egypt, for example.
And this ability is always increasing.
Progress in the processes of art is neces-
sary to the realization of pure beauty and
the perfect execution of works of genius.

After these general considerations up-
on classic art, Hegel studies it more in
detail. He considers it, 1st, in its devel-
opment; 2d, in itself, as realization of
the ideal ; 3d, in the causes which have
produced its downfall.

1. In what concerns the development
of Greek art, the author dwells long upon
the history and progress of mythology.
This is because religion and art are con-
fused. The central point of Greek art is
Olympus and its beautiful divinities.

The following are what are, according
to Hegel, the principal stages of the de-
velopment of art, anrl of the Greek my-
thology.

The first stage of progress consists in a
reaction against the symbolic form, which
it is interested in destroying. The Greek
gods came from the East ; the Greeks

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

103

borrowed their divinities from foreign
religions. On the other hand, we can
say they invented them ; for invention
does not exclude borrowing. They trans-
formed the ideas contained in the ante-
rior traditions. Now, upon what had
this transformation any bearing? In it
is the history of polytheism and antique
art, which follows a parallel course, and
is inseparable from it.

The Grecian divinities are, first of all,
moral personages invested with the hu-
man form. The first development con-
sists, then, in rejecting those gross sym-
bols which, in the oriental naturalism,
form the object of worship, and which
disfigure the representations of art. This
progress is marked by the degradation
of the animal kingdom. It is clearly in-
dicated in a great number of ceremonies
and fables of polytheism, by sacrifices of
animals, sacred hunts, and many of the
exploits attributed to heroes, in par-
ticular the labors of Hercules. Some
of the fables of ^rEsop have the same
meaning.

The metamorphoses of Ovid are also
disfigured myths, or fables become bur-
lesque, of which the content, easy to be
recognized, contains the same idea.

This is the opposite of the manner in
which the Egyptians considered animals.
Nature, here, in place of being venerated
and adored, is lowered and degraded. To
wear an animal form is no longer deifi-
cation ; it is the punishment of a mon-
strous crime. The gods themselves are
shamed by such a form, and they assume
it only to satisfy the passions of the sens-
ual nature. Such is the signification of
many of the fables of Jupiter, as those of
Danae, of Europa, of Leda, of Ganymede.
The representation of the generative
principle in nature, which constitutes
the content of the ancient mythologies,
is here changed into a series of histories
where the father of gods and men plays
a role but little edifying, and frequently
ridiculous. Finally, all that part of re-
ligion which relates to sensual desires is
crowded into the background, and repre-
sented by subordinate divinities : Circe,

who changes men into swine ; Pan, Silc-
nus, the Satyrs, and the Fauns. The
human form predominates, the animal
being barely indicated by ears, by little
horns, etc.

Another advance is to be noted in the
oracles. The phenomena of nature, in
place of being an object of admiration
and worship, are only signs by which
the gods make known their will to mor-
tals. These prophetic signs become more
and more simple, till at last it is, above
all, the voice of man which is the organ
of the oracle. The oracle is ambiguous,
so that the man who receives it is obliged
to interpret it, to blend his reason with
it. In dramatic art, for example, man
does not act solely by himself; he con-
sults the gods, he obeys their will; but his
will is confounded with theirs — a place
is reserved for his liberty.

The distinction between the old and
the nexo divinities marks still more this
progress of moral liberty. Among the
former, who personify the powers of na-
ture, a gradation is already established.
In the first place, the untamed and lower
powers, Chaos, Tartarus, Erebus; then
Uranus, Gea, the Giants, and the Titans ;
in a higher rank, Prometheus, at first the
friend of the new gods, the benefactor of
men, then punished by Jupiter for that
apparent beneficence; an inconsequence
which is explained through this, that if
Prometheus taught industry to men, he
created an occasion of discords and dis-
sensions, by not giving them instruction
more elevated — morality, the science
of government, the guarantees of prop-
erty. Such is the profouud sense of that
myth, and Plato thus explains it in his
dialogues.

Another class of divinities equally an-
cient, but already ethical, although they
recall the fatality of the physical laws,
are the Eumenides, Dice, and the Furies.
We see appearing here the ideas of right
and justice, but of exclusive, absolute,
strict, unconscious right, under the form
of an implacable vengeance, or, like the
ancient Nemesis, of a power which
abases all that is high, and re-establishes

104

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

equality by levelling; a thing which is
the opposite of true justice.

Finally, this development of the classic
ideal reveals itself more clearly in the
theogony and genealogy of the gods, in
their origin and their succession, by the
abasement of the divinities of the previ-
ous races; in the hostility which flashes
out between them, in the resolution
which has carried away the sovereignty
from the old to place it in the hands of
the new divinities. Meanwhile the dis-
tinction develops itself to the point of
engendering strife, and the conflict be-
comes the principal event of mythology.

This conflict is that of nature and spi-
rit, and it is the law of the world. Un-
der the historic form, it is the perfecting
of human nature, the successive conquest
of rights and property, the amelioration
of laws and of the political constitution.
In the religious representations, it is the
triumph of the moral divinities over the
powers of nature.

This combat is announced as the
grandest catastrophe in the history of
the world : moreover, this is not the sub-
ject of a particular myth; it is the prin-
cipal, decisive fact which constitutes the
the centre of this mythology.

The conclusion of all this in respect to
the history of art and to the development
of the ideal, is that art ought to act like
mythology, and reject as unworthy all
that is purely physical or animal, that
which is confused, fantastic, or obscure,
all gross mingling of the material and
the spiritual. All these creations of an
ill-regulated imagination find here no
more place ; they must flee before the
light of the Soul. Art purifies itself of
all caprice, fancy, or symbolic accessory,
of every vague and confused idea.

In like manner, the new gods form an
organized and established world. This
unity affirms and perfects itself more in
the later developments of plastic art and
poetry.

Nevertheless, the old elements, driven
back by the accession of moral forces,
preserve a place at their side, or are
combined with them. Such is, for ex-

ample, the significance and the aim of
the mysteries.

In the new divinities, who are ethical
persons, there remains also an echo, a
reflex of the powers of nature. They pre-
sent, consequently, a combination of the
physical and the ethical element, but the
first is subordinate to the second. Thus,
Neptune is the sea, but he is besides in-
voked as the god of navigation and the
founder of cities; Apollo is the Sun, the
god of light, but he is also the god of spi-
ritual light, of science, and of the oracles.
In Jupiter, Diana, Hercules, and Venus,
it is easy to discover the physical side
combined with the moral sense.

Thus, in the new divinities, the ele-
ments of nature, after having been de-
based and degraded, reappear and are
preserved. This is also true of the forms
of the animal kingdom ; but the symbolic
sense is more and more lost. They figure
no longer as accessories combined with
the human form, but are reduced to mere
emblems or attributes indicating signs —
as the eagle by the side of Jupiter, the
peacock before Juno, the dove near Ve-
nus — where the principal myth is no
more than an accidental fact, of little
importance in the life of the god, and
which, abandoned to the imagination of
the poets, becomes the text of licentious
histories.

2. After having considered the devel-
opment of the ideal in Greek art, a de
velopment parallel to that of religion
and mythology, we have to consider it
in its principal characteristics, such as it
has emanated from the creative activity
or from the imagination of the poet and
the artist.

This mythology has its origin in the
previous religions, but its gods are the
creation of Homer and Hesiod. Tradi-
tion furnished the materials ; but the idea
which each god ought to represent, and,
besides, the form which expresses it in
its purity and simplicity, this is what
was not given. This ideal type the poets
drew from their genius, discovering also
the true form which befitted it. There-
by they were creators of that mythology

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

105

which we admire in Greek art, and which
is confounded with it.

The Greek gods have no less their ori-
gin in the spirit and the credences of the
Greek people, and in the national belief;
the poets were the interpreters of the
general thought, of what there was most
elevated in the imagination of the people-
Henceforth, the artist, as we have seen
above, takes a position wholly different
from that which he held in the East. His
inspiration is personal. His work is that
of a free imagination, creating according
to its own conceptions. The inspiration
does not come from without; what they
reveal is the ideas of the human spirit,
what there is deepest in the heart of man.
Also, the artists are truly poets ; they
fashion, according to their liking, the
content and the form, in order to draw
from them free and original figures.
Tradition is shorn, in their hands, of all
that is gross, symbolic, repulsive, and
deformed ; they eliminate the idea which
they wish to illustrate, and individualize
it under the human form. Such is the
manner, free though not arbitrary, in
which the Greek artists proceed in the
creation of their works.

They are poets, but also prophets and
diviners. They represent human actions
in divine actions, and, reciprocally, with-
out having the clear and decided distinc-
tions. They maintain the union, the ac-
cord, of the human and the divine. Such
is the significance of the greater part of
the apparitions of the gods in Homer,
when the gods, for example, consult the
heroes, or interfere in the combats.

Meanwhile, if we wish to understand
the nature of this ideal, to determine in
a more precise manner the character of
the divinities of Greek art, (he following
remarks are suggested, considering them
at the same time on the general, the par-
ticular, and the individual sides.

The first attribute which distinguishes
them is something general, substantial.
The immortal gods are strangers to the
miseries and to the agitations of human
existence. They enjoy an unalterable
calmness and serenity, from which they

derive their repose and their majesty.
They are not, however, vague abstrac-
tions, universal and purely ideal
existences. To this character of gene-
rality is joined individuality. Each di-
vinity has his traits and proper physiog-
nomy, his particular role, his sphere of
activity, determined and limited. A just
measure, moreover, is here observed : the
two elements, the general and the indi-
vidual, are in perfect accord.

At the same time, this moral character
is manifested under an external and cor-
poreal form itself, its most perfect ex-
pression, in which appears the harmoni-
ous fusion of the external form with the
internal principle animating it.

This physical form, as well as the spi-
ritual principle which is manifested in it,
is freed from all the accidents of material
life, and from the miseries of finite exist-
ence. It is the human body with its beau-
tiful proportions and their harmony; all
announces beauty, liberty, grace. It is
thus that this form, in its purity, corre-
sponds to the spiritual and divine prin-
ciple which is incarnate in it. Hence the
nobleness, the grandeur, and the eleva-
tion of those figures, which have nothing
iu common with the wants of material
life, and seem elevated above their bodi-
ly existence. They are immortal divini-
ties with human features. The body, in
spite of its beauty, appears as a superflu-
ous appendage; and, nevertheless, it is
an animated and living form which pre-
sents the indestructible harmony of the
two principles, the soul and the body.

But a contradiction presents itself be-
tween the spirit and the material form.
This harmonious whole conceals a prin-
ciple of destruction which will make it-
self felt more and more. We may per-
ceive in these figures an air of sadness in
the midst of greatness. Though absorbed
in themselves, calm and serene, they lack
freedom from care and inward satisfac-
tion; something cold and impassive is
found in their features, especially if we
compare them with the vivacity of mod-
ern sentiment. This divine peace, this
indifference to all that is mortal and trail-

106

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

sient, forms a contrast with the moi'al
greatness and the corporeal form. These
placid divinities complain both of their
felicity and of their physical existence.
We read upon their features the destiny
which weighs them down.

Now, what is the particular art most
appropriate to represent this ideal ? Evi-
dently it is sculpture. It alone is capable
of showing us those ideal figures in their
eternal repose, of expressing the perfect
harmony of the spiritual principle and
the sensuous form. To it has been con-
fided the mission of realizing this ideal
in its purity, its greatness, and its per-
fection.

Poetry — above all, dramatic poetry,
which makes the gods act, and draws
them into strife and combat, contrary to
their greatness and their dignity — is
much less capable of answering this
purpose.

If we consider these divinities in their
particular and no longer in their general
character, we see that they form a plu-
rality, a whole, a totality, which is poly-
theism. Each particular god, while hav-
ing his proper and original character, is
himself a complete whole ; he also pos-
sesses the distinctive qualities of the
other divinities. Hence the richness of
these characters. It is for this reason
that the Greek polytheism does not pre-
sent a systematic whole. Olympus is
composed of a multitude of distinct gods,
who do not form an established hierar-
chy. Rank is not rigorously lixed, whence
the liberty, the serenity, the independ-
ence of the personages. Without this
apparent contradiction, the divinities
would be embarrassed by one another,
shackled in their development and pow-
er. In place of being true persons, they
would be only allegorical beings, or per-
sonified abstractions.

As to their sensuous representation,
sculpture is, moreover, the art best adap-
ted to express this particular character-
istic of the nature of the gods. By com-
bining with immovable grandeur the in-
dividuality of features peculiar to each
of them, it fixes in their statues the most

perfect expression of their character, and
determines its definite form. Sculpture,
here again, is more ideal than poetry. It
offers a more determined and fixed form,
while poetry mingles with it a crowd of
actions, of histories and accidental par-
ticulars. Sculpture creates absolute and
etexmal models; it has fixed the type of
true, classic beauty, which is the basis of
all other productions of Greek genius,
and is here the central point of art.

But in order to represent the gods in
their true individuality, it does not suf-
fice to distinguish them by certain par-
ticular attributes. Moreover, classic art
does not confine itself to repi'esenting
these personages as immovable and self-
absorbed ; it shows them also in move-
ment and in action. The character of the
gods then particularizes itself, and ex-
hibits the special features of which the
physiognomy of each god is composed.
This is the accidental, positive, historic
side which figures in mythology, and
also in art, as an accessory but necessary
element.

These materials are furnished by his-
tory or fable. They are the antecedents,
the local particulars, which give to the
gods their living individuality and ori-
ginality. Some are borrowed from the
symbolic religions, which preserve a
vestige thereof in the new creation ; the
symbolic element is absorbed in the new
myth. Others have a national origin,
which, again, is connected with heroic
times and foreign traditions. Others,
finally, spring from local circumstances,
relating to the propagation of the myths,
to their formation, to the usages and ce-
remonies of worship, etc. All these mate-
rials, fashioned by art, give to the Greek
gods the appearance, the interest, and the
charm, of living humanity. But this tra-
ditional side, which in its origin had a
symbolic sense, loses it little by little; it
is designed only to complete the indivi-
duality of the gods — to give to them a
more human and more sensuous form —
to add, through details frequently unwor-
thy of divine majesty, the side of the ar-
bitrary and accidental. Sculpture, which

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

107

represents the pure ideal, ought, without
wholly excluding it in fact, to allow it to
appear as little as possible ; it represents
it as accessory in the head-dress, the
arms, the ornaments, the external attri-
butes. Another source for the more pre-
cise determination of the character of the
gods is their intervention in the actions
and circumstances of human life. Here
the imagination of the poet expands it-
self as an iuexhaustible source in a crowd
of particular histories, of traits of char-
acter and actions, attributed to the gods.
The problem of art consists in combin-
ing, in a natural and living manner, the
actions of divine personages and human
actions, in such a manner that the gods
appear as the general cause of what man
himself accomplishes. The gods, thus,
are the internal principles which reside
in the depths of the human soul ; its own
passions, in so far as they are elevated,
and its personal thought; or it is the ne-
cessity of the situation, the force of cir-
cumstances, from whose fatal action man
suffers. It is this which pierces through
all the situations where Homer causes
the gods to intervene, and through the
manner in which they influence events.

But through this side, the gods of clas-
sic art abandon more and more the si-
lent serenity of the ideal, to descend into
the multiplicity of individual situations,
of actions, and into the conflict of human
passions. Classic art thus finds itself
drawn to the last degree of individuali-
zation ; it falls into the agreeable and the
graceful. The divine is absorbed in the
finite, which is addressed exclusively to
the sensibility, and no longer satisfies
thought. Imagination and art, seizing
this side and exaggerating it more and
more, corrupt religion itself. The severe
ideal gives place to merely sensuous
beauty and harmony ; it removes itself
more and more from the eternal ideas
which form the ground of religion and
art, and these are dragged down to ruin.

3. In fact, independently of the exter-
nal causes which have occasioned the
decadence of Greek art and precipitated
its downfall, many internal causes, in the

very nature of the Greek ideal, rendered
that downfall inevitable. In the first
place, the Greek gods, as we have seen,
bear in themselves the germ of their de-
struction, and the defect which they con-
ceal is unveiled by the representations
of classic art itself. The plurality of the
gods and their diversity makes them al-
ready accidental existences; this multi-
plicity cannot satisfy reason. Thought
dissolves them and makes them return
to a single divinity. Moreover, the gods
do not remain in their eternal repose;
they enter into action, take part in the
interests, in the passions, and mingle in
the collisions of human life. The multi-
tude of relations, in which they are en-
gaged as actors in this drama, destroys
their divine majesty — contradicts their
grandeur, their dignity, their beauty.
In the true ideal itself, that of sculpture,
we observe something, the inanimate,
impassive, cold, a serious air of silent
mournfulness which indicates that some-
thing higher weighs them down — desti-
ny, supreme unity, blind divinity, the
immutable fate to which gods and men
are alike subject.

But the principal cause is, that, abso-
lute necessity making no integral part of
their pesronality, and being foreign to
them, the particular, individual side is
no longer restrained in its downward
course ; it is developed more and more
without hindrance and without limit.
They suffer themselves to be drawn into
the external accidents of human life, and
fall into all the imperfections of anthro-
pomorphism. Hence the ruin of these
beautiful divinities of art is inevitable.
The moral consciousness turns away from
them and rejects them. The gods, it is
true, a.-e ethical persons, but under the
human and corporeal form. Now, true
morality appears only in the conscience,
and under a purely spiritual form. The
point of view of the beautiful is neither
that of religion nor that of morality. The
infinite, invisible spirituality is the divine
for the religious consciousness. For the
moral consciousness, the good is an idea,
a conception, an obligation, which com-

108

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

mands the sacrifice of sense. It is in vain,
then, to be enthusiastic over Greek art
and beauty, to admire those beautiful
divinities. The soul does not recognize
herself wholly in the object of her con-
templation or her worship. What she
conceives as the true ideal is a God, spi-
ritual, infinite, absolute, personal, en-
dowed with moral qualities, with justice,
goodness, etc. It is this whose image the
gods of Greek polytheism, in spite of
their beauty, do not present us.

As to the transition from the Greek
mythology to a new religion and a new
art, it could no longer be effected in the
domain of the imagination. In the origin
of Greek art, the transition appears un-
der the form of a conflict between the old
and the new gods, in the very domain of
art and imagination. Here it is upon the
more serious territory of history that this
revolution is accomplished. The new
idea appears, not as a revelation of art,
nor under the form of myth and of fable,
but in history itself, by the course of
events, by the appearance of God him-
self upon earth, where he was born,
lived, and arose from the dead. Here is
afield of ideas which Art did not invent,
and which it finds too high for it. The
gods of classic art have existence only in
the imagination; they were visible only
in stone and wood ; they were not both
flesh and spirit. This real existence of
God in flesh and spirit, Christianity, for
the first time, showed in the life and ac-
tions of a God present among men. This
transition cannot, then, be accomplished
in the domain of art, because the God of
revealed religion is the real and living
God. Compared with Him, his adversa-
ries are only imaginary beings, who can-
not be taken seriously and meet Him on
the field of history. The opposition and
conflict cannot, then, present the charac-
ter of a serious strife, and be represented
as such by Art or Poetry. Therefore,
always, whenever any one has attempted
to make of this subject, among moderns,
a poetic theme, he has done it in an im-
pious and frivolous manner, as in "The
War of the Gods," by Parny.

On the other hand, it would be useless
to regret, as has been frequently done in
prose and in verse, the loss of the Greek
ideal and pagan mythology, as being
more favorable to art and poetry than
the Christian faith, to which is granted
a higher moral verity, while it is regard-
ed as inferior in respect to art and the
Beautiful.

Christianity has a poetry and an art of
its own; an ideal essentially different
from the Greek ideal and art. Here all
parallel is superficial. Polytheism is an-
thropomorphism. The gods of Greece
are beautiful divinities under the human
form. As soon as reason has compre-
hended God as Spirit and as Infinite Be-
ing, there appear other ideas, other sen-
timents, other demands, which ancient
art is incapable of satisfying, to which it
cannot attain, which call, consequently,
for a new art, a new poetry. Thus, re-
grets are superfluous ; comparison has no
more any significance, it is only a text
for declamation. What one could object
to seriously in Christianity, its tenden-
cies to mysticism, to asceticism — which,
in fact, are hostile to art — are only
exaggerations of its principle. But the
thought which constitutes the ground of
Christianity and true Christian senti-
ment, far from being opposed to art, is
very favorable to it. Hence springs up
a new art, inferior, it is true, in certain
respects, to antique art — in sculpture, for
example — but which is superior in other
respects, as is its idea when compared
with the pagan idea.

In all this, we are making but a resum6
of the ideas of the author. We must do
him the justice to say, that, wherever he
speaks of Christian art, he does it wor-
thily, and exhibits a spirit free from all
sectarian prejudice.

If we cast, meanwhile, a glance at the
external causes which have brought about
this decadence, it is easy to discover 1 hem
in the situations of ancient society, which
prophesy the downfall of both art and
religion. We discover the vices of that
social order where the state was every-
thing, the individual nothing by himself.

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

109

This is the radical vice of the Greek state.
In such an identification of man and the
state, the rights of the individual are ig-
nored. The latter then seeks to open for
himself a distinct and independent way,
separates himself from the public inter-
est, pursues his own ends, and finally la-
bors for the ruin of the state. Hence the
egoism which undermines this society
little by little, and the ever-increasing
excesses of demagogism.

On the other hand, there arises in the
souls of the best a longing for a higher
freedom in a state organized upon the
basis of justice and right. In the mean-
time man falls back upon himself, and,
deserting the written law, religious and
civil, takes his conscience for the rule of
his acts. Socrates marks the advent of
this idea. In Eome, in the last years of
the republic, there appears, among ener-
getic spirits, this antagonism and this
detachment from society. Noble charac-
ters present to us the spectacle of private
virtues by the side of feebleness and cor-
ruption in public morals.

This protest of moral consciousness
against the increasing corruption finds
expression in art itself; it creates a form
of poetry which corresponds to it, satire.

According to Hegel, satire, in fact, be-
longs peculiarly to the Romans ; it is at
least the distinctive and original charac-
teristic, the salient feature, of their poet-
ry and literature. "The spirit of the Ro-
man world is the dominance of the dead
letter, the destruction of beauty, the ab-
sence of serenity in manners, the ebbing
of the domestic and natural affections; —
in general, the sacrifice of individuality,
which devotes itself to the state, the tran-
quil greatness in obedience to law. The
principle of this political virtue, in its
frigid and austere rudeness, subdued na-
tional individualities abroad, while at
home the law was developed with the
same rigor and the same exactitude of
forms, even to the point of attaining per-
fection. But this principle was contrary
to true art. So one finds at Rome no art
which presents a character of beauty,
of liberty, of grandeur. The Romans

received and learned from the Greeks
sculpture, painting, music, and poetry-
epic, lyric, and dramatic. What is re-
garded as indigenous among them is the
comic farces, the fescennines and atella-
nes. The Romans can claim as belonging
to them in particular only the forms of
art which, in their principle, are prosaic,
such as the didactic poem. But before
all we must place satire."

III. Of Romantic Akt.

This, expression, employed here to de-
signate modern art, in its opposition to
Greek or classic art, bears nothing of the
unfavorable sense which it has in our
language and literature, where it has be-
come the synonym of a liberty pushed
even to license, and of a contempt for all
law. Roinantie art, which, in its highest
development, is also Christian art, has
laws and principles as necessary as clas-
sic art. But the idea which it expresses
being different, its conditions are also;
it obeys other rules, while observing
those that are the basis of all art and the
very essence of the beautiful.

Hegel, in a general manner, thus char-
acterizes this form of art, contrasting it
with antique art, the study of which we
have just left.

In classic art, the spirit constitutes the
content of the representation ; but it is
combined with the sensuous or material
form in such a manner that it is harmon-
ized perfectly with it, and does not sur-
pass it. Art reached its perfection when
it accomplished this happy accord, when
the spirit idealized nature, and made of
it a faithful image of itself. It is thus
that classic art was the perfect represen-
tation of the ideal, the reign of beauty.

But there is something higher than the
beautiAd manifestation of spirit under
the sensuous form. The spirit ought to
abandon this accord with nature, to retire
into itself, to find the true harmony in it-
own world, the spiritual world of the soul
and the conscience. Now, that develop-
ment of the spirit which, not being able
to satisfy itself in the world of sense,
seeks a higher harmony in itself, is the
fundamental principle of romantic art.

110

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

Here beauty of form is no longer the
supreme thing; beauty, iu this sense, re-
mains something inferior, subordinate;
it gives place to the spiritual beauty
"which dwells in the recesses of the soul,
in the depths of its infinite nature.

Now, in order thus to take possession
of itself, it is essential that spirit have a
consciousness of its relation to God, and
of its union with Him ; that not only the
divine principle reveal itself under a
form true and worthy of it, but that the
human soul, on its part, lift itself toward
God, that it feel itself filled with His es-
sence, that the Divinity descend into the
bosom of humanity. The anthropomor-
phism of Greek thought ought to disap-
pear, in order to give place to anthropo-
morphism of a higher order.

Hence all the divinities of polytheism
will be absorbed in a single Deity. God
has no longer anything in common with
those individual personages who had
their attributes and their distinct roles,
and formed a whole, free, although sub-
ject to destiny.

At the same time, God does not remain
shut up in the depths of his Being: he
appears in the real world also; he opens
his treasures and unfolds them in crea-
tion. He is, notwithstanding, revealed
less in nature than in the moral world,
or that of liberty. In fine, God is not an
ideal, created by the imagination ; he
manifests himself under the features of
living humanity.

If we compare, in this respect, roman-
tic art with classic art, we see that Sculp-
ture no longer suffices to express this
idea. We should vainly seek in the im-
age of the gods fashioned by sculpture
that which announces the true personal-
ity, the clear consciousness of self and
reflected will. In the external, this de-
fect is betrayed by the absence of the eye,
that mirror of the soul. Sculpture is de-
prived of the glance, the ray of the soul
emanating from within. On the other
hand, the spirit entering into relation
with external objects, this immobility of
sculpture no longer responds to the long-
ing for activity, which calls for exercise

in a more extended career. The repre-
sentation ought to embrace a vaster field
of objects, and of physical and moral
situations.

As to the manner in which this princi-
ple is developed and realized, romantic
art presents certain striking differences
from antique art.

In the first place, as has been said, in-
stead of the ideal divinities, which exist
only for the imagination, and are only
human nature idealized, it is God him-
self who makes himself man, and passes
through all the phases of human life,
birth, suffering, death, and resurrection.
Such is the fundamental idea which art
represents, even in the circle of religion.

The result of this religious conception
is to give also to art, as the principal
ground of its representations, strife,
conflict, sorrow and death, the profound
grief which the nothingness of life, phy-
sical and moral suffering inspire. Is not
all this, in fact, an essential part of the
history of the God-man, who must be
presented as a model to humanity? Is it
not the means of being drawn near to
God, of resembling him, and of being
united to him? Man ought, then, to strip
off his finite nature, to renounce that
which is a mere nothing, and, through
this negation of the real life, propose to
himself the attainment of what God re-
alized in his mortal life.

The in fi nite sorrow of this sacrifice, this
ideaof suffering andof death, which were
almost banished from classic art, find,
for the first time, their necessary place
in Christian art. Among the Greeks,
death has no seriousness, because man
attaches no great importance to his per-
sonality and his spiritual nature. On the
the other hand, now that the soul has an
infinite value, death becomes terrible.
Terror in the presence of death and the
annihilation of our being, is imprinted
strongly on our souls. So also among
the Greeks, especially before the time of
Socrates, the idea of immortality was
not profound ; they scarcely conceived of
life as separable from physical existence.
In the Christian faith, on the contrary,

Htgel's Philosophy of Art.

Ill

death is only the resurrection of the spi-
rit, the harmony of the soul with itself,
the true life. It is only by freeing itself
from the bonds of its earthly existence
that it can enter upon the possession of
its true nature.

Such are the principal ideas which form
the religious ground of romantic or Chris-
tian Art. In spite of some explanations
which recall the special system of the au-
thor, one cannot deny that they are ex-
pressed with power and truthfulness.

Meauwhile, beyond the religious
sphere, there are developing certain
interests which belong to the mundane
life, and which form also the object of
the representations of art; they are the
passions, the collisions, the joys, and
the sufferings, which bear a terrestrial
or purely human character, but in
which appear notwithstanding the very
principle which distinguishes modern
thought, to-wit: a more vivid, more en-
ergetic, and more profound sentiment
of human personality, or, as the author
calls it, subjectivity .

Romantic art differs no less from clas-
sic art in the form of the mode of repre-
sentation, than in the ideas which con-
stitute the content of its works. And, in
the first place, one necessary conse-
quence of the preceding principle is, the
new point of view under which nature
or the physical world is viewed. The
ob ects of nature lose their importance,
or, at least, they cease to be divine.
They have neither the symbolic signifi-
cation which oriental art gave them, nor
the particular aspect in virtue of which
they were animated and personified in
Greek art and mythology. Nature is
effaced; she retires to a lower plane; the
universe is condensed to a single point,
in the focus of the human soul. That,
absorbed in a single thought, the thought
of uniting itself to God, beholds the
world vanish, or regards it with an in-
different eye. We see also appearing a
heroism wholly different from antique
heroism, a heroism of submission and
resignation.

But, on the other hand, precisely

through the very fact, that all is concen-
trated in the focus of the human soul,
the circle of ideas is found to be infinite-
ly enlarged. The interior history of the
soul is developed under a thousand di-
verse forms, borrowed from human life.
It beams forth, and art seizes anew upon
nature, which serves as adornment and
as a theatre for the activity of the spirit.
Hence the history of the human heart
becomes infinitely richer than it was in
ancient art and poetry. The increasing
multitude of situations, of interests, and
of passions, forms a domain as much
more vast as spirit has descended farther
into itself. All degrees, all phases of life,
all humanity and its developments, be-
come inexhaustible material for the rep-
resentations of art.

Nevertheless, art occupies here only a
secondary place; as it is incapable of re-
vealing the content of thedogma, religion
constitutes still more its essential basis.
There is therefore preserved the priority
and superiority which faith claims over
the conceptions of the imagination.

From this there results an important
consequence and a characteristic differ-
ence for modern art. It is that in the
representation of sensuous forms art no
longer fears to admit into itself the real
with its imperfections and its faults.
The beautiful is no longer the essential
thing; the ugly occupies a much larger
place in its creations. Here, then, van-
ishes that ideal beauty which elevates
the forms of the real world above the
mortal condition, and replaces it with
blooming youth. This free vitality in
its infinite calmness — this divine breath
which animates matter — romantic art
has no longer, for essential aim, to rep-
resent these. On the contrary, it turns
its back on this culminating point of
classic beauty; it accords, indeed, to the
ugly a limitless role in its creations. It
permits all objects to pass into represen-
tation in spite of their accidental charac-
ter. Nevertheless, those objects which
are indifferent or commonplace, have
value only so far as the sentiments of i lie
soul are reflected in them. But at the

112

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

highest point of its development art ex-
presses only spirit — pure, invisible spi-
rituality. We feel that it seeks to strip
itself of all external forms, to mount into
a region superior to sense, where nothing
strikes the eye, where no sound longer
vibrates upon the ear.

Furthermore, we can say, on compar-
ing in this respect ancient with modern
art, that the fundamental trait of roman-
tic or Christian art is the musical ele-
ment, the lyric accent in poetry. The
lyric accent resounds everywhere, even
in epic and dramatic poetry. In the figu-
rative arts this characteristic makes itself
felt, as a breath of the soul and an at-
mosphere of feeling.

After having thus determined the ge-
neral character of romantic art, Hegel
studies it more in detail ; he considers it,
successively, under a two-fold point of
view, the religious and the profane; he
follows it in its development, and points
out the causes which have brought about
its decadence. He concludes by some
considerations upon the present state of
art and its future.

Let us analyze rapidly the principal
ideas contained in these chapters.

1st. As to what concerns the religious
side, which we have thus far been con-
sidering, Hegel, developing its principle,
establishes a parallel between the reli-
gious idea in classic and romantic art;
for romantic art has also its ideal, which,
as we have seen already, differs essen-
tially from the antique idea.

Greek beauty shows the soul wholly
identified with the corporeal form. In
romantic art beauty no more resides in
the idealization of the sensuous form,
but in the soul itself. Undoubtedly one
ought still to demand a certain agree-
ment between the reality and the idea;
but the determinate form is indifferent,
it is not purified from all the accidents
of real existence. The immortal gods in
presenting themselves to our eyes under
the human form, do not partake of its
wants and miseries. On the contrary,
the God of Christian art is not a solitary
God, a stranger to the conditions of mor-

tal life ; he makes himself man, and
shares the miseries and the sufferings of
humanity. The representation of reli-
gious love is the most favorable subject
for the beautiful creations of Christian
art. — Thus, in the first place, love in God
is represented by the history of Christ's
redemption, by the various phases of his
life, of his passion, of his death, and of
his resurrection. In the second place,
love in man, the union of the human
soul with God, appears in the holy fami-
ly, in the maternal love of the Virgin,
and in the love of the disciples. Finally,
love in humanity is manifested by the
spirit of the Church, that is to say, by
the Spirit of God present in the society
of the faithful, by the return of humanity
to God, death to terrestrial life, martyr-
dom, repentance and conversion, the mi-
racles and the legends.

Such are the principal subjects which
form the ground of religious art. It is
the Christian ideal in whatever in it is
most elevated. Art seizes it and seeks
to express it — but does this only imper-
fectly. Art is here necessarily surpassed
by the religious thought, and ought to
recognize its own insufficiency.

If we pass from the religious to the
profane ideal, it presents itself to us
under two different forms. The one, al-
though representing human personality,
yet develops noble and elevated senti-
ments, which combine with moral or re-
ligious ideas. The other shows us only
persons who display, in the pursuit of
purely human and positive interests, in-
dependence and energy of character.
The first is represented by chivalry.
When we come to examine the nature
and the principle of the chivalric ideal,
we see that what constitutes its content
is, in fact, personality . Here, man aban-
dons the state of inner sanctificatiou, the
contemplative for the active life. He casts
his eyes about him and seeks a theatre
for his activity. The fundamental prin-
ciple is always the same, the soul, the
human person, pursuing the infinite.
But it turns toward another sphere, that
of action and real life. The Ego is replete

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

113

with self only, with its individuality,
which, in its eyes, is of infinite value.
It attaches little importance to general
ideas, to interests, to enterprises which
have for object general order. Three
sentiments, in the main, present this per-
sonal and individual character — honor,
love, and fidelity. Moreover, separate
or united, they form, aside from the reli-
gious relationships which can be reflect-
ed in them, the true content of chivalry.

The author analyzes these three senti-
ments ; he shows in what they differ from
the analogous sentiments or qualities in
antique art. He endeavors, above all, to
prove that they represent, in fact, the
side of human personality, with its infi-
nite and ideal character. Thus honor
does not resemble bravery, which ex-
poses itself for a common cause. Honor
fights only to make itself known or re-
spected, to guarantee the inviolability of
the individual person. In like manner,
love, also, which constitutes the centre
of the circle, is only the accidental pas-
sion of one person for another person.
Even when this passion is idealized by
the imagination and ennobled by depth
of sentiment, it is not yet the ethical
bond of the family and of marriage. Fi-
delity presents the moral character in a
higher degree, since it is disinterested ;
but it is not addressed to the general
good of society in itself; it attaches itself
exclusively to the person of a master.
Chivalric fidelity understands perfectly
well, besides, how to preserve its advan-
tages and its rights, the independence
and the honor of the person, who is al-
ways only conditionally bound. The
basis of these three sentiments is, then,
free personality. This is the most beau-
ful part of the circle which is found be-
yond religion, properly so called. All
here has for immediate end, man, with
whom we can sympathize through the
side of personal independence. These
sentiments are, moreover, susceptible of
being placed in connection with religion
in a multitude of ways, as they are able
to preserve their independent character.

"This form of romantic art was devel-

Vol. 1-8.

oped in the East and in the West, but
especially in the West, that land of re-
flection, of the concentration of the spirit
upon itself. In the East was accomplish-
ed the first expansion of liberty, the first
attempt toward enfranchisement from
the finite. It was Mahometauism which
first swept from the ancient soil all idol-
atry, and religions born of the imagina-
tion. But it absorbed this internal
liberty to such a degree that the entire
world for it was effaced ; plunged in an
intoxication of ecstacy, the oriental tastes
in contemplation the delights of love,
calmness, and felicity."

3. We have seen human personality
developing itself upon the theatre of real
life, and there displaying noble, gener-
ous sentiments, such as honor, love, and
fidelity. Meanwhile it is in the sphere
of real life and of purely human interests
that liberty and independence of charac-
ter appear to us. The ideal here consists
only in energy and perseverance of will,
and passion as well as independence of
character. Religion and chivalry disap-
pear with their high conceptions, their
noble sentiments, and their thoroughly
ideal objects. On the contrary, what
characterizes the new wants, is the thirst
for the joys of the present life, the ardent
pursuit of human interests in what in
them is actual, determined, or positive.
In like manner, in the figurative arts,
man wishes objects to be represented in
their palpable and visible reality.

The destruction of classic art commen-
ced with the predominance of the agree-
able, and it ended with satire. Romantic
art ends in the exaggeration of the prin-
ciple of personality, deprived of a sub-
stantia' and moral content, and thence-
forth abandoned to caprice, to the arbi-
trary, to fancy and excess of passion.
There is left further to the imagination
of the poet only to paint forcibly and
with depth these characters ; to the tal-
ent of the artist, only to imitate the real ;
to the spirit, to exhibit its rigor in pi-
quant combinations and contrasts.

This tendency is revealed under three
principal forms: 1st, independence of in-

114

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

dividual character, pursuing its proper
ends, its particular designs, without mo-
ral or religious aim; 2d, the exaggera-
tion of the chivalric principle, and the
spirit of adventure; 3d, the separation of
the elements, the union of which consti-
tutes the very idea of art, through the
destruction of art itself — that is to say,
the predilection for common reality, the
imitation of the real, mechanical abili-
ty, caprice, fancy, and humor.

The first of these three points furnishes
to Hegel the occasion for a remarkable
estimate of the characters of Shakspeare,
which represent, in an eminent degree,
this phase of the romantic ideal. The
distinctive trait of character of the dra-
matis peisonaz of Shakspeare is, in fact,
the energy and obstinate perseverance
of a will which is exclusively devoted to
a specific end, and concentrates all its
efforts for the purpose of realizing it.
There is here no question either of reli-
gion or of moral ideas. They are char-
acters placed singly face to face with
each other, and their designs, which they
have spontaneously conceived, and the
execution of which they pursue with the
unyielding obstinacy of passion. Mac-
beth, Othello, Richard III., are such char-
acters. Others, as Eomeo, Juliet, and
Miranda, are distinguished by an absorp-
tion of soul in a unique, profound, but
purely personal sentiment, which fur-
nishes them an occasion for displaying
an admirable wealth of qualities. The
most restricted and most common still
interest us by a certain consistency in
their acts, a certain brilliancy, an en-
thusiasm, a freedom of imagination, a
spirit superior to circumstances, which
causes us to overlook whatever there is
common in their action and discourse.

But this class, where Shakspeare ex-
cels, is extremely difficult to treat. To
writers of mediocrity, the quicksand is
inevitable. They risk, in fact, falling into
the insipid, the insignificant, the trivial,
or the repulsive, as a crowd of imitators
have proven.

It has been vouchsafed only to a few
great masters to possess enough genius

and taste to seize here the true and the
beautiful, to redeem the insignificance or
vulgarity of the content by enthusiasm
and talent, by the force and energy of
their pencil, and by a profound knowl-
edge of human passions.

One of the characteristics of romantic
art is, that, in the religious sphere, the
soul, finding for itself satisfaction in it-
self, has no need to develop itself in the
external world. On the other hand, when
the religious idea no longer makes itself
felt, and when the free will is no longer
dependent except on itself, the dramatis
personam pursue aims wholly individual in
a world where all appears arbitrary and
accidental, and which seems abandoned
to itself and delivered up to chance. In
its irregular pace, it presents a compli-
cation of events which intermingle with-
out order and without cohesion.

Moreover, this is the form which events
affect in romantic, in opposition to clas-
sic art, where the actions and events are
bound to a common end, to a true and
necessary principle which determines the
form, the character, and the mode of de-
velopment of external circumstances. In
romantic art, also, we find general inter-
ests, moral ideas ; but they do not osten-
sibly determine events ; they are not the
ordering and regulating principle. These
events, on the contrary, preserve their
free course, and affect an accidental form.

Such is the character of the greater
part of the grand events in the middle
ages, the crusades, for example, which
the author names for this reason, and
which were the grand adventures of the
Christian world.

Whatever may be the judgment which
one forms upon the crusades and the dif-
ferent motives which caused them to be
undertaken, it cannot be denied, that with
an elevated religious aim — the deliver-
ance of the holy sepulchre — there were
mingled other interested and material
motives, and that the religious and the
profane aim did not contradict nor cor-
rupt the other. As to their general form,
the crusades present utter absence of
unity. They are undertaken by masses,

Hegel's Philosophy of Art.

lift

by multitudes, who enter upon a parti-
cular expedition according to their good
pleasure and their individual caprice.
The lack of unity, the absence of plan
and direction, causes the enterprises to
fail, and the efforts and endeavors are
wasted in individual exploits.

In another domain, that of profane life,
the road is open also to a crowd of ad-
venturers, whose object is more or less
imaginary, and whose principle is love,
honor, or fidelity. To battle for the glory
of a name, to fly to the succor of inno-
cence, to accomplish the most marvellous
things for the honor of one's lady, — such
is the motive of the greater part of the
beautiful exploits which the romances of
chivalry, or the poems of this epoch and
subsequent epochs, celebrate.

These vices of chivalry cause its ruin.
•We find the most faithful picture of it in
the poems of Ariosto, and Cervantes.

But what best marks the destruction of
romantic art and of chivalry is the mod-
ern romance, that form of literature
which takes their place. The romance is
chivalry applied to real life ; it is a protest
against the real ; it is the ideal in a society
where all is fixed, regulated in advance
by laws, by usages contrary to the free
development of the natural longings and
sentiments of the soul ; it is the chivalry
of common life. The same principle
which caused a search for adventures,
throws the personages into the most di-
verse and the most extraordinary situa-
tions. The imagination, disgusted with
that which is, cuts out for itself a world
according to its fancy, and ci'eates for it-
self an ideal wherein it can forget social
customs, laws, positive interests. The
young men and young women, above all,
feel the want of such aliment for the
heart, or of such distraction against ennui.
Ripe age succeeds youth ; the young man
marries and enters upon positive inter-
ests. Such is also the denotement of the
greater part of romances, where prose
succeeds poetry — the real, the ideal.

The destruction of romantic art is an-
nounced by symptoms still more strik-
ing, by the imitation of the real, and the

appearance of the humorous style, which
occupies more and more space in art and
literature. The artist and the poet can
there display much talent, enthusiasm,
and spirit; but these two styles are no
less striking indexes of an epoch of de-
cadence.

It is, above all, the humorous style
which marks this decadence, hy the ah-
sence of all fixed principle and all rule.
It is a pure play of the imagination which
combines, according to its liking, the
most different objects, alters and over-
turns relations, tortures itself to discover
novel and extraordinary conceptions.
The author places himself above the sub-
ject, regards himself as freed from all
conditions imposed by the nature of the
content as well as the form, and imagines
that all depends on his wit and the power
of his genius. It is to be observed, that
what Hegel calls the downfall of art in
general, and of romantic art in particu-
lar,, is precisely what we call the roman-
tic school in the art and literature of our
time.

Such are the fundamental forms which
art presents in its historic development.
If the art of the renaissance, or modern
art properly so called, finds no place in
this sketch, it is because it does not con-
stitute an original and fundamental form.
The renaissance is a return to Greek art ;
and as to modern art, it is allied to both
Greek and Christian.

But it remains for us to present some
conclusions upon the future destiny of art
— a point of highest interest, to which this
review of the forms and monuments of
the past must lead. The conclusions of
the author, which we shall consider else-
where, are far from answering to what
we might have expected from so remark-
able a historic picture.

What are, indeed, these conclusions?
The first is, that the r61e of art, to speak
properly, is finished— at least, its original
and distinct role. The circle of the ideas
and beliefs of humanity is completed.
Art has invested them with the forms
which it was capable of giving them. In
the future, it ought, then, to occupy a

116

Introduction to Philosophy.

secondary place. After having finished
its independent career, it becomes an ob-
scure satellite of science and philosophy,
in which are absorbed both religion and
art. This thought is not thus definitely
formulated, but it is clearly enough indi-
cated. Art, in revealing thought, has
itself contributed to the destruction of
other forms, and to its own downfall.
The new art ought to be elevated above
all the particular forms which it has
already expressed. " Art ceases to be
attached to a determinate circle of ideas
and forms ; it consecrates itself to a new
worship, that of humanity. All that the
heart of man includes within its own im-
mensity — its joys and its sufferings, its
interests, its actions, its destinies — be-
come the domain of art." Thus the con-
tent is human nature; the form, a free
combination of all the forms of the past.
We shall hereafter consider this new
eclecticism in art.

Hegel points out, in concluding, a final
form of literature and poetry, which is
the unequivocal index of the absence of

peculiar, elevated and profound ideas,
and of original forms — that sentimen-
tal poetry, light or descriptive, which
to-day floods the literary world and the
drawing-rooms with its verses ; composi-
tions without life and without content,
without originality or true inspiration;
a commonplace and vague expression of
all sentiment, full of aspirations and
empty of ideas, where, through all, there
makes itself recognized an imitation of
some illustrious geniuses — themselves
misled in false and perilous ways ; a sort
of current money, analogous to the epis-
tolary style. Everybody is poet; and
there is scarcely one true poet. "Wher-
ever the faculties of the soul and the
forms of language have received a certain
degree of culture, there is no person who
cannot, if he take the fancy, express in
verse some situation of the soul, as any
one is in condition to write a letter."

Such a style, thus universally diffused,
and reproduced under a thousand forms,
although with different shadings, easily
becomes fastidious.

INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY.

CHAPTER II.

We hope to see those necessities of thought
which underlie all Philosophical systems.
We set out to account for all the diversities
of opinion, and to see identity in the world
of thought. But necessity in the realm of
thought may be phenomenal. If there be
anything which is given out as fixed, we
must try its validity.

Many of the " impossibilities" of thought
are easily shown to rest upon ignorance of
psychological appliances. The person is not
able because he does not know how— just as
in other things. We must take care that we
do not confound the incapacity of ignorance
with the necessity of thought. (The reader
will find an example of this in Sir William
Hamilton's "Metaphysics," p. 527.) One of
those "incapacities" arises from neglecting
the following :

Among the first distinctions to be learned
by the student in philosophy is that between
the imaginative form of thinking and pure
thinking. The former is a sensuous grade

of thinking which uses images, while the
latter is a more developed stage, and is able
to think objects in and for themselves. Spi-
noza's statement of this distinction applied
to the thinking of the Infinite— his "Infini-
nitum imaginationis" and "Infinitum actu
vel rationis" — has been frequently alluded
to by those who treat of this subject.

At first one might suppose that when finite
things are the subject of thought, it would
make little difference whether the first or se-
cond form of thinking is employed. This
is, however, a great error. The Philosopher
must always "think things under the form
of eternity" if he would think the truth.

Imagination pictures objects. It represents
to itself only the bounded. If it tries to re-
alize the conception of infinitude, it repre-
sents a limited somewhat, and then Reflec-
tion or the Understanding (a form of thought
lying between Imagination and Reason)
passes beyond the limits and annuls them.
This process may be continued indefinitely,
or until Reason (or pure thinking) comes in

Introduction to Philosophy.

117

and solves the dilemma. Thus we have a
dialogue resulting' somewhat as follows :

Imagination. Come and see the Infinite
just as I have pictured it.

Understanding [peeping cautiously about
it]. Where is your frame? Ah ! I see it now
clearly. How is this ! Your frame does not
include all. There is a " beyond " to your
picture. I cannot tell whether you intend
the inside or outside for your picture of the
Infinite; I see it on both .

Imag. [tries to extend the frame, but with
the same result as before]. I believe you are
right! I am well nigh exhausted by my ef-
forts to include the unlimited.

Un. Ah ! you see the Infinite is merely
the negative of the finite or positive. It is
the negative of those conditions which you
place there in order to have any representa-
tion at all !

[While the Understanding proceeds to de-
liver a course of wise saws and moral reflec-
tions on the "inability of the Finite to grasp
the Infinite," sitting apart upon its bipod —
for tripod it has none, one of the legs being
broken — it self-complacentlyand oracularly
admonishes the human mind to cultivate
humility; Imagination drops her brush and
pencil in confusion at these words. Very
opportunely Reason steps in and takes an
impartial survey of the scene.]

Reason. Did you say that the Infinite is
unknowable?

Un. Yes. " To think is to limit, and
hence to think the Infinite is to limit it, and
thus to destroy it."

Reason. Apply your remarks to Space.
Is not Space infinite?

Un. If I attempt to realize Space I con-
ceive a bounded, but I at once perceive that
I have placed my limits within Space, and
hence my realization is inadequate. The
Infinite, therefore, seems to be a beyond to
my clear conception.

Reason. Indeed ! When you reflect on
Space, do you not perceive that it is of such
a nature that it can be limited only by itself?
Do not all its limits imply Space to exist in ?

Un. Yes, that is the difficulty.

Reason. I do not see the " difficulty." If
Space can be limited only by itself, its limit
continues it instead of bounding it. Hence
it is universally continuous or infinite.

Un. But a mere negative.

Reason. No, not a mere negative, but the
negative of all negation, and hence truly
affirmative. It is the exhibition of the utter

impossibility of any negative to it. All
attempts to limit it, continue it. It is its
own other. Its negative is itself. Here,
then, we have a truly affirmative infinite in
contradistinction to the negative infinite —
the "'infinite progress" that you and Imagi-
nation were engaged upon when I came in.

Un. What you say seems to me a distinc-
tion in words merely.

Reason. Doubtless. All distinctions are
merely in words until one has learned to
see them independent of words. But yoa
must go and mend that tripod on which
you are sitting; for how can one think at
ease and exhaustively, when he is all the
time propping up his basis from without?

Un. I cannot understand you. [Exit.]

Note. — It will be well to consider what
application is to be made of these distinc-
tions to the mind itself, whose form is con-
sciousness. In self-knowing, or conscious-
ness, the subject knows itself— it is its own
object. Thus in this phase of activity we
have the affirmative Infinite. The subject
is its own object — is continued by its other
or object. This is merely suggested here —
it will be developed hereafter.

CHAPTER III.

In the first chapter we attained — or at
least made the attempt to attain — some in-
sight into the relation which Mind bears to
Time and Space. It appeared that Mind is
a Transcendent, i.e. something which Time
and Space inhere in, rather than a some-
what, conditioned by them. Although this
result agrees entirely with the religious in-
stincts of man, which assert the immortality
of the soul, and the unsubstantiality of the
existences within Time and Space, yet, as a
logical result of thinking, it seems at first
very unreliable. The disciplined thinker
will indeed find the distinctions "ii priori"
and "a posteriori" inadequately treated;
but his emendations will only make the re-
sults there established more wide-sweeping
and conclusive.

In the second chapter we learned caution
with respect to the manner of attempting to
realize in our minds the results of thought.
If we have always been in the habit of re-
garding Mind as a property or attribute of
the individual, we have conceived it not ac-
cording to its true nature, but have allowed
Imagination to mingle its activity in the
thinking of that which is of a universal na-
ture. Thus we are prone to say to ourselves,

118

Introduction to Philosophy.

•'How can a mere attribute like Mind be
the logical condition of the solid realities of
Space and Time." In this we have quietly
assumed the whole point at issue. No sys-
tem of thinking which went to work logi-
cally ever proved the Mind to be an attri-
bute; only very elementary grades of think-
ing, which have a way of assuming in their
premises what they draw out analytically
in their conclusions, ever set up this dogma.
This will become clearer at every step as we
proceed.

We will now pursue a path similar to that
followed in the first chapter, and see what
more we can learn of the nature of Mind.
We will endeavor to learn more definitely
what constitutes its a priori activity, in or-
der, as there indicated, to achieve our object.
Thus our present search is after the "Cate-
gories" and their significance. Taking the
word " category" here in the sense of " a
priori determination of thought," the first
question is: "Do any categories exist? Are
there any thoughts which belong to the na-
ture of mind itself?" It is the same ques-
tion that Locke discusses under the head of
"Innate Ideas."

I. — "Every act of knowing or cognizing
is the translating of an unknown somewhat
into a known, as a scholar translates a new
language into his own." If he did not al-
ready understand one language, he could
never translate the new one. In the act of
knowing, the object becomes known in so
far as I am able to recognize predicates as
belonging to it. " This js red"; unless I
know already what "red" means, I do not
cognize the object by predicating red of it.
"Red is a color"; unless 1 know what color
means, I have not said anything intelligible
— I have not expressed an act of cognition.
The object becomes known to us in so far
as we recognize its predicates — and hence „
we could never know anything unless we
had at least one predicate or conception
with which to commence. If we have one
predicate through which we cognize some
object, that act of cognition gives us a new
predicate, for it has dissolved or "translat-
ed" a somewhat, that before ■* as unknown,
into a known; the "not-me" has, to that
extent," become the "me." Without any
predicates to begin with, all objects would
remain forever outside of our consciousness.
Even consciousness itself would be impossi-
ble, for the very act of self-cognition implies
that the predicate "myself" is well known.

It is an act of identification : "I am myself";
the subject is, as predicate, completely
known, or dissolved back into the subject.
I cognize myself as myself; there is no alien
element left standing over against me. Thus
we are able to say that there must be an a
priori category in order to render possible
any act of knowing whatever. Moreover, we
see that this category must be identical with
the Ego itself, for the reason that the process
of cognition is at the same time a recogni-
tion; it predicates only what it recognizes.
Thus, fundamentally, in knowing, Reason
knows itself. Self-consciousness is the basis
of knowledge. This will throw light on the
first chapter ; but let us first confirm this
position by a psychological analysis.

II. — What is the permanent element in
thought? It can easily be found in lan-
guage — its external manifestation. Logic
tells us that the expression of thought
involves always a subject and predicate.
Think what you please, say what you please,
and your thought or assertion consists of a
subject and predicate— positive or negative
—joined by the copula, is. " Man lives" is
equivalent to "man is living." "Man" and
"living" are joined by the word "is." If
we abstract all content from thought, and
take its pure form in order to see the per-
manent, we shall have "is" the copula, —
or, putting a letter for subject and attri-
bute, we shall have "a is a" (or "a is 6")
for the universal form of thought. The men-
tal act is expressed by "is." In this empty
" is" we hav9 the category of pure Being,
which is the " summum genus" of catego-
ries. Any predicate other than being will be
found to contain being plus determinations,
and hence can be subsumed under being.
We shall get new light on this subject if we
examine the ordinary doctrine of explana-
tion.

III. — In order to explain something, we
subsume it under a more general. Thus we
say, "Horse is an animal"; and. "An animal
is an organic being," etc. A definition con-
tains not only this subsumption, but also
a statement of the specific difference. We
define quadruped by subsuming it ("It is an
animal"), and giving the specific difference
("which has four feet").

As we approach the •' summum genus,"
the predicates beco'ine more and more emp-
ty; "they become more extensive in their
application, and less comprehensive in their
content." Thus they approach pure sim-

Introduction to Philosophy.

119

plicity, which is attained in the " suminun
genus." This pure simple, which is the lim-
it of subsumption and abstraction, is pure
Being — Being devoid of all determinateness.
When we have arrived at Being, subsuming
becomes simple identifying — Being is Being,
or a is a — and this is precisely the same ac-
tivity that we found self-consciousness to
consist of in our first analysis (i. ), and the
same activity that we found all mental acts
to consist of in our second analysis (n.)

IV. — Therefore, we may affirm on these
grounds, that the " summuin genus/' or
primitive category, is the Ego itself in its
simplest activity as the "is" (or pure Being,
if taken substantively).

Thus it happens that when the Mind
comes to cognize an object, it must first of
all recognize itself in it in its simplest acti-
vity — it must know that the object is. We
•cannot know anything else of an object
without presupposing the knowledge of its
■existence.

At this point it is evident that this cate-
gory is not derived from experience in the
sense of an impression from without. It is
the activity of the Ego itself, and is its (the
Ego's) first self-externalization (or its first
becoming object to itself — its first act of
self-consciousness). The essential activity
of the Ego itself consists in recognizing it-
self, and this involves self-separation, and
then the annulling of this separation in
the same act. For in knowing rnyself as
an object I separate the Ego from itself, but
in the very act of knowing it 1 make it iden-
tical again. Here are two negative proces-
ses involved in knowing, and tbese are indi-
visibly one : first, the negative act of separa-
tion; secondly, the negative act of annulling
the separation by the act of recognition.
That the application of categories to the ex-
ternal world is a process of self-recognition,
is now clear: we know, in so far as we re-
cognize predicates in the object ; we say,
" The Rose is, it is red, it is round, it is fra-
grant," &c. In this we separate what belongs
to the rose from it, and place it outside of
it, and then, through the act of predication,
unite it again. "The Rose is" contains mere-
ly the recognition of being; but being is se-
parated from it, and joined to it in the act of
predication. Thus we see that the funda-
mental act of self-consciousness, which is a
self-separation and self-identification united
in one act of recognition, — v e see that this
fundamental act is repeated in all acts oi

knowing. We do not know even the rose
without separating it from itself, and iden-
tifying the two sides thus formed. (This
contains a deeper thought, which we may
suggest here. That the act of knowing puts
all objects into this crucible, is an intima-
tion on its part that no object can possess
true, abiding being without this ability to
separate itself from itself in the process of
self-identification. Whatever cannot do this
is no essence, but may be only an element
of a process in which it ceaselessly loses its
identity. But we shall recur to this again.)
Doubtless we could follow out this activi-
ty through various steps, and deduce all the
categories of pure thought. This is what
Plato has done in part, what Fichte has
done in his Science of Knowledge ("Wissen-
schaftslehre.") and Hegel in his Logic. A
science of these pure intelligibles unlocks
the secret of the Universe; it furnishes that
" Royal Road" to all knowledge; it is the
far-famed Philosopher's Stone that alone
can transmute the base dross of mere talent
into genius.

V. — Let us be content if at the close of this
chapter we can affirm still more positively
the conclusions of our first. Through a con-
sideration of the a priori knowledge of Time
and Space, and their logical priority, as con-
ditions, to the world of experience, we in-
ferred the transcendency of Mind. Upon
further investigation, we have now discov-
ered that there are other forms of the Mind
more primordial than Space and Time, and
more essentially related to its activity ; for
all the categories of pure thought— Being,
Negation, &c— are applicable to Space and
to Time, and hence more universal than
either of them alone; these categories of
pure thought, moreover, as before remark-
ed, could never have been derived from ex-
perience. Experience is not possible with-
out presupposing these predicates. "They
are the tools of intelligence through which
it cognizes." If we hold by this stand-point
exclusively, we may say, with Kant, that
we furnish the subjective forms in knowing,
and for this reason cannot know the "thing
in itself." If these categories an' merely sub-
jective— i.e. given in the constitution of the
Mind itself— and we do not know what the
"thing in itself" may be, yet we can come
safely out of all skepticism here by con-
sidering the universal nature of these cate-
gories or "forms of the mind." For if Be-
ing, Negation, and Existence, are forms of

120

Introduction to Philosophy .

mind and purely subjective, so that they do
not belong to the "thing in itself," it is evi-
dent that such an object cannot be or exist,
or in any way have validity, either positive-
ly or negatively. Thus it is seen from the
nature of mind here exhibited, that Mind is
the noumenon or "thing in itself" which
Philosophy seeks, and thus our third chap-
ter confirms our first.

Note. — The Materialism of the present
day holds that thought is a modification of
force, correlated with heat, light, electricity,
«fcc. ; in short, that organization produces
ideas. If so, we are placed within a narrow
idealism, and can only say of what is held
for truth: "lam so correlated as to hold
this view ; I shall be differently correlat-
ed to-morrow, perhaps, and hold another
view." Yet in this very statement the Ego
takes the stand-point of universality — it
speaks of possibilities— which it could never
do were it merely a correlate. For to hold
a possibility is to be able to annul in thought
the limits of the real, and hence to elevate
itself to the point of universality. But this
is aei/-correlation; we have a movement in a
circle, and hence self-origination, and hence
a spontaneous fountain of force. The Mind,
in conceiving of the possible, annuls the real,
and thus creates its own motives; its acting
according to motives, is thus acting accord-
ing to its own acts — an obvious circle again.

In fine, it is evident that the idealism which
the correlationist logically falls into is as
strict as that of any school of professed ide-
alism which he is in the habit of condemn-
ing. The persistent force is the general idea
of force, not found as any real force, for each
real force is individualized in some particu-
lar way. But it is evident that a particular
force cannot be correlated with force in gen-
eral, but only with a special form like itself.
But the general force is the only abiding
one; each particular one is in a state of tran-
sition into another — a perpetual losing of
individuality. Hence the true abiding force
is not areal one existing objectively, but
only an ideal one existing subjectively in
thought. But through the fact that thought
can seize the true and abiding which can
exist for itself nowhere el^e, the correlation-
ist is bound to infer the transcendency of
Mind just like the idealist. Nay, more;
when he comes to speak considerately, he
will say that Mind, for the very reason that
it thinks the true, abiding force, cannot be
correlated with any determined force.

CHAPTER IV.

Philososophers usually begin to construct
their systems in full view of their final prin-
ciple. It would be absurd for one to com-
mence a demonstration if he had no clear
idea of what he intended to prove. From
the final principle the system must be work-
ed back to the beginning in the philosopher's
mind before he can commence his demon-
stration. Usually, the order of demonstra-
tion which he follows is not the order of dis-
covery; in such case, his system proceeds
by external reflections. All mathemathical
proof is of this order. One constructs his
demonstration to lead from the known to
the unknown, and ust s many intermediate
propositions that do not of necessity lead
to the intended result. With another theo-
rem in view, they might be used for steps
to that, just as well. But there is a certain
inherent development in all subjects, when
examined according to the highest method,
that will lead one on to the exhaustive expo-
sition of all that is involved therein. This
is called the dialectic. This dialectic move-
ment cannot be used as a philosophic instru-
ment, unless one has seen the deepest apercu
of Science ; if this is not the case, the dialec"
tic will prove merely destructive, and not
constructive. It is therefore a mistake, as
has been before remarked, to attempt to in-
troduce the beginner of the study of Philo-
sophy at once into the dialectic. The con-
tent of Philosophy must be first presented
under its sensuous and reflective forms, and
a gradual progress established. In this chap-
ter an attempt will be made to approach
again the ultimate principle which we have
hitherto fixed only in a general manner as
Mind. We will use the method of external
reflection, and demonstrate three proposi-
tions: 1. There is an independent being;
2. That being is selRletermined; 3. Self-
determined being is in the form of person-
ality, i.e. is an Ego.

I. — 1. Dependent being, implying its comple-
ment upon which it depends, cannot be explained
through itself, but through that upon which it
depends.

2. This being upon which it depends cannot
be also a dependent beinpr, for the dependent be-
ing has no support of its own to lend to another;
all that it has is borrowed. "A chain of depend,
ent beings collapses into one dependent being.
Dependence is not converted into independence
by mere multiplication."

3. The dependent, therefore, depends upon the

Introduction to Philosophy.

121

independent and has its explanation in it. Since
all being is of one kind or the other, it follows
that all being is independent, or a complemental
element of it. Reciprocal dependence makes an
independent including whole, which is the nega-
tive unity.

Definition. — One of the most important imple-
ments of the thinker is the comprehension of "neg-
ative unity." It is a unity resulting from the re-
ciprocal cancelling of elements ; e.g. Salt is the
negative unity of acid and alkali. It is called
negative because it negates the independence of
^he elements within it. In the negative unity Wa-
ter. the elements oxygen and hydrogen have their
independence negated .

II. — 1 . The independent being cannot exist
without determinations. Without these, it could
not distinguish itself or be distinguished from
nought.

2. Nor can the independent being be determined
(i.e. limited or modified in any way) from with-
out, or through another. For all that is deter-
mined through another is a dependent some-
what.

3. Hence the independent being can be only a
self-determined. If self-determined, it can exist
through itself.

Note. — Spinoza does not arrive at the third
position, but, after considering the second, arrives
at the first one, and concludes, since determina-
tion through another makes a somewhat finite,
that the independent being must be undetermined.
He does not happen to discover that there is an-
other kind of determination, to-wit, self-determin-
ation, which can consist with independence. The
method that he uses makes it entirely an acciden-
tal matter with him that he discovers what specu-
lative results he does — the dialectic method would
lead inevitably to self-determination, as we shall
see later. It is Hegel's apercu that we have in
the third position ; with Spinoza the independent
being remained an undetermined substance, but
with Hegel it became a self-determining subject.
All that Spinoza gets out of his substance he must
get in an arbitrary manner ; it does not follow
from its definition that it shall have modes and
attributes, but the contrary. This apercu — that
the independent being, i.e. every really existing,
separate entity is self-determined — is the central
point of speculative philosophy. What self-deter-
mination involves, we shall see next.

HI- — 1- Self-determination implies that the
constitution or nature be self-originated. There
is nothing about a self-determined that is created
by anything without.

2. Thus self-determined being exists dually

it is (a) as determining, and (b) as determined,
(a) As determining, it is the active, which con-
tains merely the possibility of determinations; (b)
as determined, it is the passive result — the matter
upon which the subject acts.

3. But since both are the same being, each side
returns into itself: (a) as determining or active,
it acts only upon its own determining, and (b) as
passive or determined, it is, as result of the for-
mer, the self-same active itself. Hence its move-
ment is a movement of self-recognition — a positing
of distinction which is cancelled in the same act.
(In self-recognition something is made an object,
and identified with the subject in the same act.)
Moreover, the determiner, on account of its pure
generality, (i.e. its having no concrete determin-
ations as yet,) can only be ideal — can only exist
as the Ego exists, in thought ; not as a thing, but
as a generic entity. The passive side can exist
only as the self exists in consciousness — as that
which is in opposition and yet in identity at the
same time. No finite existence could endure this
contradiction, for all such must possess a nature
or constitution which is self-determined ; if not,
each finite could negate all its properties and qua-
lities, and yet remain itself— just as the person
does when he makes abstraction of all, in think-
ing of the Ego or pure self.

Thus we find again our former conclusion : —
All finite or dependent things must originate in
and depend upon independent or absolute being,
which must be an Ego. The Ego has the form
of Infinitude (see Chap. II. — The Infinite is its
own Other).

Resume'. — The first chapter states the premises
which Kant lays down in his Transcendental
^Esthetic (Kritik der Reinen Vernunft), and draws
the true logical conclusions, which are positive,
and not negative, as he makes them. The second
chapter gives the Spinozan distinction of the In-
finite ^f the Imagination and Infinite of Reason.
The third chapter gives the logical results which
Kant should have drawn from his Transcenden-
tal Logic. The fourth chapter gives Spinoza's
fundamental position logically completed, and is
the great fundamental position of Plato, Aristotle,
and Hegel, with reference to the Absolute.

( 122 )

MUSIC AS A FORM OF ART.

Read be/ore the St. Louis Art Society, February, 1867.

I. Upon Art-Criticism.

A work of art is the product of the inspired
moment of the artist. It is not to be supposed
that he is able to give an account of his work
in the terms of the understanding. Hence the
artist is not in a strict sense a critic. The high-
est order of criticism must endeavor to exhibit
the unity of the work by showing how the va-
rious motives unfold from the central thought.
Of course, the artist must be rare who can see
his work doubly — first sensuously, and then ra-
tionally. Only some Michael Angelo or Goethe
can do this. The common artist sees the sensuous
form as the highest possible revelation — to him
his feeling is high'er than the intellectual vision.
And can we not all — critics as well as artists —
sympathize with the statement, that the mere
calculating intellect, the cold understanding,
"all light and no heat," can never rise into the
realm where art can be appreciated? It is only
when we contemplate the truly speculative in-
tellect — which is called "love" by the mystics,
and by Swedenborg "love and wisdom united
in a Divine Essence" — that we demur at this
supreme elevation of feeling or sentiment. The
art critic must have all Hie feeling side of his
nature aroused, as the first condition of his in-
terpretation ; and, secondly, he must be able to
dissolve into thought the emotions which arise
from that side. If feeling were more exalted
than thought, this would be impossible. Such,
however, is the view of such critics as the Schle-
gels, who belong to the romantic school. They
say that the intellect considers only abstrac-
tions, while the heart is affected by the con-
crete whole. "Spectres and goitred dwarfs"
for the intellect, but "beauty's rose" for the
feeling heart. But this all rests on a misunder-
standing. The true art critic does not under-
value feeling. It is to him the essential basis
upon which he builds. Unless the work of art
affects his feelings, he has nothing to think
about; he can go no further; the work, to
him, is not a work of art at all. But if he is
aroused and charmed by it, if his emotional
nature is stirred to its depths, and he feels in-
spired by those spiritual intimations of Eter-
nity which true art always excites, then he has
a content to work upon, and this thinking of
his amounts simply to a recognition, in other
forms, of this eternal element that glows
through the work of art.

Hence there is no collision between the artist
and the critic, if both are true to their ideal.

It certainly is no injury to the work of art to

show that it treats in some form the Problem
of Life, which is the mystery of the Christian
religion. It is no derogation to Beethoven to
show how he has solved a problem in music,
just as Shakspeare in poetry, and Michael An-
gelo in painting. Those who are content with
the mere feeling, we must always respect if they
really have the true art feeling, just as we re-
spect the simple piety of the uneducated peas-
ant. But we must not therefore underrate the
conscious seizing of the same thing-— not place
St. Augustine or Martin Luther below the sim-
ple-minded peasant. Moreover, as our society
has for its aim the attainment of an insight into
art in general, and not the exclusive enjoyment
of any particular art, it is all the more import-
ant that we should hold by the only connect-
ing link — the only universal element — thought.
For thought has not only universal content, \ike
feeling, but also universal form, which feeling
has not.

Another reason that causes persons to object
to art interpretation, is perhaps that such inter-
pretation reminds them of the inevitable moral
appended ad nauseam to the stories that delight-
ed our childhood. But it must be remembered
that these morals are put forward as the object
of the stories. The art critic can never admit
for one moment that it is the object of a work
of art simply to be didactic. It is true that all
art is a means of culture ; but that is not its ob-
ject. Its object is to combine the idea with a
sensuous form, so as to embody, as it were, the
Infinite ; and any motive external to the work
of art itself, is at once felt to be destructive to it.

H. Upon the Interpretation of Art.

1. The Infinite is not manifested ivithin any
particular sphere of finitude, but rather exhib-
its itself in the collision of a Finite with another
Finite without it. For a Finite must by its very
nfture be limited from without, and the Infi-
nite, therefore, not only includes any given
finite sphere, but also its negation (or the other
spheres which, joined to it, makeup the whole).

2. Art is the manifestation of the Infinite in
the Finite, it is said. Therefore, this must mean
that art has for its province the treatment of the
collisions that necessarily arise between one
finite sphere and another.

3. In proportion as the collision portrayed by
art is comprehensive, and a type of all collisions
in the universe, is it a high work of art. If,
then, the collision is on a small scale, and be-
tween low spheres, it is not a high work of art.

Music as a Form of Art.

123

4. But whether the collision presented be of
a high order or of a low order, it bears a gene-
ral resemblance to every other collision — the
Infinite is always like itself in all its manifesta-
tions. The lower the collision, the more it be-
comes merely symbolical as a work of art, and
the less it adequately represents the Infinite.

Thus the lofty mountain peaks of Bierstadt,
which rise up into the regions of clearness and
sunshine, beyond the realms of change, do this
only because of a force that contradicts gravita-
tion, which continually abases them. The con-
trast of the high with the low, of the clear and
untrammelled with the dark and impeded, sym-
bolizes, in the most natural manner, to every
one, the higher conflicts of spirit. It strikes a
chord that vibrates, unconsciously perhaps,
but, nevertheless, inevitably. On the other
hand, when we take the other extreme of paint-
ing, and look at the " Last Judgment" of Mi-
chael Angelo, or the "Transfiguration" of Ra-
phael , we find comparatively no ambiguity ;
there the Infinite is visibly portrayed, and the
collision iu which it is displayed is evidently of
the highest order.

5. Art, from its definition, must relate to Time
and Space, and, in proportion as the grosser
elements are subordinated and the spiritual
adequately manifested, we find that we ap-
proach a form of art wherein the form and mat-
ter are both the products of spirit.

Thus we have arts whose matter is taken
from (a) Space, (b) Time, and (c) Language (the
product of Spirit).

Space is the grossest material. We have on
its plane, I. Architecture, II. Sculpture, and
III. Painting. (In the latter, color and perspec-
tive give the artist power to represent distance
and magnitude, and internality, without any
one of them in tact. Upon a piece of ivory no
larger than a man's hand, a "Heart of the An-
des" might be painted.) In Time we have IV.
Music; while in Language we have V. Poetry
(in the three forms^of Epic, Lyric, and Drama-
tic) as the last and highest of the forms of art.

6. An interpretation of a work of art should
consist of a translation of it into the form of
science. Hence, first, one must seize the gene-
ral content of it — or the collision portrayed.
Theu, secondly, the form of art employed comes
in, whether it be Architecture, Sculpture,
Painting, Music, or Poetry. Thirdly, the re-
lation which the content has to the form brings
out the superioi merits, or the limits and de-
fects, of the work of art in question. Thus, at
the end, we have universalized the piece of art
— digested it, as it were. A true interpretation
does not destroy a work of art, but rather fur-
nishes a guide to its highest enjoyment. We
have the double pleasure of immediate sensu-
ous enjoyment produced by the artistic execu-

tion, and the higher one of finding our rational
nature mirrored therein, so that we recognize
the eternal nature of Spirit there manifested.

7. The peculiar nature of music, as < treated

with other arts, will, if exhibited, besl prepare
us for what we are to expect from it. The less
definitely the mode of art allows its content to
be seized, the wider may be its application.
Landscape painting may have a very wide scope
for its interpretation, while a drama of Goethe
or Shakspeare definitely seizes the particulars
of its collision, and leaves no doubt as to its
sphere So in the art of music, and especially
instrumental music. Music docs not portray
an object directly, like the plastic arts, but it
calls up the internal feeling which is caused by
the object itself. It gives us, therefore, a re-
flection of our impressions excited in the imme-
diate contemplation of the object. Thus we
have a reflection of a reflection, as it were.

Since its material is Time rather than Space,
we have this contrast with the plastic arts : —
Architecture, and more especially Sculpture
and Painting, are obliged to select a special
moment of time for the representation of the
collision. As Goethe shows in the Laokoon, it
will not do to select a moment at random, but
that point of time must be chosen in which the
collision has reached its height, and in which
there is a tension of all the elements that enter
the contest on both sides. A moment earlier,
or a moment later, some of these elements
would be eliminated from the problem, and the
comprehensiveness of the work destroyed.
When this proper moment is seized in Sculp-
ture, as in the Laokoon, we can see what has
been before the present moment, ami easily tell
what will come later. In Painting, through the
fact that coloring enables more subtle effects to
be wrought out, and deeper internal move-
ments to be brought to the surface, we are not
so closely confined to the "supreme moment"
as in Sculpture. But it is in Music that we first
get entirely free from that which confines the
plastic arts. Since its form is time, it can con-
vey the whole movement of the collision from
its inception to its conclusion. Hence Music is
superior to the Arts of Space in that it can por-
tray the internal creative process, rather than
the lead results. It gives U8 the content, in its
whole process of development, in a fluid form,
while the Sculptor must fix it in a rigid form
at a certain stage. Goethe and others have
compared Music to Architecture— the latter is
"frozen Music"; but they have not compared
it to Sculpture nor Painting, for the reason thai
in these two arts there is a possibility of seiz-
ing the form of the in dividual more definitely,
while in Architecture and Music tin- point of
repose does not appear as the human form, but
only as the more general one of self-relation or

124

Music as a Form of Art.

harmony. Thus quantitative ratios — mathe-
matical laws— pervade and govern these two
forms of Art.

8. Music, more definitely considered, arises
from vibrations, producing waves in the atmo-
sphere. The cohesive attraction of some body
is attacked, and successful resistance is made;
if not, there is no vibration. Thus the feeling
of victory over a foreign foe is conveyed in the
most elementary tones, and this is the distinc-
tion of tone from noise, in which there is the ir-
regularity of disruption, and not the regularity
of self-equality.

Again, in the obedience of the whole musical
structure to its fundamental scale-note, we have
something like the obedience of Architecture
to Gravity. In order to make an exhibition of
Gravity, a column is necessary; for the solid wall
does not isolate sufficiently the function of sup-
port. With the column we can have exhibited
the effects of Gravity drawing down to the
earth , and of the support holding up the shel-
ter. The column in classic art exhibits the equi-
poise of the two tendencies. In Romantic or
Gothic Architecture it exhibits a preponderance
of the aspiring tendency — the soaring aloft like
the plant to reach the light — a contempt for mere
gravity — slender columns seeming to be let
down from the roof, and to draw up something
rather than to support anything. On the other
hand, in Symbolic Architecture (as found in
Egypt), we have the overwhelming power of
gravity exhibited so as to crush out all huma-
nity—the Pyramid, in whose shape Gravity has
done its work. In Music we have continually
the conflict of these two tendencies, the upward
and downward. The Music that moves upward
and shows its ground or point of repose in the
octave above the scale-note of the basis, corre-
sponds to the Gothic Architecture. This aspir-
ing movement occurs again and again in chorals ;
it, like all romantic art, expresses the Chris-
tian solution of the problem of life .

III. Beethoven's Sonata in C sharp mi-
nor. (Opus 27, No. 2.)

The three movements of this sonata, which
Beethoven called a/antasie-sonata, are not ar-
ranged in the order commonly followed. Usu-
ally sonatas begin with an allegro or some quick
movement, and pass over to a slow movement
— an adagio or andante — and end in a quick
movement. The content here treated could not
allow this form, and hence it commences with
what is usually the second movement. Its or-
der is, 1. Adagio, 2. Allegretto, 3. Finale (presto
agitato).

(My rule with reference to the study of art
may or may not be interesting to others ; it is
this : alway s to select a master-piece, so recog-
nized, and keep it before me until it yields its

secret, and in its light I am able to see common-
place to be what it really it is, and be no longer
dazzled by it. It requires faith in the com-
monly received verdict of critics and an im-
mense deal of patience, but in the end one is
rewarded for his pains. Almost invariably, I
find immediate impressions of uncultured per-
sons good for nothing. It requires long fami-
liarity with the best things to learn to see them
in their true excellence.)

This sonata is called by the Austrians the
"Moonlight Sonata," and this has become the
popular name in America. It is said to have
been written by Beethoven when he was recov-
ering from the disappointment of his hopes in
a love-episode that had an unfortunate termina-
tion. (See Marx's "L. v. Beethoven, Leben
und Schaffen." From this magnificent work
of Art-Criticism, 1 have drawn the outlines of
the following interpretation.) The object of
his affection was a certain young countess, Ju-
lia Guicciardi ; and it appears from Beethoven's
letter to a friend at the time (about 1800), that
the affection was mutual, but their difference in
rank prevented a marriage. When this sonata
appeared (in 1802) it was inscribed to her.

Adagio. — The first movement is a soft, float-
ing movement, portraying the soul musing upon
a memory of what has affected it deeply. The
surrounding is dim, as seen in moonlight, and
the soul is lit up by a reflected light — a glowing
at the memory of a bliss that is past. It is not
strange that this has been called the Moonlight
Sonata, just for this feeling of borrowed light
that pervades it. As we gaze into the moon
of memory, we almost forget the reflection, and
fancy that the sun of immediate consciousness
is itself present. But anon a flitting cloudlet
(a twinge of bitter regret) obscures the pale
beam, or a glance at the landscape — not painted
now with colors as in the day-time, but only
clare-obscure — brings back to us the sense of our
separation from the day and the real. Sadly
the soft, gliding movement'eontinues. and dis-
tant and more distant grows the prospect of
experiencing again the remembered happiness.
Only for a passing moment can the throbbing
soul realize in its dreams once more its full
completeness, and the plaintive minor changes
to major ; but the spectral form of renunciation
glides before its face, and the soul subsides
into its grief, and yields to what is inevitable.
Downward into the depths fall its hopes; only
a sepulchral echo comes from the bass, and all
is still. Marx calls this " The Song of the Re-
nouncing Soul." It is filled with the feeling of
separation and regret ; but its slow, dreamy
movement is not that of stern resolution which
should accompany renunciation. Accordingly,
we have — Allegretto.

The present and real returns; we no longer

Music as a Form of Art.

125

dwell on the past; "We must separate; only
this is left." In this movement we awake from
the dream, and we feel the importance of the
situation. Its content is ''Farewell, then!" —
the phrase expressing this, lingers in its striv-
ing to shake off the grasp and get free. The
hands will not let go each other. The phrase
runs into the next and back to itself, and will
not be cut off. In the trio, there seems to be
the echoing of sobs that come from the depths
of the soul as the sorrowful words are repeat-
ed. The buried past still comes back and holds
up its happy hours, while the shadows of the
gloomy future hover before the two renun-
ciants!

This movement is very short, and is followed
by the Finale (presto agitato).

"Mo grief of the s»ul that can be conquered
except through action," says Goethe — and Bee-
thoven expresses the same conviction in the
somewhat sentimental correspondence with the
fair countess. This third movement depicts the
soul endeavoring to escape from itself, to can-
cel its individualism through contact with the
real.

The first movement found the being of the
soul involved with another— having, as it were,
lost its essence. If the being upon which it
depends reflects it back by a reciprocal depend-
ence, it again becomes integral and independ-
ent. This cannot be ; hence death or renun-
ciation. But renunciation leaves the soul re-
coiling upon its finitude, and devoid of the
universality it would have obtained by receiv-
ing its being through another which recipro-
cally depended upon it. Hence the necessity
of Goethe's and Beethoven's solution— the soul
must find surcease of sorrow through action,
through will, or practical self-determination.
Man becomes universal in his deed.

How fiercely the soul rushes into the world
of action in this Finale ! In its impetuosity it
storms through life, and ever and anon falls
down breathless before the collision which it
encounters in leaping the chasms between the
different spheres. In its swoon of exhaustion
there comes up from the memory of the past
the ghost of the lost love that has all the while
accompanied him, though unnoticed, in his
frantic race Its hollow tones reverberate
through his being, and he starts from his dream
and drowns his memory anew in the storm of
action. At times we are elevated to the crea-
tive moment of the artist, and feel its inspira-
tion and lofty enthusiasm; but again and again
the exhausted soul collapses, and the same
abysmal crash comes in at the bass each time.
The grimmest loneliness, that touches to the
core, comes intruding itself upon our rapture.
Only in the contest with the "last enemy" we
feel at length that the soul has proved itself

valid in a region where distinctions of rank
sunder and divide no more.

This solution is not quite so satisfactory as
coidd be desired. If we would realize the high-
est solution, we must study the Fifth Sympho-
ny, especially its second movement.

IV. Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.
(Part II.)

Marx finds in this symphony the problem so
often treated by Beethoven — the collision of
freedom with fate. "Through night to day,
through strife to victory !" Beethoven, in his
conversation with Schindler, speaking of the
first " motive" at the beginning, said, " Thus
Fate knocks at the door." This knocking of
Fate comes in continually during the first move-
ment. " We have an immense struggle por-
trayed. Life is a struggle -this seems to be the
content of this movement." The soul finds a
solution to this, and sings its pasan of joy.

In the second movement {andante) we have
an expression of the more satisfactory solution
of the Problem of Life, which we alluded to
when speaking of the Sonata above.

It ("the storm-tossed soul") has in that con-
soling thought reached the harbor of infinite
rest — infinite rest in the sense of an "activity
which is a true repose."

The soul has found this solution, and repeats
it over to assure itself of its reality (1,1,1,7,
1, 2, 1 — these are the notes which express it.)
Then it wishes to make the experience of the
universality of this solution — it desires to try
its validity in all the spheres where Fate ruled
previously. It sets out and ascends the scale
three steps at a time (5, 1, 1, 2, 3 — 1, 3, 3, 4, 5);
it reaches 5 of the scale, and ought to reach 8
the next time. It looks up to it as the celestial
sun which Gothic Architecture points toward
and aspires after. Could it only get there, it
would find true rest ! But its command of this
guiding thought is not yet quite perfect — it can
not wield it so as to fly across the abyss, and
reach that place of repose without a leap — a
"mortal leap." For the ascent by threes has
reached a place where another three would
bring it to 7 of the scale — the point of absolute
unrest; to step four, is to contradict the rhythm
or method of its procedure. It pauses, there-
fore, upon 5 ; it tries the next three thought-
fully twice, and then, hearing below once more
the mocking tones of Fate, it springs over the
chasm and clutches the support above, while
through all the spheres there rings the sound
of exultation.

But to reach the goal by a leap — to have no
bridge across the gulf at the end of the road —
is not a satisfactory solution of the difficulty.
Hence we have a manifold endeavor — a striving
to get at the true method, which wanders at

126

The Alchemists.

first in the darkness, but comes at length to the
light; it gets the proper form for its idea, and
gives up its unwieldy method of threes (1, 2, 3
— 3, 4, 5), and ascends by the infinite form of
1, 3, 5 — 3, 5, 8 — 5, 8, 3, &c, which gives it a
complete access to, and control over, all above
and below.

The complete self-equipoise expressed in that
solution which comes in at intervals through the

whole, and the bold application of the first me-
thod, followed by the faltering when it comes
to the defect — the grand exultation over the
final discovery of the true method — all these are
indescribably charming to the lover of music
almost the first time he listens to this sympho-
ny, and they become upon repetition more and
more suggestive of the highest that art can
give.

THE ALCHEMISTS.*

We have referred in a previous article to
the transition of Religion into Speculative
Philosophy. The Mystics who present this
phase of thought, "express themselves, not
in those universal categories that the Spirit
of the race has formed in language for its ut-
terance, but they have recourse to symbols
more or less ambiguous, and of insufficient
universality to stand for the Archetypes
themselves." The Alchemists belong to
this phase of spirit, and we propose to draw
from the little book named at the head of our
article, some of the evidences of this posi-
tion. It is there shown that, instead of the
transmutation of metals, the regeneration
of man was in view. Those much-abused
men agreed that "The highest wisdom con-
sists in this," (quoting from the Arabic
author, Alipili,) "for man to know himself,
because in him God has placed his eternal
Word, by which all things were made and
upheld, to be his Light and Life, by which
he is capable of knowing all things, both in
time and eternity." While they claim expli-
citly to have as object of their studies the
mysteries of Spirit, they warn the reader
against taking their remarks upon the met-
als in a literal sense , and speak of those who
do so as being in error. They describe their
processes in such a way as to apply to man
alone; pains seem to have been taken to word
their descriptions so as to be utterly absurd
when applied to anything else. In speaking
of the "Stone," they refer to three states,
calling them black, white, and red; giving
minute descriptions of each, so as to leave
no doubt that man is represented, first, as
in a "fallen condition"; secondly, in a "re-
penting condition"; and thirdly, as "made
perfect through grace." This subordination

of the outer to the inner, of the body to the
soul, is the constantly recurring theme. In-
stead of seeking a thing not yet found —
which would be the case with a stone for
the transmutation of metals — they agree in
describing the "Stone" as already known.
They refer constantly to such speculative
doctrines as " Nature is a whole every-
where," showing that their subject possess-
es universality. This metal or mineral is
described thus: " Minerals have their roots
in the air, their heads and tops in the earth.
Our Mercury is aerial ; look for it, therefore,
in the air and the earth." The author of
the work from which we quote the passage,
says by way of comment: "In this passage
'Minerals' and 'our Mercury' refer to the
same thing, and it is the subject of Alche-
my, the Stone; and we may remember that
Plato is said to have defined or described
Man as a growth, having his root in the
air, his tops in the earth. Man walks indeed
upon the surface of the earth, as if nothing
impeded his vision of heaven; but he walks
nevertheless at the bottom of the atmo-
sphere, and between these two, his root in
air, he must work out his salvation." A
great number of these "Hermetic writers"
established their reputation for wit and wis-
dom by discoveries in the practical world,
and it is difficult to believe that such men as
Roger Bacon, Van Helmont, Ramond Lulli,
Jerome Cardan, Geber ("the Wise"), Avi-
cenna, Albertus Magnus, Thomas Aquinas,
and others not inferior, could have deceived
themselves as the modern theory implies,
viz., that they were searching a chemical
recipe for the manufacture of gold. The
symbolic form of statement was esteemed
at that time as the highest form of popular

* " Remarks upon Alchemy and the Alchemists, showing that the Philosopher's Stone teas a Symbol.'''' — Published by
James Miller, New York, 1867.

Editorials.

127

exposition for the Infinite and the religious
problems concerning God, the Soul, and
the Universe. It seems that those writers
considered such words as "God," "Spirit,"
"Heaven," and words of like deep import,
as not signifying the thing intended only
so far as the one who used them compre-
hended them. Thus if God was spoken of
by one who sensuously imaged Him, here
was idolatry, and the second commandment
was broken. To the Platonist, "God" was
the name of the Absolute Universal, and
hence included subject as well as object in
thinking. Hence if one objectified, God by
conceiving Him, he necessarily limited God,
■or, rather, had no real knowledge of Him.
Said Sextus, the Pythagorean: "Do not in-
vestigate the name of God, because you will
not find it. For everything which is called
by a name, receives its appellation from that
which is more worthy than itself, so that it
is one person that calls, and another that
hears. Who is it, therefore, that has given
a name to God? God, however, is not a
name for God, but an indication of what
we conceive of him." From such passages
we can see why the Alchemists called
this "Ineffable One," Mercury, Luna, Sol,
Argent vive, Phoebus, Sulphur, Antimony,
Elixir, Alcahest, Salt, and other whim-
sical names, letting the predicates applied
determine the nature of what was meant.

If a writer, speaking of "Alcahest," should
say that it is a somewhat that rises in the
east and sets in the west, gives light to the
earth, and causes the growth of plants by
its heat, etc., we should not misunderstand
his meaning— it would be giving uh the na-
tureof the thing without thecommoii name.
Every one attaches some sort of significance
to the words "life," "God." "reason,"
"instinct," etc., and yet who comprehends
them? It is evident that in most rases the
word stands for the thing, and hence when
one speaks ol such things by name, the
hearer yawns and looks listless, as if he
thought: "Well, I know all about that — I
learned that when a child, in the Cate-
chism." The Alchemists (and Du Fresnoy
names nearly a thousand of these prolific
writers) determined that no one should flat-
ter himself that he knew the nature of the
subject before he saw the predicates ap-
plied. Hence the strange names about
which such spiritual doctrines were incul-
cated. "If we have concealed anything,"
says Geber, " ye sons of learning, wonder
not; for we have not concealed it from you,
but have delivered it in such language as
that it may be hid from evil men, and that
the unjust and vile might not know it. But,
ye sons of Truth, search, and you shall find
this most excellent gift of God, which he
has reserved for you."

EDITORIALS

ORIGINALITY.

It is natural that in America more than else-
where, there should be a popular demand for
originality. In Europe, each nation has, in the
course of centuries, accumulated a stock of its
own peculiar creations. America is sneered at
for the lack of these. We have not had time as
yet to develope spiritual capital on a scale to
correspond lo our material pretensions Hence
we, as a people, feel very sensitive on this point,
and whenever any new literary enterprise is
started, it is met on every hand by inquiries
like these : "Is it original, or only an importa-
tion of European ideas?" " Why not publish
something indigenous?" It grows cynical at
the sight of erudition, and vents its spleen with
indignation: "Why rifle the graves of centu-
ries? You are no hyena! Does not the spring
bring forth its flowers, and every summer its
swarms of gnats? Why build a bridge of rotten

coffin planks, or wear a wedding garment ol
mummy wrappage? Why desecrate the Pres-
ent, by offering it time-stained paper from the
shelves of the Past?"

In so far as these inquiries are addressed to
our own undertaking, we have a word to offer
in self-justification. We have no objection to
originality of the right stamp. An originality
whicl cherishes its own little idiosyncrasies we
despise. If we must differ from other people,
let us differ in having a wide cosmopolitan cul-
ture. "All men are alike in possessing defects,"
says Goethe ; " in excellencies alone it is that
great differences may be found."

What philosophic originality may be, we hope
to show by the following consideration :

It is the province of Philosophy to dissolve
and make clear to itself the entire phenomena
of the world. These phenomena consist of two
kinds : first, the products of nature, or imme-

128

Editorials.

diate existence; second, the products of spirit,
including what modifications man has wrought
upon the former, and his independent crea-
tions. These spiritual products may be again
subdivided into practical (in which the will pre-
dominates) — the institutions of civilization —
and theoretical (in which the intellect predomi-
nates) — art, religion, science, &c. Not only
must Philosophy explain the immediate phe-
nomena of nature— it must also explain the me-
diate phenomena of spirit. And not only are
the institutions of civilization proper objects
of study, but still more is this theoretic side
that which demands the highest activity of the
philosopher.

To examine the thoughts of man— to unravel
them and make them clear— must constitute
the earliest employment of the speculative
thinker; his first business is to comprehend
the thought of the world; to dissolve for him-
self the solutions which have dissolved the
world before him. Hence, the prevalent opin-
ion that it is far higher to be an "original in-
vestigator" than to be engaged in studying the
thoughts of others, leaves out of view the fact
that the thoughts of other men are just as much
objective phenomena to the individual philoso-
pher as the ground he walks on. They need
explanation just as much. If I can explain the
thoughts of the profoundest men of the world,
and make clear wherein they differed among
themselves and from the truth, certainly I am
more original than they were. For is not "ori-
ginal" to be used in the sense of primariness, of
approximation to the absolute, universal truth?
He who varies from the truth must be seconda-
ry, and owe his deflections to somewhat alien
to his being, and therefore be himself subordi-
nate thereto. Only the Truth makes Free and
Original. How many people stand in the way
of their own originality ! If an absolute Sci-
ence should be discovered by anybody, we
could all become absolutely original by master-
ing it. So much as I have mastered of science,
I have dissolved into me, and have not left it
standing alien and opposed to me, but it is now
my own.

Our course, then, in the practical endeavor
to elevate the tone of American thinking,- is
plain : we must furnish convenient access to
the deepest thinkers of ancient and modern
times. To prepare translations and commen-
tary, together with original exposition, is our
object. Originality will take care of itself.
Once disciplined in Speculative thought, the
new growths of our national life will furnish
us objects whose comprehension shall consti-
tute original philosophy without parallel.
Meanwhile it must be confessed that those
who set up this cry for originality are not best
employed. Their ideals are commonplace, and

their demand is too easily satisfied with the
mere whimsical, and they do not readily
enough distinguish therefrom the excellent.

CONTENTS OF THE JOURNAL.

Thus far the articles of this journal have
given most prominence to art in its various
forms. The speculative content of art is more
readily seen than that of any other form, for
the reason that its sensuous element allows a
more genial exposition. The critique of the
Second Part of Faust, by Rosenkranz, pub-
lished in this number, is an eminent example
of the effect which the study of Speculative
Philosophy has upon the analytical under-
standing. Is not the professor of logic able to
follow the poet, and interpret the products of
his creative imagination? The portion of He-
gel's ^Esthetics, published in this number, giv-
ing, as it does, the historical groundwork of
art, furnishes in a genial form an outline of the
Philosophy of History. Doubtless the charac-
teristics of the Anglo-Saxon mind make it dif-
ficult to see in art what it has for such nations
as the Italians and Germans ; we have the re-
flective intellect, and do not readily attain the
stand-point of the creative imagination.

STYLE.

In order to secure against ambiguity, it is
sometimes necessary to make inelegant repeti-
tions, and, to give to a limiting clause its pro-
per degree of subordination, such devices as
parentheses, dashes, etc., have to be used to
such a degree as to disfigure the page. Capi-
tals and italics are also used without stint
to mark important words. The adjective has
frequently to be used substantively, and, if
rare, this use is marked by commencing it with
a capital.

There are three styles, which correspond to
the three grades of intellectual culture. The
sensuous stage uses simple, categorical senten-
ces, and relates facts, while the reflective stage
uses hypothetical ones, and marks relations
between one fact and another ; it introduces
antithesis. The stage of the Reason uses the
disjunctive sentence, and makes an assertion
exhaustive by comprehending in it a multitude
of interdependencies and exclusions. Thus it
happens that the style of a Hegel is very diffi-
cult to master, and cannot be translated ade-
quately into the sensuous style, although many
have tried it. A person is very apt to blame
the style of a deep thinker when he encounters
him for the first time. It requires an "expert
swimmer' ' to follow the discourse , but for no
other reason than that the mind has not ac-
quired the strength requisite to grasp in one
thought a wide extent of conceptions.

THE JOURNAL

SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY.

Vol. I.

18 67.

No. 3.

THE MONADOLOGY.

[Translated from tho French of Leibnitz, by F. II. Hedge.]

1. The Monad, of which we shall here
speak, is merely a simple substance enter-
ing into those which are compound ; sim-
ple, that is to say, without parts.

2. And there must be simple substances,
since there are compounds ; for the com-
pound is only a collection or aggregate of
simples.

3. Where there are no parts, neither ex-
tension, nor figure, nor divisibility is pos-
sible ; and these Monads are the veritable
Atoms of Nature — in one word, the Ele-
ments of things.

4. There is thus no danger of dissolu-
tion, and there is no conceivable way in
which a simple substance can perish natu-
rally.

5. For the same reason, there is no waj
in which a simple substance can begin
naturally, since it could not be formed by
composition.

6. Therefore we may say that the Mo-
nads can neither begin nor end in any
other way than all at once ; that is to
say, they cannot begin except by creation,
nor end except by annihilation ; whereas
that which is compounded, begins and ends
by parts.

7. There is also no intelligible way in
which a Monad can be altered or changed
in its interior by any other creature, since
it would be impossible to transpose any-
thing in it, or to conceive in it any in-
ternal movement — any movement ex-

cited, directed, augmented or diminished
within, such as may take place in com-
pound bodies, where there is change of
parts. The Monads have no windows
through which anything can enter or go
forth. It would be impossible for any ac-
cidents to detach themselves and go forth
from the substances, as did formerly the
Sensible Species of the Schoolmen. Ac-
cordingly, neither substance nor accident
can enter a Monad from without.

8. Nevertheless Monads must have qual-
ities — otherwise they would not even be
entities ; and if simple substances did not
differ in their qualities, there would be no
means by which we could become aware of
the changes of things, since all that is in
compound bodies is derived from simple
ingredients, and Monads, being without
qualities, would be indistinguishable one
from another, seeing also they do not dif-
fer in quantity. Consequently, a plenum
being supposed, each place could in any
movement receive only the just equivalent
of what it had had before, and one state
of things would be indistinguishable from
another.

9. Moreover, each Monad must differ
from every other, for there are never two
beings in nature perfectly alike, and in
which it is impossible to find an internal
difference, or one founded on some intrin-
sic denomination.

10. I take it for granted, furthermore,

130

The Monadology.

that every created being is subject to
change — consequently the created Monad ;
and likewise that this change is continual
in each.

11. It follows, from what we have now
said, that the natural changes of Monads
proceed from an internal principle, since
no external cause can influence the interior.

12. But, besides the principle of change,
there must also be a detail of changes,
embracing, so to speak, the specification
and the variety of the simple substances.

13. This detail must involve multitude
in unity or in simplicity : for as all natu-
ral changes proceed by degrees, something
changes and something remains, and con-
sequently there must be in the simple sub-
stance a plurality of affections and rela-
tions, although there are no parts.

14. This shifting state, which involves
and represents multitude in unity, or in
the simple substance, is nothing else than
what we call Perception, which must be
carefully distinguished from apperception,
or consciousness, as will appear in the se-
quel. Here it is that the Cartesians have
especially failed, making no account of
those perceptions of which we are not con-
scious. It is this that has led them to
suppose that spirits are the only Monads,
and that there are no souls of brutes or
other Entelechies. It is owing to this that
they have vulgarly confounded protracted
torpor with actual death, and have fallen
in with the scholastic prejudice, which be-
lieves in souls entirely separate. Hence,
also, ill affected minds have been confirmed
in the opinion that the soul is mortal. pie perception, I am willing that the gene-

15. The action of the internal principle ral name of Monads and Entelechies shall
which causes the change, or the passage suffice for those simple substances which
from one perception to another, may be have nothing but perceptions, and that the
called Appetition. It is true, the desire term souls shall be confined to those whose
cannot always completely attain to every perceptions are more distinct, and accom-
perception to which it tends, but it always panied by memory.

attains to something thereof, and arrives 20. For we experience in ourselves a

at new perceptions. state in which we remember nothing, and

Mr. Boyle should not have found any diffi-
culty in this admission, as he has done in
his dictionary — Art. Rorarius.

17. Besides, it must be confessed that
Perception and its consequences are inex-
plicable by mechanical causes — that is to
say, by figures and motions. If we imag-
ine a machine so constructed as to pro-
duce thought, sensation, perception, we
may conceive it magnified — the same pro-
portions being preserved — to such an ex-
tent that one might enter it like a mill.
This being supposed, we should find in it on
inspection only pieces which impel each
other, but nothing which can explain a
perception. It is in the simple substance,
therefore — not in the compound, or in
machinery— that we must look for that
phenomenon ; and in the simple substance
we find nothing else — nothing, that is, but
perceptions and their changes. Therein
also, and therein only, consist all the inter-
nal acts of simple substances.

18. We might give the name of Entel-
echies to all simple substances or created
Monads, inasmuch as there is in them a
certain completeness (perfection), {exovol
to evreXec). There is a sufficiency (avTupiiEia)
which makes them the sources of their own
internal actions, and, as it were, incorpo-
real automata.

19. If we' choose to give the name of
soul to all that has perceptions and de-
sires, in the general sense which I have
just indicated, all simple substances or
created Monads may be called souls. But
as sentiment is something more than sim-

16. We experience in ourselves the fast
of multitude in the simple substance, when
we find that the least thought of which we
are conscious includes a variety in its ob-
ject. Accordingly, all who admit that the
soul is a simple substance, are bound to
admit this multitude in the Monad, and

have no distinct perception, as when we
are in a swoon or in a profound and
dreamless sleep. In this state the soul
does not differ sensibly from a simple
Monad ; but since this state is not perma-
nent, and since the soul delivers herself
from it, she is something more.

The Monadology.

131

21. And it does not by any means fol-
low, in that case, that the simple sub-
stance is without perception : that, indeed,
is impossible, for the reasons given above;
for it cannot perish, neither can it subsist
without affection of some kind, which is
nothing else than its perception. But
where there is a great number of minute
perceptions, and where nothing is distinct,
one is stunned, as when we turn round and
round in continual succession in the same
direction; whence arises a vertigo, which
may cause us to faint, and which prevents
us from distinguishing anything. And
possibly death may produce this state for
a time in animals.

22. A-nd as every present condition of a
simple substance is a natural consequence
of its antecedent condition, so its present
is big with its future.

23. Then, as on awaking from a state of
stupor, we become conscious of our per-
ceptions, we must have had perceptions,
although unconscious of them, immedi-
ately before awaking. For each percep-
tion can have no other natural origin but
an antecedent perception, as every motion
must be derived from one which preceded
it.

24. Thus it appears that if there were
no distinction — no relief, so to speak — no
enhanced flavor in our perceptions, we
should continue forever in a state of stu-
por ; and this is the condition of the naked
Monad.

25. And so we see that nature has given
to animals enhanced perceptions, by the
care which she has taken to furnish them
with organs which collect many rays of
light and many undulations of air, in-
creasing their efficacy by their union.
There is something approaching to this in
odor, in taste, in touch, and perhaps in a
multitude of other senses of which we
have no knowledge. I shall presently ex-
plain how that which passes in the soul
represents that which takes place in the
organs.

26. Memory gives to the soul a kind of
consecutive action which imitates reason,
but must be distinguished from it. AVe
observe that animals, having a perception
of something which strikes them, and of

which they have pri viously had a similar
perception, expect, through the represen-
tation of their memory, the recurrence of
that which was associated with it in their
previous perception, and incline to the
same feelings which they then had. For
example, when we show dogs the cane,
they remember the pain which it caused
them, and whine and run.

27. And the lively imagination, which
strikes and excites them, arises from the
magnitude or the multitude of their pre-
vious perceptions. For often a powerful
impression produces suddenly the effect of
long habit, or of moderate perceptions
often repeated!

28. In men as in brutes, the consecutive-
ness of their perceptions is due to the
principle of memory — like empirics in
medicine, who have only practice without
theory. And we are mere empirics in
three-fourths of our acts. For example,
when we expect that the sun will rise to-
morrow, we judge so empirically, because
it has always risen hitherto. Only the as-
tronomer judges by an act of reason.

29. But the cognition of necessary and
eternal truths is that which distinguishes
us from mere animals. It is this which
gives us Reason and Science, and raises
hs to the knowledge of ourselves and of
God : and it is this in us which we call a
reasonable soul or spirit.

30. It is also by the cognition of neces-
sary truths, and by their abstractions, that
we rise to acts of reflection, which give us
the idea of that which, calls itself " I,"
and which lead us to consider that this or
that is in us. And thus, while thinking of
ourselves, we think of Being, of substance,
simple or compound, of the immaterial,
and of God himself. We conceive that
that wL ; ch in us is limited, is in him with-
out limit. And these reflective acts fur-
nish the principal objects of our reason-
ings.

31. Our reasonings arc founded on two
great principles, that of "Contradiction,"
by virtue of which we judge that to bo
false which involves contradiction, and
that to be true which is opposed to, or
which contradicts the false.

32. And that of the "Sufficient Reason,"

132

The Monadology.

by virtue of which we judge that no fact
can be real or existent, no statement true,
unless there be a sufficient reason why it is
thus, and not otherwise, although these
reasons very often cannot be known to us.

33. There are also two sorts of truths —
those of reasoning and those of fact.
Truths of reasoning are necessary, and
their opposite is impossible ; those of fact
are contingent, and their opposite is possi-
ble. When a truth is necessary, we may
discover the reason of it by analysis, re-
solving it into simpler ideas and truths,
until we arrive at those which are ulti-
mate.*

34. It is thus that mathematicians by
analysis reduce speculative theorems and
practical canons to definitions, axioms and
postulates.

35. And finally, there are simple ideas
of which no definition can be given ; there
are also axioms and postulates, — in one
word, ultimate * principles, which cannot
and need not be proved. And these are
"Identical Propositions," of which the op-
posite contains an express contradiction.

36. But there must also be a sufficient
reason for truths contingent, or truths of
fact — that is, for the series of things dif-
fused through the universe of creatures —
or else the process of resolving into partic-
ular reasons might run into a detail with-
out bounds, on account of the immense
variety of the things of nature, and of the
infinite division of bodies. There is an
infinity of figures and of movements, pres-
ent and past, which enter into the efficient
cause of my present writing ; and there is
an infinity of minute inclinations and dis-
positions of my soul, present and past,
which enter into the final cause of it.

37. And as all this detail only involves
other anterior or more detailed contingen-
cies, each one of which again requires a
similar analysis in order to account for it,
we have made no advance, and the suffi-
cient or final reason must be outside of
the series of this detail of contingencies,!
endless as it may be.

38. And thus the final reason of things
must be found in a necessary Substance, in

which the detail of changes exists emi-
nently as their source. And this is that
which we call God.

39. Now this Substance being a sufficient
reason of all this detail, which also is ev-
erywhere linked together, there is but one
God, and this God suffices.

40. We may also conclude that this su-
preme Substance, which is Only,J Univer-
sal, and Necessary — having nothing out-
side of it which is independent of it, and
being a simple series of possible beings —
must be incapable of limits, and must con-
tain as much of reality as is possible.

41. AVhence it follows that God is
perfect, perfection being nothing but
the magnitude of positive reality taken
exactly, setting aside the limits or bounds
in that which is limited. And there, where
there are no bounds, that is to say, in God,
perfection is absolutely infinite.

42. It follows also that the creatures
have their perfections from the influence
of God, but they have their imperfections
from their proper nature, incapable of ex-
isting without bounds; for it is by this
that they are distinguished from God.

43. It is true, moreover, that God is not
only the source of existences, but also of
essences, so far as real, or of that which
is real in the possible; because the divine
understanding is the region of eternal
truths, or of the ideas on which they de-
pend, and without Him there would be
nothing real in the possibilities, and not
only nothing existing, but also nothing
possible.

44. At the same time, if there be a real-
ity in the essences or possibilities, or in
the eternal truths, this reality must be
founded in something existing and actual,
consequently in the existence of the nec-
essary Being, in whom essence includes
existence, or with whom it is sufficient to
be possible in order to be actual.

45. Thus God alone (or the necessary
Being) possesses this privilege, that he
must exist if possible ; and since nothing
can hinder the possibility of that which
includes no bounds, no negation, and con-
sequently no contradiction, that alone is

* PHm'tiifs.

t i. e., Accidental causes.

t Unique.

The Monadology.

133

sufficient to establish the existence of
God a priori. We have likewise proved it
by the reality of eternal truths. But we
have also just proved it a posteriori by
showing that, since contingent beings exist,
they can have their ultimate and sufficient
reason only in some necessary Being, who
contains the reason of his existence in
himself.

46. Nevertheless, we must not suppose,
with some, that eternal verities, being de-
pendent upon God, are arbitrary, and de-
pend upon his will, as Des Cartes, and
afterward M. Poiret, appear to have con-
ceived. This is true only of contingent
truths, the principle of which is fitness, or
the choice of the best; whereas necessary
truths depend solely on His understanding,
and are its internal object.

47. Thus God alone is the primitive
Unity, or the simple original substance of
which all the created or derived Monads
are the products; and they are generated,
so to speak, by continual fulgurations of
the Divinity, from moment to moment,
bounded by the receptivity of the creature,
of whose existence limitation is an essen-
tial condition.

48. In God is Power, which is the
source of all; then Knowledge, which
contains the detail of Ideas ; and, finally,
Will, which generates changes or products
according to the principle of optimism.
And this answers to what, in created
Monads, constitutes the subject or the
basis, the perceptive and the appetitive
faculty. But in God these attributes are
absolutely infinite or perfect, and in the
created Monads, or in the Entelechies (or
perfectihabiis, as Hermolaus Barbaras
translates this word), they are only imita-
tions according to the measure of their
perfection.

49. The creature is said to act exter-
nally, in so far as it possesses perfection,
and to suffer from 'another (creature) so
far as it is imperfect. So we ascribe ac-
tion to the Monad, so far as it has distinct
perceptions, and passion, so far as its per-
ceptions are confused.

50. And one creature is more perfect
than another, in this: that we find in it
that which serves to account a priori for

what passes in the other ; and it is tli
fore said to act upon the other.

51. But in simple substances this is
merely an ideal influence of one Munad
upon another, which can pass into effect
only by the intervention of God, i:
much as in the ideas of God one .Monad
has a right to demand that God, in regula-
ting the rest from the commencement of
things, shall have regard to it ; for since
a created Monad can have no physical in-
fluence on the interior of another, it is
only by this means that one can bo de-
pendent on another.

52. And hence it is that actions and
passions in creatures are mutual ; for Gi 1,
comparing two simple substances, finds
reasons in each which oblige him to ac-
commodate the one to the other. Conse-
quently that which is active in one view,
is passive in another — active so far as
what we clearly discern in it serves to ac-
count for that which takes place in an-
other, and passive so far as the reason of
that which passes in it is found in that
which is clearly discerned in another.

53. Now, as in the ideas of God there is
an infinity of possible worlds, and as only
one can exist, there must be a sufficient
reason for the choice of God, which deter-
mines him to one rather than another.

54. And this reason can be no other
than fitness, derived from the different de-
grees of perfection which these worlds
contain, each possible world having a
claim to exist according to the measure of
perfection which it enfolds.

55. And this is the cause of the exist-
ence of that Best, which the wisdom of
God discerns, which his goodness chooses,
and his power effects.

56. And this connection, or this accom-
modation of all created thin- M5h,
and of each to all, implies in each simple
substance relations which express all the
rest. Each, accordingly, is a living and
perpetual mirror of the universe.

57. And as the same city viewed from
different sides appears quite different, and
is perspectively multiplied, so, in the in-
finite multitude of simple sub-
there are given, as it were, so many differ-
ent worlds which yet are only the perspec-

134

The Monadology.

tives of a single one, according to the
different points of view of each Monad.

58. And this is the way to obtain the
greatest possible variety with the greatest
possible order — that is to say, the way to
obtain the greatest possible perfection.

59. Thus this hypothesis (which I may
venture to pronounce demonstrated) is the
only one which properly exhibits the great-
ness of God. And this Mr. Boyle acknow-
ledges, when in his dictionary (Art. Rora-
rius) he objects to it. He is even disposed
to think that I attribute too much to God,
that I ascribe to him impossibilities ; but
he can allege no reason for the impossibil-
ity of this universal harmony, by which
each substance expresses exactly the per-
fections of all the rest through its rela-
tions with them.

60. We see, moreover, in that which I
have just stated, the a priori reasons why
things could not be other tlian they are.
God, in ordering the whole, has respect to
each part, and specifically to each Monad,
whose nature being representative, is by
nothing restrained from representing the
whole of things, although, it is true, this
representation must needs be confused, as
it regards the detail of the universe, and
can be distinct only in relation to a small
part of things, that is, in relation to those
which are nearest, or whose relations to
any given Monad are greatest. Otherwise
each Monad would be a divinity. The
Monads are limited, not in the object, but
in the mode of their knowledge of the
object. They all tend confusedly to the
infinite, to the whole ; but they are limited
and distinguished by the degrees of dis-
tinctness in their perceptions.

61. And compounds symbolize in this
with simples. For since the world is a
plenum, and all matter connected, and as
in a, plenum every movement has some ef-
fect on distant bodies, in proportion to
their distance, so that each body is affected
not only by those in actual contact with it,
and feels in some way all that happens to
them, but also through their means is af-
fected by others in contact with those by
which it is immediately touched — it fol-
lows that this communication extends to
any distance. Consequently, each body

feels all that passes in the universe, so
that he who sees all, may read in each that
which passes everywhere else, and even
that which has been and shall be, discern-
ing in the present that which is removed
in time as well as in space. " 2v/im>6iei
Jluvra," says Hippocrates. But each soul
can read in itself only that which is dis-
tinctly represented in it. It cannot unfold
its laws at once, for they reach into the
infinite.

62. Thus, though every created Monad
represents the entire universe, it repre-
sents more distinctly the particular body
to which it belongs, and whose Entelechy
it is : and as this body expresses the en-
tire universe, through the connection of
all matter in a plenum, the soul represents
also the entire universe in representing
that body which especially belongs to it.

63. The body belonging to a Monad,
which is its Entelechy or soul, constitutes,
with its Entelechy, what may be termed a
living (thing), and, with its soul, what
may be called an animal. And the body
of a living being, or of an animal, is al-
ways organic ; for every Monad, being a
mirror of the universe, according to its
fashion, and the universe being ar-
ranged with perfect order, there must be
the same order in the representative — that
is, in the perceptions of the soul, and con-
sequently of the body according to which
the universe is represented in it.

64. Thus each organic living body is a
species of divine machine, or a natural
automaton, infinitely surpassing all artificial
automata. A machine made by human art
is not a machine in all its parts. For ex-
ample, the tooth of a brass wheel has parts
or fragments which are not artificial to us ;
they have nothing which marks the ma-
chine in their relation to the use for which
the wheel is designed ; but natural ma-
chines — that is, living bodies — are still
machines in their minutest parts, ad infi-
nitum. This makes the difference between
nature and art, that is to say, between the
Divine art and ours.

65. And the author of nature was able
to exercise this divine and infinitely won-
derful art, inasmuch as every portion of
nature is not only infinitely divisible, as

The Monadology.

i:j;j

the ancients knew, but is actually subdi-
vided without end — each part into parts,
of which each has its own movement.
Otherwise, it would be impossible that
each portion of matter should express the
universe.

66. Whence it appears that there is a
world of creatures, of living ("things), of
animals, of Entelechies, of souls, in the
minutest portion of matter.

67. Every particle of matter may be con-
ceived as a garden of plants, or as a pond
full of fishes. But each branch of each
plant, each member of each animal, each
drop of their humors, is in turn another
such garden or pond. •

68. .And although the earth and the air
embraced between the plants in the gar-
den, or the water between the fishes of the
pond, are not themselves plant or fish,
they nevertheless contain such, but mostly
too minute for our perception.

69. So there is no uncultured spot, no
barrenness, no death in the universe — no
chaos, no confusioD, except in appearance,
as it might seem in a pond at a distance,
in which one should see a confused mo-
tion and swarming, so to speak, of the
fishes of the pond, without distinguishing
the fishes themselves.

70. We see, then, that each living body
has a governing Entelechy, which in ani-
mals is the soul of the animal. But the
members of this living body are full of
other living bodies — plants, animals —
each of which has its Entelechy, or regent
soul.

71. We must not, however, suppose — as
some who misapprehended my thought
have done — that each soul has a mass or
portion of matter proper to itself, or for-
ever united to it, and that it consequently
possesses other inferior living existences,
destined forever to its service. For all
bodies are in a perpetual flux, like rivers.
Their particles are continually coming and
going.

72. Thus the soul does not change its
body except by degrees. It is never deprived
at once of all its organs. There are often
metamorphoses in animals, but never Me-
tempsychosis — no transmigration of souls.
Neither are there souls entirely separated

(from bodies), nor genii without bodies.
God alone is wholly without body.

73. For which reason, also, there is
never complete generation nor perfect
death — strictly considered — consisting in
the separation of the soul. That which we
call generation, is development and accre-
tion ; and that which we call death, is en-
velopment and diminution.

74. Philosophers have been much trou-
bled about the origin of forms, of Entel-
echies, or souls. But at the present day,
when, by accurate investigations of plants,
insects and animals, they have become
aware that the organic bodies of nature
are never produced from chaos or from pu-
trefaction, but always from seed, in which
undoubtedly there had been a preforma-
tion ; it has been inferred that not only
the organic body existed in that seed be-
fore conception, but also a soul in that
body — in one word, the animal itself — and
that, by the act of conception, this animal
is merely disposed to a grand transforma-
tion, to become an animal of another spe-
cies. We even see something approaching
this, outside of generation, as when worms
become flies, or when caterpillars become
butterflies.

75. Those animals, of which some are
advanced to a higher grade, by means of
conception, may be called spermatic; but
those among them which remain in their
kind — that is to say, the greater portion —
are born, multiply, and are destroyed, like
the larger animals, and only a small num-
ber of the elect among them, pass to a
grander theatre.

76. But this is only half the truth. I
have concluded that if the animal does not
begin to be in the order of nature, it also
does not cease to be in the order >>f nature,
and that not only there is no generation,
but 1.0 entire destruction — no death, strict-
ly considered. And these aposterioti con-
clusions, drawn from experience, accord
perfectly with my principles deduced a pri-
ori, as stated above.

77. Thus we may Bay, not only that the
soul (mirror of an indestructible universe)
is indestructible, but also the animal itself,
although its machine may often perish in
part, and put off or put on organic spoils.

138

The Monadology.

78. These principles have furnished ine
with a natural explanation of the union, .
or rather the conformity between the soul
and the organized body. The soul follows
its proper laws, and the body likewise fol-
lows those which are proper to it, and they
meet in virtue of the preestablished har-
mony which exists between all substances,
as representations of one and the same
universe.

79. Souls act according to the laws of
final causes, by appetitions, means and
ends ; bodies act according to the laws of
efficient causes, or the laws of motion.
And the two kingdoms, that of efficient
causes and that of final causes, harmonize •
with each other.

80. Des Cartes perceived that souls com-
municate no force to bodies, because the
quantity of force in matter is always the
same. Nevertheless, he believed that souls
might change the direction of bodies. But
this was because the world was at that
time ignorant of the law of nature, which
requires the conservation of the same total
direction in matter. Had he known this,
he would have hit upon my system of pre-
established harmony.

81. According to this system, bodies act
as if there were no souls, and souls act as
if there were no bodies ; and yet both act
as though the one influenced the other.

82. As to spirits, or rational souls, al-
though I find that at bottom the same
principle which I have stated — namely,
that animals and souls begin with the
world and end only with the world — holds
with regard to all animals and living
things, yet there is this peculiarity in ra-
tional animals, that although their sper-
matic animalcules, as such, have only
ordinary or sensitive souls, yet as soon as
those of them which are elected, so to
speak, arrive by the act of conception at
human nature, their sensitive souls are
elevated to the rank of reason and to the
prerogative of spirits.

83. Among other differences which dis-
tinguish spirits from ordinary souls, some
of which have already been indicated,
there is also this : that souls in general
are living mirrors, or images of the uni-
verse of creatures, but spirits are, further-

more, images of Divinity itself, or of the
Author of Nature, capable of cognizing
the system of the universe, and of imitat-
ing something of it by architectonic ex-
periments, each spirit being, as it were, a
little divinity in its own department.

84. Hence spirits are able to enter into
a kind of fellowship with God. In their
view he is not merely what an inventor is
to his machine (as God is in relation to
other creatures), but also what a prince is
to his subjects, and even what a father is
to his children.

85. Whence it is easy to conclude that
the assembly of all spirits must constitute
the City of God — that is to say, the most
perfect state possible, under the most per-
fect of monarchs.

86. This City of God, this truly univer-
sal monarchy, is a moral world within the
natural; and it is the most exalted and the
most divine among the works of God. It
is in this that the glory of God most truly
consists, which glory would be wanting if
his greatness and his goodness were not
recognized and admired by spirits. It is
in relation to this Divine City that he pos-
sesses, properly speaking, the attribute of
goodness, whereas his wisdom and his
power are everywhere manifest.

87. As we have established above, a per-
fect harmony between the two natural
kingdoms — the one of efficient causes, the
other of final causes — so it behooves us to
notice here also a still further harmony
between the physical kingdom of nature
and the moral kingdom of grace — that is
to say, between God considered as the
architect of the machine of the universe,
and God considered as monarch of the
divine City of Spirits.

88. This harmony makes all things con-
duce to grace by natural methods. This
globe, for example, must be destroyed and
repaired by natural means, at such sea-
sons as the government of spirits may re-
quire, for the chastisement of some and
the recompense of others.

89. We may say, furthermore, that God
as architect contains entirely God as legis-
lator, and that accordingly sins must carry
their punishment with them in the order
of nature, by virtue even of the mechani-

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

137

cal structure of things, and that good
deeds in like manner will bring their re-
compense, through their connection with
bodies, although this cannot, and ou^ht
not always to, take place on the spot.

90. Finally, under this perfect govern-
ment, there will be no good deed without
its recompense, and no evil deed without
its punishment, and all must redound to
the advantage of the good — that is to say,
of those who are not malcontents — in this
great commonwealth, who confide in Prov-
idence after having done their duty, and
who worthily love and imitate the Author
of all good, pleasing themselves with the
contemplation of his perfections, follow-
ing the nature of pure and genuine Love,
which makes us blest in the happiness of

the loved. In this spirit, the wise and
good labor for that which appears to be
conformed to the divine will, presumptive
or antecedent, contented the while with nil
that God brings to pass by his Becret will,
consequent and decisive, — knowing that if
we were sufficiently acquainted with the
order of the universe we should find that
it surpasses all the wishes of the wie
and that it could not be made better than
it is, not only for all in general, but for
ourselves in particular, if we arc attached,
as is fitting, to the Author of All, not only
as the architect and efficient cause of our
being, but also as our master and the final
cause, who should be the whole aim of
our volition, and who alone can make us
blest.

A CRITICISM OF PHILOSOPHICAL SYSTEMS.

[Translated from the German of J. G. Fichte, by A. E. Kroeger.]

[Xote. — The following completes Fichte's Second Introduction to the Science of Knowl-
edge, or his Criticism of Philosophical Systems. In the first division of what follows, Fichte
traces out his own transcendental standpoint in the Kantian Philosophy, and next proceeds, in
the second division, to connect it with what was printed in our previous number, criticising
without mercy the dogmatic standpoint. By the completion of this article, we have given to
the readers of our Journal Fichte's own great Introductions to that Science of Knowledge,
which is about to be made accessible to American readers through the publishing house of
Messrs. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia. Our readers are, therefore, especially prepared t" inter
upon a study of Fichte's wonderful system, for none of these Introductions, as indeed none of
Fichte's works of Science, have ever before been published in the English language. In a sub-
sequent number we shall print Fichte's " Sun-clear Statement regarding the true nature of the
Science of Knowledge," a masterly exhibition of the treatment of scientific subjects in a pop-
ular form. We hope that all who have read, or will read these articles, will also enter upon a
study of the great work which they are designed to prepare for ; the study is worth the pains.
— Editor.]

Jt is not the habit of the Science of
Knowledge, nor of its author, to seek pro-
tection under any authority whatever. The
person who has first to see whether this
doctrine agrees with the doctrine of some-
body else before he is willing to be con-
vinced by it, is not one whom this science
calculates to convince, because the abso-
lute self-activity and independent faith in
himself which this science presupposes, is
wanting in him.

It was therefore quite a different motive
than a desire to recommend his doctrines,
which led the author of the Science of
Knowledge to state that his doctrine was
in perfect harmony with Kant's doctrine,

and was indeed the very same. In this
opinion he has been confirmed by the con-
tinued elaboration of his system, which he
was compelled to undertake. Neverthe-
less, all others who pass for students of
Kant's philosophy, and who have spoken
on the subject— whether they were fii
or opponents of the Science of Knowl*
— have unanimously asserted the contrary ;
and by their advice, even Kant himself,
who ought certainly best to understand
himself, asserts the contrary. If the au-
thor of the Science of Knowl!." were
disposed towards a certain manner of
thinking, this would be welcome news to
him. Moreover, since he con-idrs it no
disgrace to have misunderstood Kant, and

O 4

138

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

foresees that to have misunderstood hirn
will soon be considered no disgrace by gen-
eral opinion, he ought surely not to hesi-
tate to assume that disgrace, especially as
it would confer upon him the honor of be-
ing the first discoverer of a philosophy
which will certainly become universal, and
be productive of the most beneficial results
for mankind.

It is indeed scarcely explicable why
friends and opponents of the Science of
Knowledge so zealously contradict that as-
sertion of its author, and why they so
earnestly request him to prove it, although
he never promised to do so, nay, expressly
refused, since such a proof would rather
belong to a future History of Philosophy
than to a present representation of that
system. The opponents of the Science of
Knowledge in thus calling for a proof, are
certainly not impelled by a tender regard
for the fame of the author of that Science;
and the friends of it might surely leave the
subject alone, as I myself have no taste
for such an honor, and seek the only honor
which I know, in quite a different direction.
Do they clamor for this proof in order to
escape my charge, that they did not under-
stand the writings of Kant ? But such an
accusation from the lips of the author of
the Science of Knowledge is surely no re-
proach, since he confesses as loudly as pos-
sible, that he also has not understood them,
and that only after he had discovered in
his own way the Science of Knowledge,
did he find a correct and harmonious inter-
pretation of Kant's writings. Indeed, that
charge will soon cease to be a reproach
from the lips of anybody. But perhaps
this clamor is raised to escape the charge
that they did not recognize their own doc-
trine, so zealously defended by them, when
it was placed before them in a different
shape from their own. If this is the case,
I should like to save them this reproach
also, if there were not another interest,
which to me appears higher than theirs,
and to which their interest shall be sacri-
ficed. The fact is, I do not wish to be con-
sidered for one moment more than I am,
nor to ascribe to myself a merit which I
do not possess.

I shall therefore, in all probability, be

compelled to enter upon the proof which
they so earnestly demand, and hence im-
prove the opportunity at present offered
to me.

The Science of Knowledge starts, as we
have just now seen, from an intellectual
contemplation, from the absolute self-ac-
tivity of the Ego.

Now it would seem beyond a doubt, and
evident to all the readers of Kant's wri-
tings, that this man has declared himself
on no subject more decisively, nay, I might
say contemptuously, than in denying this
power of an intellectual contemplation.
This denial seems so thoroughly rooted in
the Kantian System, that, after all the
elaboration of his philosophy, which he
has undertaken since * the appearance of
the Critique of Pure Reason, and by means
of which, as will be evident to any one,
the propositions of that first work have re-
ceived a far higher clearness and develop-
ment than they originally possessed ; — he
yet, in one of his latest works, feels con-
strained to repeat those assertions with
undiminished energy, and to show that the
present style of philosophy, which treats
all labor and exertion with contempt, as
well as a most disastrous fanaticism, have
resulted from the phantom of an intellec-
tual contemplation.

Is any further proof needed, that a Phi-
losophy, which is based on the very thing
so decidedly rejected by the Kantian Sys-
t. in, must be precisely the opposite of that
system, and must be moreover the very
senseless and disastrous system, of which
Kant speaks in that work of his? Per-
haps, however, it might be well first to in-
quire, whether the same word may not ex-
press two utterly different conceptions in
the two systems. In Kant's terminology,
all contemplation is directed upon a Being
(a permanent Remaining) ; and intellectual
contemplation would thus signify in his
system the immediate consciousness of a
non-sensuous Being, or the immediate con-
sciousness (through pure thinking) of the
thing per se ; and hence a creation of the

♦Critique of Practical Reason ; Critique of the Power
of Judgment ; and Critique of a Pure Doctrine of Re-
ligion.— Translator.

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

139

thing per se through its conception, in become acquainted with the significance of
nearly the same manner as the existence my terminology before proceeding to judge

of God is demonstrated from the mere my system.

conception of God ;— those who do so must
look upon God's existence as a mere se-
quence of their thinking. Now Kant's
system — taking the direction it did take —

My most estimahle friend, the Ri v. Mr.
Schulz — to whom I had mad" known my
indefinite idea of building up the whole
Science of Philosophy on the pare Ego,

may have considered it necessary in this long before I had thoroughly digested that

idea, and whom I found less opposed to it
than any one else — has a remarkable pas-
sage on this subject. In bis review of
Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, he says:
" The pure, active self-consciousness, in
which really every one's Ego consists, must
not be confounded — for the very reason
because it can and must teach us in
an immediate manner — with the power
of contemplation, and must not be made to
involve the doctrine that we are in posses-
sion of a super sensuous, inlcllecliu.l power
of contemplation. For we call contempla-
tion a representation, which is immediately
related to an object. But pure self-con-
sciousness is not representation, but is
rather that which first makes a represent-
ation to become really a representation.*
If I say, C I represent something to myself,'
it signifies just the same as if I said, ' I am
conscious that I have a representation of
this object.' "

According to Mr. Scbulz, therefore, a
representation is that whereof conscious-
ness is possible. Now Mr. Schulz also
speaks of pure self-consciousness. Un-
doubtedly he knows whereof he speaks,
and hence, as philosopher, he most truly
has a representation of pure self-con-
sciousness. It was not of this conscious-
ness of the philosopher, however, that Mr.
Schulz spoke, but of original conscious-
ness ; and hence the significance of his
assertion is this : Originally (i. c. in com-
mon consciousness without philosophical
reflection) mere self-consciousness docs
not constitute full consciousness, but is
merely a necessary compound, which
makes full consciousness first possible.
But is it not the same with sensuouB con-
templation? Does sensuous contemplation
constitute a consciousness, or is it not
rather merely that whereby a representa-
tion first becomes a representation? Con-
templation without conception is confess-

manner to keep the thing per se at a re
spectful distance. But the Science of
Knowledge has finished the thing per se in
another manner; that Science knows it to
be the completcst perversion of reason, a
purely irrational conception. To that

. science all being is necessarily sensuous,
for it evolves the very conception of Being
from the form of sensuousness. That
science regards the intellectual contempla-
tion of Kant's system as a phantasm, which
vanishes the moment one attempts to think
it, and which indeed is not worth a name
at all. The intellectual contemplation,
whereof the Science of Knowledge speaks,
is not at all directed upon a Being, but
upon an Activity ; and Kant does not even
designate it, (unless you wish to take the
expression "Pure apperception" for such
a designation). Nevertheless, it can be
clearly shown where in Kant's System it
ought to have been mentioned. I hope

! that the categorical imperative of Kant
occurs in consciousness, according to his
System. Now what sort of consciousness
is this of the categorical imperative ? This
question Kant never proposed to himself,
because he never treated of the basis of all
Philosophy. In his Critique oj Pure Rea-
son he treated only of theoretical Philoso-
phy, and could therefore not introduce the
categorical imperative ; in his Critique of
Practical Reason, he treated only of prac-
tical Philosophy, wherein the question con-
cerning the manner of consciousness could
not arise.

This consciousness is doubtless an im-
mediate, but no sensuous consciousness —
hence exactly what I call intellectual con-
templation. Now, since we have no class-
ical author in Philosophy, I give it the
latter name, with the same right with
which Kant gives it to something else,
which is a mere nothing ; and with the
same right I insist that people ought first to

140

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

edly blind. How, then, can Mr. Schulz
call (sensuous) contemplation (excluding
from it self-consciousness) representation ?
From the standpoint of the philosopher,
as we have just seen, self-consciousness is
equally representation ; from the stand-
point of original contemplation, sensuous
contemplation is equally not representa-
tion. Or does the conception constitute a
representation? The conception without
contemplation is confessedly empty. In
truth, self-consciousness, sensuous con-
templation, and conception, are, in their
isolated separateness, not representations
— they are only that through which repre-
sentations become possible. » According to
Kant, to Schulz, and to myself, a com-
plete representation contains a threefold :
1st. That whereby the representation re-
lates itself to an object, and becomes the
representative of a Something — and this
we unanimously call the sensuous contem-
plation (even if I am myself the object of
my representation, it is by virtue of a sen-
suous contemplation, for then I become to
myself a permanent in time) ; 2d. That
through which the representation relates
itself to the subject, and becomes my rep-
resentation ; this I also call contempla-
tion (but intellectual contemplation), be-
cause it-has the same relation to the com-
plete representation which the sensuous
contemplation has ; but Kant and Schulz
do not want it called so; and, 3d. That
through which both are united, and only
in this union become representation ; and
this we again unanimously call conception.
But to state it tersely : what is really
the Science of Knowledge in two words ?
It is this : Reason is absolutely self-de-
termined; Reason is only for Reason; but
for Reason there is also nothing but Rea-
son. Hence, everything, which Reason is,
must be grounded in itself, and out of it-
self, but not in or out of another — some
external other, which it could never grasp
without giving up itself. In short, the
Science of Knowledge is transcendental
idealism. Again, what is the content of
the Kantian system in two words? I con-
fess that I cannot conceive it possible how
any one can understand even one sentence
of Kant, and harmonize it with others, ex-

cept on the same presupposition which the
Science of Knowledge has just asserted.
I believe that that presupposition is the
everlasting refrain of his system ; and I
confess that one of the reasons why I re-
fused to prove the agreement of the
Science of Knowledge with Kant's system
was this: It appeared to me somewhat too
ridiculous and too tedious to show up the
forest by pointing out the several trees in
it.

I will cite here one chief passage from
Kant. He says: "The highest principle
of the possibility of all contemplation in
relation to the understanding is this : that
all the manifold be subject to the condi-
tions of the original unity of appercep-
tion." That is to say, in other words,
"That something which is contemplated
be also thought, is only possible on condi-
tion that the possibility of the original
unity of apperception can coexist with it."
Now since, according to Kant, contempla-
tion also is possible only on condition that
it be thought and comprehended — other-
wise it would remain blind — and since
contemplation itself is thus subject to the
conditions of the possibility of thinking —
it follows that, according to Kant, not
only Thinking immediately, but by the
mediation of thinking, contemplation also ?
and hence all consciousness, is subject to
the conditions of the original unity of ap-
perception.

Now, what is this condition ? It is true,
Kant speaks of conditions, but he states
only one as a fundamental condition.
What is this condition of the original
unity of apperception ? It is this (see § 16
of the Critique of Pure Reason), ''that my
representations can be accompanied by the
( I think'" — the word "J" alone is itali-
cised by Kant, and this is somewhat impor-
tant ; that is to say, I am the thinking in
this thinking.

Of what "I" does Kant speak here?
Perhaps of the Ego, which his followers
quietly heap together by a manifold of
representations, in no single one of which
it was, but in all of which collectively it
now is said to be. Then the words of
Kant would signify this : I, who think D,
am the same I who thought A, B and C,

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

and it is only through the thinking of my
manifold thinking, that I first became 1 to
myself— that is to say, the identical in the
manifold ? In that case Kant would have
been just such a pitiable tattler as these
Kantians; for in that case the possibility
of all thinking would be conditioned, ac-
cording to him, by another thinking, and
by the thinking of this thinking; and I
should like to know how we could ever ar-
rive at a thinking.

But, instead of tracing the consequences
of Kant's statement, I merely intended to
cite his own words. He says again : "This
representation, '/think,' is an act of spon-
taneity, i. e. it cannot be considered as be-
longing to Jsensuonsness." (I add : and
hence, also, not to inner sensuousness, to
which the above described identity of con-
sciousness most certainly does belong.)
Kant continues : " I call it pure appercep-
tion, in order to distinguish it from the
empirical (just described) apperception,
and because it is that self-consciousness,
which, in producing the representation 'I
think' — which must accompany all other
representations, and is in all consciousness
one and the same — can itself be accompa-
nied by no other representation."

Here the character of pure self-con-
sciousness is surely clearly enough de-
scribed. It is in all consciousness the
same — hence undeterminable by any acci-
dent of consciousness : in it the E<xo
is only determined through itself, and is
thus absolutely determined. It is also
clear here, that Kant could not have un-
derstood this pure apperception to mean
the consciousness of our individuality, nor
could he have taken the latter for the
former ; for the consciousness of my indi-
viduality, as an I, is necessarily condi-
tioned by, and only possible through, the
consciousness of another individuality, a
Thou.
Hence we discover in Kant's writings

consciousness is conditioned by the possi-
bility of the pure Ego, or by pure self-

consciousness, just as the Science of Knowl-
edge holds. In thinking, the conditioning
is made the prior of the conditioned— for
this is the significance of that relation ;
and thus it appears that, according to Kant,
a systematic deduction of all conscious-
ness, or, which is the same, a System of
Philosophy, must proceed from the pure
Ego, just as the Science of Knowledge
proceeds ; and Kant himself has thus sug-
gested the idea of such a Science.

But some one might wish to weaken this
argument by the following distinction : It
is one thing to condition, and another to
determine.

According to Kant, all consciousness is
only conditioned by self-consciousness ; •
i. e. the content of that consciousness may
have its ground in something else than
self-consciousness; provided the results of
that grounding do not contradict the con-
ditions of self-consciousness ; those re-
sults need not proceed from self-conscious- |
ness, provided they do not cancel its pos-
sibility.

But, according to the Science of Knowl-
edge, all consciousness is determined/*
through self-consciousness ; i. c. every-
thing which occui's in consciousness is
grounded, given and pjoduxed by the con-
ditions of self-consciousness, and a ground
of the same in something other than self-
consciousness does not exist at all.

Now, to meet this argument, I must show
that in the present case the determinatcness
follows immediately from the conditioned-
ness, and that, therefore, the distinction
drawn between both is not valid in this in-
stance. Whosoever says, "All conscious-
ousness is conditioned by the possibility
of self consciousness, and as such I now
propose to consider it," knows in this his
investigation, nothing more concerning
consciousness, and abstracts from evory-

the conception of the pure Ego exactly as thing he may believe, further to know
the Science of Knowledge has described it, concerning it. He deduces what is required

and completely determined. Again, in
what relation does Kant, in the above pas-
sage, place this pure Ego to all conscious-
ness ? As conditioning the same. Hence,
according to Kant, the possibility of all

from the asserted principle, and only what
he thus has deduced as consciousness is
for him consciousness, and everything
is and remains nothing. Thus the d.-riva-
bility from self-consciousness determines

142

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

for hira the extent of that which he holds
to be consciousness, because he starts from
the presupposition that all consciousness
is conditioned by the possibility of self-
consciousness.

Now I know very well that Kant has by
no means built up such a system ; for if he
had, the author of the Science of Knowl-
edge would not have undertaken that work,
but would have elmsen another branch of '
I human knowledge for his field. I know
that he has by no means proven his cate-
gories to be conditions of self-conscious-
ness ; I know that he has simply asserted
them so to be; that he has still less de-
duced time and space, and that which in
original consciousness is inseparable from
them — the matter which fills time and space
— as such conditions ; since of these he has
not even expressly stated, as he has done
in the case of the categories, that they are
such conditions. But I believe I know
quite as well that Kant has thought such
a system ; that all his writings and utter-
ances are fragments and results of this
system, and that his assertions get mean-
ing and intention only through this presup-
position. Whether he did not himself think
this system with sufficient clearness and
definiteness to enable him to utter it for
others; or whether he did, indeed, think
it thus clearly and merely did not want so
to utter it, as some remarks would seem to
indicate, might, it seems to me, be left un-
decided ; at least somebody else must in-
vestigate this matter, for I have never as-
serted anything on this point.* But, how-
ever such an investigation may result, this
merit surely belongs altogether to the great
man ; that he first Of all consciously sepa-

* For instance — Critique of Pure Reason, p.
108: "I purposely pass by the definition of
these categories, although 1 may be in possession
of it." Now, these categories can be defined,
each by its determined relation to the possi-
bility of self consciousness, and whoever is in
possession of these definitions, is necessarily
possessed of the Science of Knowledge. Again,
p. 109: "In a system of pure reason this defini-
tion might justly be required of me, but in the
present work they would only obscure the
main point." Here he clearly opposes two
systems to each other — the Si/stem of Pure Rea-
son and the "present work," i. e. the Critique
of Pure Reason — and the latter is said not to be
the former.

rated philosophy from external objects,
and led that science into the Self. This is
the spirit and the inmost soul of all his
philosophy, and this also is the spirit and
soul of the Science of Knowledge.

I am reminded of a chief distinction
which is said to exist between the Science
of Knowledge and Kant's system, and a
distinction which but recently has been
again insisted upon by a man who is justly
supposed to have understood Kant, and
who has shown that he also has understood
the Science of Knowledge. This man is
Reinhold, who, in a late essay, in endeav-
oring to prove that I have done injustice
to myself, and to other 1 successful' students
of Kant's writings — in stating what I have
just now reiterated and proved, i. e. that
Kant's system and the Science of Knowl-
edge are the same — proceeds to remark :
"The ground of our assertion, that there
is an external something corresponding to
our representations, is most certainly held
by the Critique of Pure Reason to be con-
tained in the Ego ; but only in so far as cm-
pirical knowledge (experience) has taken
place in the Ego as a fact; that is to say,
the Critique of Pure Reason holds that this
empirical knowledge has its ground in the
pure Ego only in relation to its transcend-
ental content, which is the form of that
knowledge ; but in regard to its empirical
content, which gives that knowledge ob-
jective validity, it is grounded in the Ego
through a something ivhich is not the Ego.
Now, a scientific form of philosophy was
not possible so long as that something,
which is not Ego, was looked for outside
of the Ego as ground of the objective re-
ality of the transcendental content of the
Ego"."

Thus Reinhold. I have not convinced
my readers, or demonstrated my proof,
until I have met this objection.

The (purely historical) question is this :
Has Kant really placed the ground of ex-
perience (in its empirical content) in a
something different from the Ego?

I know very well that all the Kantians,
except Mr. Beck, whose work appeared
after the publication of the Science of
Knowledge, have really understood Kant
to say this. Nay, the last interpreter of

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

143

Kant, Mr. Schulz, -whom Kant himself has
endorsed, thus interprets him. How often
does Mr. Schulz admit that the objective
ground of the appearances is contained in
something which is a thing in itself, &c,
&c. We have just seen how Reinhold also
interprets Kant.

Now it may seem presumptuous for one
man to arise and say : " Up to this moment,
amongst a number of worthy scholars who
have devoted their time and energies to
the interpretation of a certain book, not a
single one has understood that book other-
wise than utterly falsely ; they all have dis-
covered in that system the very doctrine
which it refutes — dogmatism, instead of
transcendental idealism; and I alone un-
derstand it rightly" Yet this presumption
might be but seemingly so ; for it is to be
hoped that other persons will adopt that
one man's views, and that, therefore, he
will not always stand alone. There are
other reasons why it is not very presump-
tuous to contradict the whole number of
Kantians, but I will not mention them
here.

But what is most curious in this matter
is this — the discovery that Kant did not
intend to speak of a something different
from the Ego, is by no means a new one.
For ten years everybody could read the
most thorough and complete proof of it
in Jacobi's "Idealism and Realism," and
in his "Transcendental Idealism." In
those works Jacobi has put together the
most evident and decisive passages from
Kant's writings on this subject, in Kant's
own words. I do not like to do again
what has once been done, and cannot
be done better; and I refer my readers
with the more pleasure to those works, as
they, like all philosophical writings of
Jacobi, may be even yet of advantage to
them.

A few questions, however, I propose to
address to those interpreters of Kant.
Tell me, how far does the applicability of
the categories extend, according to Kant,
particularly of the category of causality ?
Clearly only to the field of appearances,
and hence only to that which is already
in us and for us. But in what manner do
we then come to accept a something differ-

ent from the Ego, as the ground of tho
empirical content of Knowledge? I an-
swer : only by drawing a conclusion from
the grounded to the ground : h snee by ap-
plying the category of causality. Thus,
indeed, Kant himself discovers it to be,
and hence rejects the assumption of things,
Sfc, Sfc, outside of us. But his interpret-
ers make him forget for the present in-
stance the validity of categories generally,
and make him arrive, by a bold leap, from
the world of appearances to the thin.' per
se outside of us. Now, how do these in-
terpreters justify this inconsequence?

Kant evidently speaks of a thing perse.
But Avhat is this thing to him ? A noume-
non, as we can find in many passages <>f his
writings. Reinhold and Schulz also hold
it to be a noumenon. Now, what is a nou-
menon? According to Kant, to Reinhold,
and Schulz, a something, which our think-
ing — by laws to be shown up, and which
Kant has shown up — adds to the appear-
ance, and which must so be added in
thought;* which, therefore, is produced
only through our thinking ; not, however,
through our free, but through a necessary
thinking, which is only/or uur thinking —
for us thinking beings.

But what do those interpreters make of
this noumenon or thing in itself?. The
thought of this thing in itself is grounded
in sensation, and sensation they again
assert to be grounded in the thing in itself.
Their globe rests on the great elephant,
and the great elephant — rests on the globe.
Their thing in itself, which is a mere
thought, they say affects the Ego. 11
they then forgotten their first speech, and
is the thing, per se, which a moment ago
was but a mere thought, now tamed into
something more ? Or do they seriously
mean to apply to a mere thought, the ex-
clusive predicate of reality, i. e. causality ?
And such teachings are put forth as the

* Here is the corner stone of Kant's realism.
I must think something as thing in itself, i. e.
as independent of me, the empirical, whenever
I occupy the standpoint of the empirical ; and
because I must think so, I never lire.. me con-
scious of this activity in my thinking, twee >i
is not free. Only when l occupy the stand-
point of philosophy can I draw the conch.
that I am active in this thinking.

144

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

astonishing discoveries of the great genius,
who, with his torch, lights up the retro-
grade philosophical century. J

It is but too well known to me that the
Kantianism of the Kantians is precisely
the just described system — is really this
monstrous composition of the most vulgar
dogmatism, which allows things per se to
make impressions upon us, and of the most
decided idealism, which allows all being
to be generated only through the thinking
of the intelligence, and which knows noth-
ing of any other sort of being. From what
I am yet going to say on this subject, I
except two men — Reinhold, because with
a power of mind and a love of truth which
do credit to his heart and head, he has
abandoned this system, (which, however,
he still holds to be the Kantian system,
and I only disagree with him on this purely
historical question,) and Schulz, because
he has of late been silent on philosophical
questions, which leaves it fair to assume
that he has begun to doubt his former
system.

But concerning the others, it must be
acknowledged by all who have still their
inner sense sufficiently under control to
be able to distinguish between being and
' thinking and not to mix both together,
4 that a system which thus mixes being
i and thinking receives but too much
honor if it is spoken of seriously. To be
sure, very few men may be properly re-
quired to overcome the natural tendency
towards dogmatism sufficiently to lift
themselves up to the free flight of Specu-
lation. What was impossible for a man
of overwhelming mental activity like
Jacobi, how can it be expected of certain
other men, whom I would rather not name ?
But that these incurable dogmatists should
have persuaded themselves that Kant's
Critique of Pure Reason was food for them ;
that they had the boldness to conclude —
since Kant's writings had been praised
(God may know by what chance !) in some
celebrated journal — they might also now
follow the fashion and become Kantians ;
that since then, for years, they, in their
intoxication, have be-written many a ream
of valuable paper, without ever, in all this
time, having come to their senses, or un-

derstood but one period of all they have
written ; that up to the present day,
though they have been somewhat rudely
shaken, they have not been able to rub the
sleep out of their eyes, but rather prefer
to beat and kick about them, in the hope
of striking some of these unwelcome dis-
turbers of their peace ; and that the Ger-
man public, so desirous of acquiring
knowledge, should have bought their
blackened paper with avidity, and at-
tempted to suck up the spirit of it — nay,
should even, perhaps, have copied and re-
copied these writings without ever clearly
perceiving that there was no sense in
them : all this will forever, in the annals
of philosophy, remain the disgrace of our
century, and our posterity will be able to
explain these occurrences of our times
only on the presupposition of a mental
epidemic, which had taken hold of this
age.

But, will these interpreters reply : your
argument is, after all — if we abstract from
Jacobi's writings, which, to be sure, are
rath'er hard to swallow, since they quote
Kant's own words — no more than this : it
is absurd ; hence Kant cannot have meant
to say it. Now, if we admit the absurdity,
as unfortunately we must, why, then,
might not Kant have said these absurdi-
ties, just as well as we others, amongst
whom there are some, of whom you your-
self confess the merits, and to whom you
doubtless will not deny all sound under-
standing?

I reply : to be the inventor of a system is
one thing, and to be his commentators and
successors, another. What, in case of the
latter, would not testify to an absolute want
of sound sense, might certainly evince it in
the former. The ground is this : the latter
are not yet possessed of the idea of the
whole— for if they Were so possessed, there
would be no necessity for them to study
the system : they are merely to construct
it out of the parts which the inventor
hands over to them ; and all these parts
are, in their minds, not fully determined,
rounded off, and made smooth, until they
are united into a natural whole. Now,
this construction of the parts may require
some time, and during this time it may

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

145

o«cur that these men determine some parts
inaccurately, and hence place them in con-
tradiction with the whole, of which they
are not yet possessed. The discoverer of
the idea of the whole, on the contrary,
proceeds from this idea, in which all parts
are united, and these parts he separately
places before his readers, because only
thus can he communicate the whole. The
work of the former is a synthetizing of
that which they do not yet possess, but are
to obtain through the synthesis ; the work
'• of the latter is an analyzing of that which
- he already possesses. It is very possible
that the former may not be aware of the
contradiction in which the several parts
stand to the whole which is to be com-
posed of 'them, for they may not have got
so far yet as to compare them. But it is
quite certain that the latter, who proceed-
ed from the composite, must have thought,
or believed that he thought, the contradic-
tion which is in the parts of his represent-
ation — for he certainly at one time held all
the parts together. It is not absurd to
think dogmatism now, and in another mo-
ment transcendental idealism ; for this we
all do, and must do, if we wish to phil-
osophize about both systems ; but it is ab-
surd to think both systems as one. The
interpreters of Kant's system do not neces-
sarily think it thus as one ; but the author
of that system must certainly have done
so if his system was intended to effect
such a union.

Now, I, at least, am utterly incapable of
believing such an absurdity on the part of
any one who has his senses ; how, then,
can I believe Kant to have been guilty of
it ? Unless Kant, therefore, declares ex-
pressly in so many words, that he deduces
sensation from an impression of the thing,
per se, or, to use his "own terminology, that
sensation must be explained in philosophy,
from a transcendental object ivhich exists
outside of ws, I shall not believe what
these interpreters tell us of Kant. But if
he does make this declaration, I shall con-
sider the Critique of Pure Reason rather as
the result of the most marvellous accident
than as the product of a mind.

But, say our opponents, does not Kant
state expressly that " The object is given
10

to us," and " that this is possible because
the object affects us as in a certain man-
ner," and " that there is a power of at-
taining representations by the maimer in
which objects affect us, which power is
called sensuousness." Nay, Kant says even
this : " How should our knowledge be
awakened into exercise if it were not done
by objects that touch aur s ens es and
partly produce representations themselves,
while partly putting our power of under-
standing into motion, to compare, connect
and separate these representations, and
thus to form the raw material of our sen-
suous impressions into a knowledge which
is called experience." Well, these are
probably all the passages which can be
adduced by our opponents. Now, putting
merely passages against passages, and
words against words, and abstracting al-
together from the idea of the whole,
which I assume these interpreters never to
have had, let me ask first, if these passages
could really rot be united with iLunt's
other frequently repeated statements, viz.,
that it is folly to speak of an impression
produced upon us by an external tran-
scendental object, — how did it happen
that these interpreters preferred to sacri-
fice the many statements, which assert a
transcendental idealism, to these Jew pas-
sages, which assert a dogmatism, than'
vice versa? Doubtless because they did
not attempt the study of Kant's wri ings
with an impartial mind, but had their
heads full of that dogmatism — whie'u con-
stitutes their very being — as the only cor-
rect system, which they assumed such a
sensible man as Kant must necessarily
also hold to be the only correct system ;
and because they thus did not seek to be
taught by Kant, but merely to be con-
firmed by him in their old way of think-
ing.

But cannot these seemingly opposite
statements be united? Kant speaks in.
these passages of objects. What this word
is to signify, we clearly must learn from
Kant himself. He says: "It is the un-
derstanding which adds the object to the
appearance, by connecting the manifold
of the appearance in one consciousness.
When this is done, we say we know the

146

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

object, for we have effected a synthetical
unity in the manifold of the contempla-
tion, and the conception of this unity is
the representation of the object = X. But
this X is not the transcendental object (i. e.
the thing per se),j'or of that we know not
even so much."

What, then, is this object? That which
the understanding adds to the appearance,
a mere thought. Now, the object affects —
i. e. something which is a mere thought
affects. What does this mean ? If I hare
but a spark of logic, it means simply : it
affects in so far as it is ; hence it is only
thought as affecting. Let as now see what
Kant means when he speaks about the
"power to obtain representations by the
manner in which objects affect us." Since
we only think the affection itself, we
doubtless only think likewise that which is
common to the affection. Or : if you posit
an object with the thought that it has
affected you, you think yourself in this
case affected; and if you think that this
occurs in respect to all the objects of your
perception, you think yourself as liable to
be aff'ected generally — or, in other words,
you ascribe to yourself, through this your
thinking, receptivity or sensuousness.

But do we not thus assume, after all,
affection to explain knowledge? Let me
state the difference in one word : it is true,
all our knowledge proceeds from an affec-
tion, but not an affection through an ob-
ject. This is Kant's doctrine, and that of
the Science of Knowledge. As Mr. Beck
has overlooked this important point, and
as Reinhold does not call sufficient atten-
tion to that which makes the positing of a
non-Ego possible, I consider it proper to
explain the matter in a few words. In
doing so I shall use my own terminology,
and not Kant's, because I naturally have
my own more at my command.

When I posit myself, I posit myself
as a limited; in consequence of the con-
templation of my self-positing, I am finite.

This, my limitedness — since it is the
condition which makes my self-positing
possible — is an original limitedness.
Somebody might wish to explain this still
further, and either deduce the limitedness
of myself as the reflected., from my neces-

sary limitedness as the reflecting; which
would result in the statement : I am finite
to myself, because I can think only the
finite; — or he might explain the limited-
ness of the reflecting from that of the re-
flected, which would result in the state-
ment : I can think only the finite, because
I am finite. Bnt such an explanation
would explain nothing, for I am originally
neither the reflecting nor the reflected, but
both in their union ; which union I cannot
think, it is true, because I separate, in
thinking, the reflecting from the reflected. J

All limitedness is, by its very concep-
tion, a determined, and not a general lim-
itedness.

From the possibility of an Ego, we have
thus deduced the necessity of a general
limitedness of the Ego. But the determin-
edness of this limitedness cannot be de-
duced, since it is, as we have seen, that
which conditions all Egoness. Here, •
therefore, all deduction is at an end. v.
This deierminedness appears as the abso-
lutely accidental, and furnishes the mere-
ly empirical of our knowledge. It is this
determinedness, for instance, by virtue of
which I am, amongst all possible rational
beings, a man, and amongst all men this
particular person, &c, &c.

This, my limitation, in its determined-
ness, manifests itself as a limitation of
my practical power (here philosophy is
therefore driven from the theoretical to
the practical sphere) ; and the immediate
perception of this limitation is a, feeling (I -
prefer to use this word instead of Kant's
" sensation," for feeling only becomes
sensation by being related in thinking to
an object) ; for instance, the feeling of
sweet, red, cold, &c.

To forget this original feeling, leads to
a bottomless transcendental idealism, and
to an incomplete philosophy, which cannot
explain the simply sensible predicates of
objects. Now, the endeavor to explain
this original feeling from the causality of
a something, is the dogmatism of the Kant-
ians, which I have just shown up, and
which they would like to put on Kant's
shoulders. This, their something, is the
everlasting thing per se. All transcenden-
tal explanation, on the contrary, stops at

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

147

the immediate feeling, from the reason
just pointed out. It is true, the empirical
Ego, which transcendental idealism ob-
serves, explains this feeling to itself by
the law, "No limitation without a limit-
ing;" and thus, through contemplation of
the limiting, produces extended matter, of
which it now, as of its ground, predicates
the merely subjective sensation of feel-
ing; and it is only by virtue of this syn-
thesis that the Ego makes itself an object.
The continued analysis and the continued
explanation of its own condition, give to
the Ego its own system of a universe; and
the observation of the laws of this expla-
nation gives to the philosopher his science.
It is here that Kant's Realism is based, but
his Realism is a transcendental idealism.

This whole determinedness, and hence
also the total of feelings which it makes
possible, is to be regarded as a priori —
i. e. absolutely, without any action of
our own — determined. It is Kant's recep-
tivity, and a particular of this receptivity
is an affection. Without it, consciousness
is unexplainable.

There is no doubt that it is an immedi-
ate fact of consciousness — I feel myself
thus or thus determined. Now, when the
oft-lauded philosophers attempt to explain
this feeling, is it not clear that they at-
tempt to append something to it which is
not immediately involved in the fact? and
how can they do this, except through
thinking, and through a thinking according
to a category, which category is here that
of the real ground? Now, if they have
not an immediate contemplation of the
thing per ce and its relations, what else
can they possibly know of this category,
but that they are compelled to think ac-
cording to it ? They assert nothing but
that they are compelled to add in thought
a thing as the ground of this feeling. But
this we cheerfully admit in regard, to the
standpoint which they occupy. Their
thing is produced by their thinking; and
now it is at the same time to be a thing
per se, i. e. not produced by thinking.

I really do not comprehend them ; I can
neither think this thought, nor think an
understanding which does think it; and

by this declaration, I hope I have done
with them forever.

VII.

Having finished this digression, we now
return to our original intention, which
was to describe the procedure of the Sci-
ence of Knowledge, and to justify it
against the attacks of certain philosophers.
We said, the philosopher observes himself
in the act whereby he constructs for him-
self the conception of himself; and we
now add, he also thinks this act of his.

For the philosopher, doubtless, knows
whereof he speaks ; but a mere contempla-
tion gives no consciousness ; only that is
known which is conceived and thought.
This conception or comprehension of his
activity is very well possible for the phil-
osopher, since he is already in possession
of experience; for he has a conception of
activity in general, and as such, namely, %
as the opposite of the equally well known
conception of Being; and he also has a
conception of this particular activity, as
that of an intelligence, i. e. as simply an
ideal activity, and not the real causality of
the practical Ego ; and moreover, a con-
ception of the peculiar character of this
particular activity as an in itself returning
activity, and not an activity directed upon
an external object.

But here as well as everywhere it is to
be well remembered that the contempla-
tion is and remains the basis of the con-
ception, i. e. of that which is conceived in
the conception. We cannot absolutely cre-
ate or produce bv thinking; we can only
think that which is immediately contem-
plated by us. A thinking, which has no
contemplation for its basis, which does not
embrace a contemplation entertained in
the ame undivided moment, is an empty
thinking, or is really no thinking at all.
At the utmost it may be the thinking of a
mere sign of the conception, and if this
sign is a word, as seems likely, the mere
thoughtless utterance of this word. I de-
termine my contemplation by the thinking
of an opposite; this and nothing else is
the meaning of the expression— I compre-
hend the contemplation.

148

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

Through thinking, the activity, which
the philosopher thinks, becomes objective
to him, i. e. it floats before him, in so far as
he thinks it, as something which checks
or limits the freedom (the undetermined-
ness) of his thinking. This is the true
and original significance of objectivity.
As certain as I think, I think a determined
something ; or, in other words, the freedom
of my thinking, which might have been di-
rected upon an infinite manifold of objects,
is now, when I think, only directed upon
that limited sphere of my thinking which
the present object fills. It is limited to
this sphere. / restrict myself with free-
dom to this sphere, if I contemplate my-
self in the doing of it. I am restricted by
this sphere, if I contemplate only the object
and forget myself, as is universally done
on the standpoint of common thinking.
What I have just now said is intended to
correct the following objections and mis-
understandings.

All thinking is necessarily directed upon
a being, say some. Now the Ego of the
Science of Knowledge is not to have beiny;:
hence it is unthinkable, and the whole
Science, which is built upon such a con-
tradiction, is null and void.

Let me be permitted to make a prelimi-
nary remark concerning the spirit which
prompts this objection. When the wise
men, who urge it, take the conception of
the Ego as determined in the Science of
Knowledge, and examine it by the rules of
their logic, they doubtless think that con-
ception, for how else could they compare
and relate it to something else ? If they
really could not think it, they would not
be able to say a word about it, and it
would remain altogether unknown to them.
But they have really, as we see, happily
achieved the thinking of it, and so must
be able to think it. Yet, because accord-
ing to their traditional and misconceived
rules, they ought to have been unable to
think it, they would now rather deny the
possibility of an act, while doing it, than
give up their rule; they would believe
an old book rather than their own con-
sciousness. How little can these men be
aware of what they really do ! How me-

chanically, and without any inner atten-
tion and spirit, must they produce their
philosophical specimens ! Master Jourdajn
after all was willing to believe that he had
spoken prose all his lifetime, without
knowing it, though it did appear rather
curious ; but these men, if they had been
in his place, would have proven in the
most beautiful prose that they could not
speak prose, since they did not possess
the rules of speaking prose, and since the
conditions of the possibility of a thing
must always precede its reality. Nay, if
critical idealism should continue to be a
burden to them, it is to be expected that
they will next go to Aristotle for advice as
to whether they really live, or are already
dead and buried. By doubting the pos-
sibility of ever becoming conscious of their
freedom and Egoness, they are covertly
already doubting this very point.

Their objection might therefore be sum-
marily put aside, since it contradicts, and
thus annihilates itself. But let us see
where the real ground of the misunder-
standing may be concealed.

All thinking necessarily proceeds from
a being, say they. Now what does this
mean ? If it is to mean what we have just
shown up, namely, that there is in all
thinking a thought, an object of the. think-
ing, to which this particular thinking con-
fines itself, and by which it seems to be
limited, then their premise must undoubt-
edly be admitted; and it is not the Sci-
ence of Knowledge which is going to deny
it. This objectivity for the mere thinking
does doubtless also belong to the Ego,
from which the Science of Knowledge pro-
ceeds ; or, which means the same, to the
act whereby the Ego constructs itself for
itself. But it is only through thinking
and only for thinking that it has this ob-
jectivity ; it is merely an ideal being.

If, however, the being, of their above
assertion, is to mean not a mere ideal, but
a real being, i. e. a something, limiting
not only the ideal, but also the actually
productive, the practical activity of the
Ego — that is to say, a something perma-
nent in time and persistent in space — then
that assertion of theirs is unwarranted.

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

140

If it were correct, no science of philoso- But our opponents claim that they do not

pay were possible, for the conception of make their assertion without all proof;

they want to prove it by logic, and, if God
is willing, by the logical proposition of
contradiction.

If there is anytbing which clearly shows
the lamentable condition of philosophy as
a science in these our days, it is that such
occurrences can take place. If anybody
were to speak about mathematics, natural
sciences, or any other science, in a manner
which would indicate beyond a doubt his
complete ignorance concerning the first
principles of such a science, he would be
at once sent back to the school from which

the Ego would be unthinkable ; and self-
consciousness, nay, even consciousness,
would also be impossible. If it were cor-
rect, we, it is true, should be compelled to
stop philosophizing; but this would be no
gain to them, for they would also have to
stop refuting us. But do they not them-
selves repudiate the correctness of their
assertion? Do they not think themselves
every moment of their life as free and as
having causality ? Do they not, for in-
stance, think themselves the free, active
authors of the very sensible and very
original objections, which they bring up he ran away too soon. But in philosophy
from time to time against our system ? it is not to be thus. If in philosophy a
Now, is then this "themselves " something man shows in the same manner his com-
which checks and limits their causality, plete ignorance, we are, with many bows
or is it not rather the very opposite of the and compliments to the sharp-sighted man,
check, namely, the very causality itself ? to give him publicly that private schooling
I must refer them to what I have said in which he so sadly needs, and without be-
§ v. on this subject. If such a sort of traying the least smile or gesture of dis-
being were ascribed to the Ego, the Ego gust. Have, then, the philosophers in two
would cease to be Ego ; it would become a thousand years made clear not a single
thing, and its conception would be annihi- proposition which might now be considered
lated. It is true that afterwards — not as established for that science without fur-
afterwards as a posteriority in time, but ther proof? If there is such a proposition,
afterwards in the series of the dependence it is certainly that of the distinction of
of thinking — we also ascribe such a being logic, as a purely formal science, from real

to the Ego, which, nevertheless, remains
and must remain Ego in the original mean-
ing of the word; this being consisting
partly of extension and persistency in
space, and in this respect it becomes a body,
and partly identity and permanency in
time, and in this respect it becomes a soul.

philosophy or metaphysics. But what is
really the true meaning of this terrible
logical proposition of contradiction which
is to crush at one stroke our whole sys-
tem ? As far as I know, simply this : if a
conception is already determined by a cer-
tain characteristic, then it must not be de-

But it is the business of philosophy to termined by another opposite characteris-
prove, and genetically to explain how the tic. But by what characteristic the con-
Ego comes to think itself thus, and all ception is originally to be characterized,
this belongs not to that which is presup- this logical theorem does not say, nor can
posed, but to that which is to be deduced. say, for it presupposes the original determ-
The result, therefore, remains thus:; the ination, and is applicable only in so far
Ego is originally only an acting : if you as that is presupposed. Concerning the
but think it as an active, you have already original determination another science will
an Empirical, and hence a conception of it, have to decide,
which must first be deduced.* These wise men tell us that it is contra-

* To suite the main point in a few words:
All being signifies a limitation of free activity*
Now this activity is regarded either as that of
the mere intelligence, and then that which is
posited as limiting this activity has a mere
ideal being, mere objectivity in regard to conscious-
ness. — This objectivity is in every representa-

tion (even in that of the Ego, of virtue, of the
moral law, &c, or in that of complete phan-
tasms, as, for instance, a squared circle, a
sphynx, &.c.) object of the wre representation.
Or the free activity is regarded as having actual
causality; and then that which limits it, has
actual existence, the real world.

150

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

dictory not to determine a conception by
the predicate of actual being. Yet how-
can this be contradictory, unless the con-
ception has first been thus determined by
the predicate of actual being, and has
then had that predicate denied to it? But
who authorized them to determine the con-
ception by that predicate? Do not these
adepts in logic perceive that they postulate
their principle, and turn around in an evi-
dent circle? Whether there really be a
conception, which is originally — by the
laws of the synthetizing, not of the merely
analyzing reason — not determined by that
predicate of actual heing, this they will
have to go and learn from contemplation ;
logic only warns them against afterwards
again applying the same predicate to that
conception; of course also, in the same
respect, in w T hich they have denied the de-
terminability of the conception by that
predicate.

But certainly if they have not yet ele-
vated themselves to the consciousness of
that contemplation, which is not determ-
ined by the predicate of being, (for that
they should unconsciously possess that
contemplation itself, Reason herself has
taken care of,) then all their conceptions,
which can be derived only from sensuous
contemplation, are very properly determ-
ined by the predicate of this actual being.
In that case, however, they must not be-
lieve that logic has taught them this assert-
ed connection of thinking and being, for
their knowledge of it is altogether derived
from their unfortunate empirical self.
They, standing on the standpoint of know-
ing no other conceptions than those derived
from sensuous contemplation, would, of
course, contradict themselves if they were
to think one of their conceptions without
the' predicate of actual being. We, on our
part, are also well content to let them re-
tain this rule for themselves, since it is
most assuredly universally valid for the
whole sphere of their possible thinking;
and to let them always- carefully keep an
eye on this rule, so that they may not vio-
late it. As for ourselves, however, we can-
not use this their rule any longer, for we
possess a few conceptions more, resting in
a sphere over which their rule does not ex-

tend, and about which they can speak
nothing, since it does not exist for them.
Let them, therefore, attend to their own
business hereafter, and leave us to attend
to ours. Even in so far as we grant them
the rule, namely, that every thinking
must have an object of thinking ; it is by
no means a logical rule, but rather one
which logic presupposes, and through which
logic first becomes possible. To think, is the
same as to determine objects ; both con—,
ceptions are identical ; logic furnishes the
rules of this determining, and hence pre-
supposes clearly enough the determining
generally as a part of consciousness. That
all thinking has an object can be shown
only in contemplation. Think! and ob-
serve in this thinking how you do it, and
you will doubtless find that you oppose
to your thinking an object of this thinking.

Another objection, somewhat related to
the above, is this : If you do not proceed
from a being, how can you, without being
illogical, deduce a being? You will never
be able to get anything else out of what
you take in hand than what is already con-
tained in it, unless you proceed dishonestly
and use juggler tricks.

I reply : Nor do we deduce being in the
sense in which you use the word, i. e. as
being, per se. What the philosopher takes
up is an acting, w y hich acts according to
certain laws, and what he establishes is
the series of necessary acts of this acting.
Among-st these acts there occurs one which
to the acting itself appears as a being, and
which by laws to be shown up, must so ap-
pear to it. The philosopher who observes
the acting from a higher standpoint, never
ceases to regard it as an acting. A being
exists only for the observed Ego, which
thinks realistically; but for the philoso-
pher there is acting, and only acting, for
he. thinks idealistically. ,^

Let me express it on this occasion in all
clearness: The essence of transcendental
idealism generally, and of the Science of
Knowledge particularly, consists in this,
that the conception of being is not at all
viewed as a first and original conception,
but simply as a derived conception; de-<-
rived from the opposition of activity.
Hence it is considered only as a negative

Jl Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

151

conception. The only positive for the demonstrate the utter confusion of their

idealist is Freedom; being is the mere conceptions; for what may a being for us

negative of freedom. Only thus has ideal- mean, which is, nevertheless, to be an

ism a firm basis, and is in harmony with original ?io<-derived being? Who, then,

itself. But dogmatism, which believed
itself safely reposing upon being, as a basis
no further to be investigated or grounded,
regards this assertion as a stupidity
and horror, for it is its annihilation.
That wherein the dogmatist, amongst all
the inflictions which he has experienced

are those "toe," for whom alone this being
is? Are they intelligences as such? Then
the statement " there is something for the
intelligence," signifies, this something is
represented by the intelligence; and the
statement " it is only for the intelligence,"
signifies, it is only represented. Hence the
from time to time, still found a hiding conception of a being, which, from a ccr-
place — namely, some original being, though tain point of view, is to be independent of

it were but a raw and formless matter — is
now utterly destroyed, and he stands naked
and defenceless. He has no weapons
against this attack except the assurance of
his hearty disgust, and his confession, that
he does not understand, and positively can-
not and will not think, what is required of
him. We cheerfully give credence to this
statement, and only beg that he will also
place faith in our assurance, that we find
it not at all difficult to think our system.
Nay, if this should be too much for him, we
can even abstain from it, and leave him to
believe whatever he chooses on this point.
That we do not and cannot force him to
adopt our system, because its adoption de-
pends upon freedom, has already been
often enough admitted.

I say that the dogmatist has nothing left
but the assurance of his incapacity, for
the idea of intrenching himself behind
general logic, and conjuring the shade of
the Stagirite, because he knows not how
to defend his own body, is altogether now,
and will find few imitators even in this
universal state of despair ; since the least

the representation, must, after all, be de-
rived from the representation, since it is to
be, only through it; and these men would,
therefore, be more in harmony with the
Science of Knowledge than they believed.
Or are those "toe" themselves things,
original things, things in themselves?
How, then, can anything be for them ; how
can they even be for themselves, since the
conception of a thing involves merely that
it is, but not that the thing is for itself?
What may the word for signify to them?
Is it, perhaps, but an innocent adornment
which they have adopted for the sake of
fashion?

VIII.

The Science of Knowledge has said, " It
is not possible to abstract from the Ego."
This assertion may be regarded from two
points of view — either from the standpoint
of common consciousness, and then it
means, " We never have another represen-
tation than that of ourselves ; throughout
our whole life, and in all moments of our
life, we think only I, I, I, and nothing but
I." Or it may be viewed from the stand-

school knowledge of what logic really is, point of the philosopher, and then it will

will suffice to make every one reject this
protection.

Let no one be deceived by these oppo-
nents, if they adopt the language of ideal-
ism, and admitting with their lips the cor-
rectness of its views, protest that, they

have the following significance : " The Ego
must necessarily be added in thought to
whatever occurs in consciousness ;" or as
Kant expresses it, "All my representations
must be thought as accompanied by — I
think." What nonsense were it to main-

know well enough that being is only to tain the first interpretation to be the true

signify being for us. They are dogmatists.
For every one who asserts that all thinking
and consciousness must proceed from a
being, makes being something primary ;
and it is this which constitutes dogmatism.
By such a confusion of speech they but

one, and what wretchedness to refute it in
that interpretation. But in the latter in-
terpretation the assertion of the Science of
Knowledge will doubtless be acceptable to
every one who is but able to understand it ;
and if it had onlv been thus understood

152

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

before, we should long ago have been rid
of the thing per se, for it would have been
seen that we are always the Thinking,
whomever we may think, and that hence
nothing can occur in us which is independ-
ent of us, because it all is necessarily re-
lated to our thinking.

IX.

"But," confess other opponents of the
Science of Knowledge, "as far as our own
persons are concerned, we cannot, under
the conception of the Ego, think anything
else than our own dear persons as opposed
to other persons. Ego (I) signifies my par-
ticular person, named, for instance, Caius
or Sempronius, as distinguished from other
persons not so named. Now, if I should
abstract, as the Science of Knowledge re-
quires me to do, from this individual per-
sonality, there would be nothing left to me
which might be characterized as /; I might
just as well call the remainder It."

Now, what is the real meaning of this
objection, so boldly put forth? Does it
speak of the original real synthesis of the
conception of the individual (their own
dear persons and other persons), and do
they therefore mean to say, "there is noth-
ing synthetized in this conception but the
conception of an object generally — of the
It, and of other objects (Its) — from which
the first one is distinguished?" Or does
that objection fly for protection to the
common use of language, and do they
therefore mean to say, " In language, the
word I (Ego) signifies only individuality ?"
As far as the first is concerned, every one,
who is as yet possessed of his senses,
must see that by distinguishing one object
from its equals, i. e. from other objects,
we arrive only at a determined object, but
not at a determined person. The synthesis
of the conception of the personality is
quite different. The Egoness (the in itself
returning activity, the subject-objectivity,
or whatever you choose to call it,) is origi-
nally opposed to the It, to the mere objec-
tivity ; and the positing of these concep-
tions is absolute, is conditioned by no
other positing, is thetical, not synthetical.
This conception of the Egoness, which has
arisen in our Self, is now transferred to

something, which in the first positing was
posited as an It, as a mere object, and is
synthetically united with it; and it is only
through this conditional synthesis that
there first arises for us a Thou. The con-
ception of Thou arises from the union of the ; jf
It and the I. The conception of the Ego in
this opposition ; hence, as conception of the
individual, is the synthesis of the I with
itself. That which posits itself in the de-
scribed act, not generally, but as Ego, is
I; and that which in the same act is
posited as Ego, not through itself, but
through me, is Thou. Now it is doubtless
possible to abstract from this product of a
synthesis, for what we ourselves have syn-
thetized we doubtless can analyze again,
and when we so abstract, the remainder
will be the general Ego, i. e. the not-object.
Taken in this interpretation, the objection
would be simply absurd.

But how if our opponents cling to the use
of language? Even if it is true that the
word "I" has hitherto signified in lan-
guage only the individual, would this make
it necessary that a distinction in the origi-
nal synthesis is not to be remarked and
named, simply because it has never before
been noticed? But is it true? Of what
use of language do they speak ? Of the
philosophical language? I have shown
already that Kant uses the conception of
the pure Ego in the same meaning I at-
tach to it. If he says, " I am the thinking
in this thinking," does he then only op-
pose himself to other persons, and not
rather to all object of thinking generally?
Kant says again, "The fundamental prin-
ciple of the necessary unity of apperception
is itself identical, and hence an analytical
proposition." This signifies precisely what
I have just stated, i. e. that the Ego arises
through no synthesis, the manifold whereof
might be further analyzed, but through an
absolute thesis. But this Ego is the Ego-
ness generally ; for the conception of in-
dividuality arises clearly enough through
synthesis, as I have just shown; and the
fundamental principle of individuality is
therefore a synthetical proposition. Rein-
hold, it is true, speaks of the Ego 6imply
as of the representing; but this does not
affect the present case ; for when I dis-

A Criticism oj Philosophical Systems.

153

■ tinguish myself as the representing from
the represented, do I then distinguish my-
self from other persons, and not rather
from all object of representation as such ?
But take even the case of these same much
lauded philosophers, who do not, like Kant
and like the Science of Knowledge, pre-
suppose the Ego in advance of the mani-
fold of representation, but rather heap it
together, out of that manifold; do they,
then, hold their one thinking in the mani-
fold thinking to be only the thinking of
the individual, and not rather of the intel-
ligence generally ? In one word : is there
any philosopher of repute, who before
them has ventured to discover that the Ego
signifies only the individual, and that if
the individuality is abstracted from, only
an object in general remains?

Or do they mean ordinary use of lan-
guage ? To prove this use, I am com-
pelled to cite instances from common life.
If you call to anybody in the darkness
" Who is there ?" and he, presupposing
that his voice is well-known to you, re-
plies, " It is I," then it is clear that he
speaks of himself as this particular person,
and wishes to be understood : ft It is I, who
am named thus or thus, and it is not any
one of all the others, named otherwise ;"
and he so desires to be understood, be-
cause your question, " Who is there ?"
presupposes already that it is a rational
being who is there, and expresses only that
you wish to know which particular one
amongst all the rational beings it may be.

But if you should, for instance — per-
mit me this example, which I find partic-
ularly applicable — sew or cut at the cloth-
ing of some person, and should unawares
cut the person himself, then he would
probably cry out : " Look here, this is /;
you are cutting we.'" Now, what does he
mean to express thereby ? Not that he is
this particular person, named thus or thus,
and none other ; for that you know very
well ; but that that which was cut was
not his dead and senseless clothing, but
his living and sensitive self, which you
did not know before. By this " It is J,"
the person does not distinguish himself
from other persons, but from things. This
distinction occurs continually in life ; and

we cannot take a step or move our hand
without making it.

In short, Egoness and Individuality lire
very different conceptions, and the syn-
thesis of the latter is clearly to be ob-
served. Through the former conception,
we distinguish ourselves from a!; that is
external to us — not merelj' from all per-
sons that are external to us — and hence
we embrace by it not our particular per-
sonality, but our general spirituality. It
is in this sense that the word is used, both
in philosophical and in common language.
The above objection testifies, therefore,
not only to an unusual want of thought,
but also to great ignorance in philosophi-
cal literature.

But our opponents insist on their inca-
pability to think the required conception,
and we must place faith in their asser-
tions. Not that they lack the general
conception of the pure Ego, for if they
did, they would be obliged to desist from
raising objections, just as a piece of log
must desist. But it is the conception of
this conception which they lack, and which-,
they cannot attain. They havo that con-
ception in themselves, but do not know
that they have it. The ground of this
their incapability does not lie in any par-
ticular weakness of their thinking facul-
ties, but in a weakness of their whole
character. Their Ego, in the sense in
which they take the word — i. e. their in-
dividual person — is the last object of their
acting, and hence also the limit of their
explicit thinking. It is to them, therefore,
the only true substance, and reason is only
an accident thereof. Their person does
not exist as a particular expression of rea-
son ; but reason exists to help their person
through the world ; and if the person
could get along just as well without rea-
son, we might discharge reason from ser-
vice, and there would be no reason at all.
This, indeed, lurks in the whole sys-
tem of their conceptions, and through all
their assertions, and many of them aro
honest enough not to conceal it. Now,
they are quite correct as far as they assert
this incapacity in respect to their own
persons — they only must not state as ob-
jective that which has merely subjective

154

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

asserted necessity — to think again this
thinking — does not lie in mechanism, hut,
on the contrary, requires an elevation,
through freedom, to a new sphere, which'
our immediate existence does not place in
our possession. Unless this faculty of
freedom has already existence, and has
already been practised, the Science of
Knowledge can accomplish nothing in a
person. It is this power of freedom which
furnishes the premises upon which the
structure is to rest.

They certainly will not deny that every

science and every art presupposes certain

primary rudiments, which must first be

acquired before we can enter into the

This fact that they can never under- science or art. " But," say they, " if you

validity. In the Science of Knowledge
the relation is exactly reversed : Reason
alone is in itself, and individuality is but
accidental; reason is the object, and per-
sonality the means to realize it ; personal-
ity is only a particular manner of mani-
festing reason, and must always more and
more lose itself in the universal form of
reason. Only reason is eternal ; individ-
uality must always die out. And whoso-
ever is not prepared to succumb to this
order of things, will also never get at the
true understanding of the Science of
Knowledge.

stand the Science of Knowledge unless
they first comply with certain conditions,
has been told them often enough. They
do not want to hear it again, and our
frank warning affords them a new oppor-
tunity to attack us. Every conviction,
they assert, must be capable of being com-
municated by conceptions — nay, it must
even be possible to compel its acknow-
ledgment. They say it is a bad example
to assert that our Science exists for only
certain privileged spirits, and that others
cannot see or understand anything of it.

Let us see, first of all, what the Science
of Knowledge does assert on this point.
It does not assert that there is an original
and inborn distinction between men and
men, whereby some are made capable of
thinking and learning what the others, by

only require a knowledge of the rudiments,
why do you not teach them to us, if wo
lack them ? Why do you not place them
before us definitely and systematically?
Is it not your own fault if you plunge us at
once in medias res, and require the pub-
lic to understand you before you have
communicated the rudiments?" I reply :
that is exactly the difficulty ! These rudi-
ments cannot be systematically forced
upon you — they cannot be taught to you
by compulsion ! In one word, they are a
knowledge which we can get only from
ourselves. Everything depends upon this,
that by the constant use of freedom, with
clear consciousness of this freedom, we
should become thoroughly conscious and
enamored of this our freedom. Whenever
it shall have become the well-matured ob-
their nature, cannot think or learn. Rea- ject of education — from tenderest youth

son is common to all, .and is the same in
all rational beings. Whatsoever one ra-
tional being possesses as a talent, all
others possess also. Nay, we have even in
this present article expressly admitted
that the conceptions upon which the
Science of Knowledge insists, are actually
effective in all rational beings ; for their
efficacy furnishes the ground of a possibil-
ity of consciousness. The pure Ego,

upwards — to develop the inner power of
the scholar, but not to give it a direction;
to educate man for his own use, and as
instrument of his own will, but not as the-
soulless instrument of others ; — then the
Science of Knowledge will be universally
and easily comprehensible. Culture of the '
whole man, from earliest youth — this is
the only way to spread philosophy. Edu-
cation must first content itself to be more

which they charge is incapable of think- negative than positive — more a mutual in-

ing, lies at the bottom of all their think- tercbange with the scholar than a working

ing, and occurs in all their thinking, since upon him ; more negative as far as possi-

all thinking is possible only through it. ble — i. e. education must at least propose

Thus far everything proceeds mechan- to itself this negativeness as its object,

ically. But to get an insight into this and must be positive only as a means of

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

155

being negative. So long as education,
whether with or without clear conscious-
ness, proposes to itself the opposite object
— labors only for usefulness through others,
without considering that the using princi-
ple lies also in the individual ; so long as
education thus eradicates in earliest youth
v the root of self-activity, and accustoms
» man not to determine himself but to
await a determination through others — so
\ long, "talent for philosophy will always re-
main an extraordinary favor of nature,
which cannot be further explained, and
which may therefore be called by the
indefinite expression of " philosophical
genius."

The chief ground of all the errors of
our opponents may perhaps be this, that
they have never yet made clear to them-
selves what proving means, and that hence
they have never considered that there is
at the bottom of all' demonstration some-
thing absolutely undemonstrable.

Demonstration effects only a condi-
tioned, mediated certainty ; by virtue of
it, something is certain if another thing is
certain. If any doubt arises as to the
certainty of this other, then this certainty
must again be appended to the certainty of
a third, and so on. Now, is this retrogres-
sion carried on ad infinitum, or is there
anywhere a final link? I know very well
that some are of the former opinion ; but
these men have never considered that if it
were so, they would not even be capable
of entertaining the idea of certainty —
no, not even of hunting after certainty.
For what this may mean : to be certain ;
they only know by being themselves cer-
tain of something ; but if everything is
certain only on condition, then nothing is
certain, and there is even no conditioned
certainty. But if there is a final link, re-
Y garding which no question can be raised,
why it is certain, then, there is an unde-
monstrable at the base of all demonstra-
tion.

They do not appear to have considered

what it means: to have proven something

to somebody. It means : we have demon-

i strated to him that a certain other cer-

. tainty is contained, by virtue of the laws

of thinking, which he admits, in a certain

first certainty which he assumes or admits,
and that he must necessarily assume the
first if he assumes the second, as he says
he does. Hence all communication of a
conviction by proof, presupposes that both
parts are at least agreed on something.
Now, how could the Science of Knowledge
communicate itself to the dogmatist, since
they are positively not agreed in a single
point, so far as the material of knowledge
is concerned, and since thus the common
point is wanting from which they might
jointly start.*

Finally, they seem not to have consid-
ered that even where there is such a com-
mon point, no one can think into the soul
of the other; that each must calculate
upon the self-activity of the other, and
cannot furnish him the necessary
thoughts, but can merely advise how to
construct or think those thoughts. The
relation between free beings is a recipro-
cal influence upon each other through
freedom, but not. a causality through
mechanically effective power. And thus the
present dispute returns to the chief point
of dispute, from which all our differences
arise. They presuppose everywhere the
relation of causality, because they indeed -
know no higher relation ; and it is upon
this that they base their demand : we
ought to graft our conviction on their
souls without any activity on their own
part. But we proceed from freedom, and
— which is but fair — presuppose freedom
in them. Moreover, in thus presupposing
the universal validity of the mechanism
of cause and effect, they immediately con-
tradict themselves ; what they say and

* I have repeated this frequently. I have
stated that I could absolutely have no point in
common with certain philosophers, and that
they are not, and cannot be, where I am. This
seems to have been taken rather for an hyper-
bole, uttered in indignation, than lor real earn-
est; for they do not cease to repeat their de-
mand : " Prove to us thy doctrine !" I must
solemnly assure them that I was perfectly
serious in that statement, that it is my delib-
erate and decided conviction. Dogmatism
proceeds from a being as the Absolute, and
hence its system never rises above being.
Idealism knows no being, as something tor
itself existing. In other words: Dogmatiam
proceeds from necessity— Idealism from free-
dom. They are, therefore, in two utterly dif-
ferent worlds.

156

JL Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

what they do, are in palpable contradiction.
For, in presupposing the mechanism of
cause and effect, they elevate themselves
beyond it; their thinking of the mechan-
ism is not contained in the mechanism it-
self. The mechanism cannot seize itself,
for the simple reason that it is mech-
anism. Only free consciousness can seize
itself. Here, therefore, would be a way
to convince them of their error. But the
difficulty is that this thought lies utterly
beyond the range of their vision, and that
they lack the agility of mind to think,
when they think an object, not only the
object, but also their thinking of the ob-
ject; wherefore this present remark is
utterly incomprehensible to them, and is
indeed written only for those who are
awake and see.

We reiterate, therefore, our assurance:
we will not convince them, because one
cannot will an impossibility ; and we will
not refute their system for them, because
we cannot. True, we can refute it easily
enough for us; it is very easy to throw it
down — the mere breath of a free man de-
stroys it. But we cannot refute it for
them. We do not write, speak or teach
for them, since there is positively no point
from which we could reach them. If we
speak of them, it is not for their own
sake, but for the sake of others — to warn
these against their errors, and persuade
these not to listen to their empty and in-
significant prattle. Now, they must not
consider this, our declaration, as degrad-
ing for them. By so doing, they but
evince their bad conscience, and publicly
degrade themselves amongst us. Besides,
they are in the same position in regard to
us. They also cannot refute or convince
us, or say anything, which could have an
effect upon us. This we confess ourselves,
and would not be in the least indignant if
they said it. What we tell them, we tell
them not at all with the evil purpose of
causing them anger, but merely to save us
and them unnecessary trouble. We should
be truly glad if tliey were thus to accept
it.

Moreover, there is nothing degrading in
the matter itself. Every one who to-day
charges his brother with this incapacity,

has once been necessarily in the same con-
dition. For we all are born in it, and it
requires time to get beyond it. If our
opponents would only not be driven into
indignation by our declaration, but would
reflect about it, and inquire whether there
might not be some truth in it, they might
then probably get out of that incapacity.
They would at once be our equals, and
we could henceforth live in perfect peace
together. The fault is not ours, if we
occasionally are pretty hard at war with
them.

From all this it also appears, which I
consider expedient to remark here, that a
philosophy, in order to be a science, need
not be universally valid, as some philoso-
phers seem to assume. These philosophers
demand the impossible. What does it
mean : a philosophy is really universally
valid V Who, then, are all these for
whom it is to be valid? I suppose not to
every one who has a human face, for then
it would also have to be valid for children
and for the common man, for whom
thinking is never object, but always the
means for his real purpose. Universally
valid, then, for the philosophers? But
who, then, are the philosophers? I hope
not all those who have received the degree
of doctor from some philosophical faculty,
or who have printed something which they
call philosophical, or who, perhaps, are
themselves members of some philosophi-
cal faculty? Indeed, how shall we even
have a fixed conception of the philosopher,
unless we have first a fixed conception of
philosophy — i. e. unless we first possess
that fixed philosophy ? It is quite certain
that all those who believe themselves pos-
sessed of philosophy, as a science, will
deny to all those who do not recognize
their philosophy the name of philosopher,
and hence will make the acknowledgment
of their philosophy the criterion of a
philosopher. This they must do, if they
will proceed logically, for there is only
one philosophy. The author of the
Science of Knowledge, for instance, has
long ago stated that he is of this opinion
in regard to his system — not in so far as
it is an individual representation of that
system, but in so far as it is a system of

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

157

transcendental idealism — and he hesitates
not a moment to repeat this assertion.
But does not this lead us into an evident
circle? Every one will then say, "My phil-
osophy is universally valid for all philoso-
phers ;" and will say so with full right if
he only be himself convinced, though no
other mortal being should accept his doc-
trine ; " for," he will add, " he who does
not recognize it as valid is no philoso-
pher."

Concerning this point, I hold the follow-
ing : If there be but one man who is fully
and at all times equally convinced of his
philosophy, who is in complete harmony
with himself in this his philosophy, whose
free judgment in philosophizing agrees
perfectly with the judgment daily life
forces upon him, then in this one man
philosophy has fulfilled its purpose and
completed its circle ; for it has put him
down again at the very same point from
which he started with all mankind ; and
henceforth philosophy as a science really
exists, though no other man else should
comprehend and accept it ; nay, though
that one man might not even know how to
teach it to others.

Let no one here offer the trivial objec-
tion that all systematic authors have ever
been convinced of the truth of their sys-
tems. For this assertion is utterly false,
and is grounded only in this, that few
know what conviction really is. This can
only be experienced by having the fullness
of conviction in one's self. Those au-
thors were only convinced of one or the
other point in their system, which perhaps
was not even clearly conscious to them-
selves, but not of the whole of their sys-
tem — they were convinced only in certain
moods. This is no conviction. Convic-
tion is that which depends on no time and
no change of condition; which is not ac-
cidental to the soul, but which is the soul
itself. One can be convinced only of the
unchangeably and eternally True: to be
convinced of error is impossible. But of
such true convictions very few examples
may probably exist in the history of phil-
osophy ; perhaps but one; perhaps not
even this one. I do not speak of the an-
cients. It is even doubtful whether they

ever proposed to themselves the great
problem of philosophy. But let me speak
of modern authors. Spinoza could not be
convinced ; he could only think, not put
faith in his philosophy ; for it was in di-
rect contradiction with his necessary con-
viction in daily life, by virtue of which he
was forced to consider himself free ami
self-determined. He could be convinced
of it only in so far as it contained truth;
or as it contained a part of philosophy as
a science. He was clearly convinced that
mere objective reasoning would necessarily
lead to his system ; for in that he was
correct; but it never occurred to him that
in thinking he ought to reflect upon his
own thinking, and in that he was wrong,
and thus made his speculation contradic-
tory to his life. Kant might have been
convinced ; but, if I understand him cor-
rectly, he was not convinced when he
wrote his Critique. He speaks of a de-
ception, which always recurs, although v:c
know that it is a deception. Whence did
Kant learn, as he was the first who dis-
covered this pretended deception, that it
always recurs, and in whom could he have
made the experience that it did so recur?
Only in himself. But to know that one
deceives one's self, and still to d o rive «
one's self is not the condition of convic-
tion and harmony within — it is the symp-
tom of a dangerous inner disharmony.
My experience is that no deception recurs,
for reason contains no deception. More-
over, of what deception does Kant speak?
Clearly of the belief that things per se ■■
exist externally and independent of us.
But who entertains this belief ? Not com-
mon consciousness, surely, for common
consciousness only speaks of itself, and
can therefore say nothing but that ;»nng8
exist for it (i. e. for us, on this standpoint
of common consciousness); and that cer-
tainly is no deception, for it is our own
truth. Common consciousness knows
nothing of a thing per se, for the very rea-
son that it is common consciousness,
which surely never goes beyond itself. It
is a false philosophy which first makes
common consciousness assert such a con-
ception, whilst only that false philosophy
discovered it in its own sphere. Hence

158

A Criticism of Philosophical Systems.

this so-called deception — which is easily
got rid of, and which true philosophy roots
out utterly — that false philosophy has it-
self produced, and as soon as you get
your philosophy perfected, the scales will
fall from your eyes, and the deception
will never recur. You will, in all your
life thereafter, never believe to know more
than that you are finite, and finite in this
determined manner, which you must ex-
plain to yourself, by the existence of such
a determined world ; and you will no more
think of breaking through this limit than
of ceasing to be yourself. Leibnitz, also,
may have been convinced, for, properly
understood — and why should he not have
properly understood himself? — he is right.
Nay, more — if highest ease and freedom
of mind may suggest conviction ; if the
ingenuity to fit one's philosophy into all
forms, and apply it to all parts of human
knowledge — the power to scatter all doubts
as soon as they appear, and the manner of
using one's philosophy more as an instru-
ment than as an object, may testify of
perfect clearness ; and if self-reliance,
cheerfulness and high courage in life may
be signs of inner harmony, then Leibnitz
was perhaps convinced, and the only ex-
ample of conviction in the history of phil-
osophy.

XI.

In conclusion, I wish to refer in a few
words to a very curious misapprehension.
It is that of mistaking the Ego, as intel-
lectual contemplation, from which the Sci-
ence of Knowledge proceeds, for the Ego,
as idea, with which it concludes. In the
Ego, as intellectual contemplation, we
have only the form of the Egoness, the
in itself returning activity, sufficiently de-
scribed above. The Ego in this form is
only for the philosopher, and by seizing it
thus, you enter philosophy. The Ego, as
idea, on the contrary, is for the Ego itself,
which the philosopher considers. He does
not establish the latter Ego as his own,
but as the idea of the natural but perfectly
cultured man; just as a real being does
not exist for the philosopher, but merely
for the Ego he observes.

The E"ro as idea is the rational beins; — ■
firstly, in so far as it completely represents

in itself the universal reason, or as it is
altogether rational, and only rational, and
hence it must also have ceased to be indi-
vidual, which it was only through sensu-
ous limitation ; and secondly, in so far as
this rational being has also realized reason
in the eternal world, which, therefore, re-
mains constantly posited in this idea. The
world remains in this idea as world gener-
ally, as substratum with these determined
mechanical and organic laws ; but all these
laws are perfectly suited to represent the
final object of reason. The idea of the Ego
and the Ego of the intellectual contempla-
tion have only this in common, that in nei- i
ther of them the thought of the individual
enters ; not in the latter, because the Ego-
ness has not yet been determined as in-
dividuality; and not in the former, be-
cause the determination of individuality
has vanished through universal culture.
But both are opposites in this, that the
Ego of the contemplation contains only
the form of the Ego, and pays no regard
to an actual material of the same, which
is only thinkable by its thinking Of a
world ; while in the Ego of the Idea the
complete material of the Egoness is
thought. From the first conception all
philosophy proceeds, and it is its funda-
mental conception; to the latter it does
not return, but only determines this idea
in the practical part as highest and ulti-*
mate object of reason. The first is, as we
have said, original contemplation, and be-
comes a conception in the sufficiently de-
scribed manner; the latter is only idea, it
cannot be thought determinately and will
never be actual, but will always more and
more approximate to the actuality.

XII.

These are, I believe, all the misunder-
standings which are to be taken into con-
sideration, and to correct which a clear
explanation may hope somewhat to aid.
Other modes of working against the new
system cannot and need not be met by me.

If a system, for instance, the beginning
aud end, nay, the whole essence of which,
is that individuality be theoretically forgot-
oen and practically denied, is denounced as
egotism, and by men who, for the very

Introduction to Idealism.

159

reason because they are covertly theoreti-
cal egotists and overtly practical egotists,
cannot elevate themselves into an insight
into this system ; if a conclusion is drawn
from the system that its author has an
evil heart, and if again from this evil-
heartedness of the author the conclusion is
drawn that the system is false ; then argu-
ments are of no avail ; for those who make
these assertions know very well that they
are not true, and they have quite different
reasons for uttering them than because
they believed them. The system bothers
them little enough ; but the author may,
perhaps, have stated on other occasions
things which do not please them, and may,
perhaps — God knows how or where ! — be
in their way. Now such persons are per-
fectly in conformity with their mode of
thinking, and it would be an idle under-
taking to attempt to rid them of their na-

ture. But if thousands and thousands
who know not a word of the Science of
Knowledge, nor have occasion to know a
word of it, who are neither Jews nor Pa-
gans, neither aristocrats nor democrats,
neither Kantians of the old or of the
modern school, or of any school, and who
even are not originals — who might have a
grudge against the author of the Science
of Knowledge, because he took away from
them the original ideas which they have
just prepared for the public — if such men
hastily take hold of these charges, and
repeat and repeat them again without any
apparent interest, other than that they
might appear well instructed regarding the
secrets of the latest literature ; then it
may, indeed, be hoped that for their own
sakes they will take our prayer into con-
sideration, and reflect upon what they wish
to say before they say it.

INTRODUCTION TO IDEALISM.

[From the German of Sciielling. Translated by Tom Davidson.]

I. — IDEA OF TRANSCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHY.

1. All knowing is based upon the agree-
ment of an objective with a subjective.
For we know only the true, and truth is

'universally held to be the agreement of
representations with their objects.

2. The sum of all that is purely object-
ive in our knowledge we may call Nature ;
while the sum of all that is subjective may
be designated the Ego, or Intelligence.
These two concepts are mutually opposed.
Intelligence is originally conceived as that
which solely represents — Nature as that
which is merely capable of representation ;
the former as the conscious — the latter as
the unconscious. There is, moreover,
necessary in all knowledge a mutual agree-
ment of the two — the conscious and the
unconscious per se. The problem is to
explain this agreement.

3. In knowledge itself, in my knowing,
objective and subjective are so united that
it is impossible to say to which of the two
the priority belongs. There is here no
first and no second — the two are contem-

poraneous and one. In my efforts to ex-
plain this identity, I must first have it un-
done. In order to explain it, inasmuch as
nothing else is given me as a principle of
explanation beyond these two factors of
knowledge, I must of necessity place the
one before the other — set out from the one
in order from it to arrive at the other.
From which of the two I am to set out is
not determined by the problem.

4. There are, therefore, only two cases
possible :

A. Either the objective is made the first,
and the question comes to be how a subject-
ive agreeing with it is superinduced.

The idea of the subjective is not con-
tained in the idea of the objective ; thry
rather mutually exclude each other. The
subjective, therefore, must be superinduced
upon the objective. It forms no part of
the conception of Nature that there should
be something intelligent to represent it.
Nature, to all appearance, would exist
even were there nothing to represent it.
The problem may therefore likewise be ex-

160

Introduction to Idealism.

pressed thus: How is the Intelligent su-
perinduced upon Nature? or, How comes
Nature to be represented ?

The problem assumes Nature, or the ob-
jective, as first. It is, therefore, .mani-
festly, a problem of natural science, which
does the same. That natural science really,
and without knowing it, approximates, at
least, to the solution of this problem can
be shown here only briefly.

If all knowledge has, as it were, two
poles, which mutually suppose and de-
mand each other, they must reciprocally
be objects of search in all sciences.
There must, therefore, of necessity, be
two fundamental sciences ; and it must
be impossible to set out from the one pole
without being driven to the other. The
necessary tendency of all natural science,
therefore, is to pass from Nature to the
intelligent. This, and this alone, lies at
the bottom of the effort to bring theory
into natural phenomena. The final per-
fection of natural science would be the
complete mentalization of all the laws of
Nature into laws of thought. The phe-
nomena, that is, the material, must vanish
entirely, and leave only the laws — that is,
the formal. Hence it is that the more the
accordance with law is manifested in Na-
ture itself, the more the wrappage disap-
pears — the phenomena themselves become
more mental, and at last entirely cease.
Optical phenomena are nothing more than
a geO'fletry whose lines are drawn through
the light : and even this light itself is of
doubtful materiality. In the phenomena
of magnetism all trace of matter has al-
ready disappeared, and of those of gravita-
tion ; which even physical philosophers
believed could be attributed only to direct
spiritual influence, there remains nothing
but the law, whose action on a large scale
is the mechanism of the heavenly motions.
The complete theory of Nature would be
that whereby the whole of .Nature should
be resolved into an intelligence. The
dead and unconscious products of Natuie
are only unsuccessful attempts of Nature
to reflect itself, and dead Nature, so-called,
is merely an unripe Intelligence ; hence in
its phenomena the intelligent character
peers through, though yet unconsciously.

Its highest aim, namely, that of becoming
completely self-objective, Nature reaches
only in its highest and last reflection,
which is nothing else than man, or, more
generally, what we call reason, by means
of which Nature turns completely back
upon itself, and by which is manifested
that Nature is originally identical with
what in us is known as intelligent and con-
scious.

This may perhaps suffice to prove that
natural science has a necessary tendency
to render Nature intelligent. By this very
tendency it is that it becomes natural phil-
osophy, which is one of the two necessary
fundamental sciences of philosophy.

B. Or the subjective is made the first,
and the problem is, how an objective is
superinduced agreeing with it.

If all knowledge is based upon the
agreement of these two, then the task of
explaining this agreement is plainly the
highest for all knowledge ; and if, as is
generally admitted, philosophy is the
highest and loftiest of all sciences, it ia
certainly the main task of philosophy.

But the problem demands only the ex-
planation of that agreement generally, and
leaves it entirely undecided where the ex-
planation shall begin, what it shall make its
first, and what its second. Moreover, as the
two opposites are mutually necessary to
each other, the result of the operation
must be the same, from whichever point it
sets out.

To make the objective the first, and de-
rive the subjective from it, is, as has just
been shown, the task of natural philoso-
phy-

If, therefore, there is a transcendental
philosophy, the only course that remains
for it is the opposite one, namely : to set
out from the subjective as the first and the
absolute, and deduce the origin of the ob-
jective from it.

Into these two possible directions of
philosophy, therefore, natural and tran-
scendental philosophy have separated
themselves; and if all philosophy must
have for its aim to make either an Intelli-
gence out of Nature or a Nature out of In-
telligence, then transcendental philosophy,
to which the latter task belongs, is the

Introduction to Idealism.

1G1

other necessary fundamental science of
philosophy.

II. — COROLLARIES.

In the foregoing we have not only de-
duced the idea of transcendental philoso-
phy, but have also afforded the reader a
glance into the whole system of philoso-
phy, composed, as has been shown, of two
principal sciences, which, though opposed
in principle and direction, are counter-
parts and complements of each other. Not
the whole system of philosophy, but only
one of the principal sciences of it, is to
be here discussed, and, in the first place,
to be more clearly characterized in accord-
ance with the idea already deduced.

1. If, for transcendental philosophy, the
•subjective is the starting point, the only
ground of all reality, and the sole princi-
ple of explanation for everything else, it
necessarily begins with universal doubt
regarding the reality of the objective.

As the natural philosopher, wholly in-
tent upon the objective, seeks, above all
things, to exclude every admixture of the
subjective from his knowledge, so, on the
other hand, the transcendental philoso-
pher seeks nothing so much as the entire
exclusion of the objective from the purely
subjective principle of knowledge. The
instrument of separation is absolute scep-
ticism — not that half-scepticism which is
directed merely against the vulgar preju-
dices of mankind and never sees the
foundation — but a thorough-going scepti-
cism, which aims not at individual preju-
dices, but at the fundamental prejudice,
with which all others must stand or fall.
For over and above the artificial and con-
ventional prejudices of man, there are
others of far deeper origin, which have
been placed in him, not by art or educa-
tion, but by Nature itself, and which
pass with all other men, except the philos-
opher, as the principles of knowledge, and
with the mere self-thinker as the test of
all truth.

The one fundamental prejudice to which
all others are reducible, is this : that there
are things outside of us ; an opinion which,
while it rests neither on proofs nor on con-
clusions (for there is not a single irrefra-
11

gable proof of it), and vet cannot be up-
rooted by any opposite proof (naturam
fwrca expcllas, tamen usque redibil). lavs
claim to immediate certainty ; whereas,
inasmuch as it refers to something quite
different from us — yea, opposed to us—
and of which there is no evidence how it
can come into immediate consciousness, it
must be regarded as nothing more than a
prejudice — a natural and original one, to
be sure, but nevertheless a prejudice.

The contradiction lying in the fact that
a conclusion which in its nature cannot
be immediately certain, is, nevertheless,
blindly and without grounds, accepted as
such, cannot be solved by transcendental
philosophy, except on the assumption that
this conclusion is implicitly, and in a
manner hitherto not manifest, not found-
ed upon, but identical, and one and the
same with an affirmation which is immedi-
ately certain ; and to demonstrate this
identity will really be the task of tran-
scendental philosophy.

2. Now, even for the ordinary use of
reason, there is nothing immediately cer-
tain except the affirmation 1 am, which, as
it loses all meaning outside of immediate
consciousness, is the most individual of
all truths, and the absolute prejudice,
which must be assumed if anything else
is to be made certain. The affirmation
There are things outside of us, will there-
fore be certain for the transcendental phil-
osopher, only through its identity with the
affirmation I am, and its certainty will be
only equal to the certainty of the affirma-
tion from which it derives it.

According to this view, transcendental
knowledge would be distinguished from
ordinary knowledge in two particulars.

First — That for it the certainty of the
existence of external objects is a mere pre-
judice, which it oversteps, in order to find
the grounds of it. (It can never be the
business of the transcendental philosopher
to prove the existence of things in them-
selves, but only to show that it is a natu-
ral and necessary prejudice to assume ex-
ternal objects as real.)

Second— That the two affirmations, J am
and There are things outside of me, which
in the ordinary consciousness run together,

162

Introduction to Idealism.

are, in the former, separated and the one
placed before the other, with a view to
demonstrate as a fact their identity, and
that immediate connection which in the
other is only felt. By the act of this sep-
aration, when it is complete, the philoso-
pher transports himself to the transcend-
ental point of view, which is by no means
a natural, but an artificial one.

3. If, for the transcendental philosopher,
the subjective alone has original reality,
he will also make the subjective alone in
knowledge directly his object; the object-
ive will only become an object indirectly
to him, and, whereas, in ordinary know-
ledge, knowledge itself — the act of know-
ing — vanishes in the object, in transcend-
ental knowledge, on the contrary, the
object, as such, will vanish in the act of
knowing. Transcendental knowledge is a
^knowledge of knowing, in so far as it is
ipurely subjective.

Thus, for example, in intuition, it is only
the objective that reaches the ordinary
consciousness ; the act of intuition itself
is lost in the object ; whereas the tran-
scendental mode of intuition rather gets
only a glimpse of the object of intuition
through the act. Ordinary thought, there-
fore, is a mechanism in which ideas pre-
vail, without, however, being distinguished
as ideas ; whereas transcendental thought
interrupts this mechanism, and in becom-
ing conscious of the idea as an act, rises
to the idea of the idea. In ordinary ac-
tion, the acting itself is forgotten in the
object of the action ; philosophizing is
also an action, but not an action only. It
is likewise a continued self-intuition in
this action.

The nature of the transcendental mode
of thought consists, therefore, generally
in this : that, in it, that which in all other
thinking, knowing, or acting escapes the
consciousness, and is absolutely non-ob-
jective, is brought into consciousness, and
becomes objective ; in short, it consists in
a continuous act of becoming an object to
itself on the part of the subjective.

The transcendental art will therefore
consist in a readiness to maintain one's
self continuously in this duplicity of think-
ing and acting.

III. — PRELIMINARY ARRANGEMENT OF TRAN-
SCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHY.

This arrangement is preliminary, inas-
much as the principles of arrangement can
be arrived at only in the science itself.

We return to the idea of science.

Transcendental philosophy has to ex-
plain how knowledge is possible at all,
supposing that the subjective in it is as-
sumed as the chief or first element.

It is not, therefore, any single part, or
any particular object of knowledge, but
knowledge itself, and knowledge generally,
that it takes for its object.

Now all knowledge is reducible to cer-
tain original convictions or original fore-
judgments; these different convictions
transcendental philosophy must reduce to
one original conviction ; this one, from
which all others are derived, is expressed
in the first principle of this philosophy?
and the task of finding such is no other
than that of finding the absolutely certain,
by which all other certainty is arrived at.

The arrangement of transcendental phil-
osophy itself is determined by those origi-
nal convictions, whose validity it asserts.
Those convictions must, in the first place,
be sought in the common understanding.
If, therefore,, we fall back upon the stand-
point of the ordinary view, we find the
following convictions deeply engraven in
the human understanding :

A. That there not only exists outside of
us a world of things independent of us,
but also that our representations agree
with them in such a manner that there is
nothing else in the things beyond what
they present to us. The necessity which
prevails in our objective representations is
explained by saying that the things are
unalterably determined, and that, by this
determination of the things, our ideas
are also indirectly determined. By this
first and most original conviction, the first
problem of the philosophy is determined,
viz. : to explain how representations can
absolutely agree with objects existing alto-
gether independently of them. Since it is
upon the assumption that things are exactly
as we represent them — that we certainly,
therefore, know things as they are in
themselves — that the possibility of all ex-

Introduction to Idealism.

103

perience rests, (for what would experience
be, and where would physics, for example,
wander to, but for the supposition of the
absolute identity of being and seeming?)
the solution of this problem is identical
with theoretical philosophy, which has to
examine the possibility of experience.

B. The second equally original convic-
tion is, that ideas which spring up in us
freely and without necessity are capable
of passing from the world of thought into
the real world, and of arriving at objective
reality.

This conviction stands in opposition to
the first. According to the first, it is as-
sumed that objects are unalterably determ-
ined, and our ideas by them ; according
to the other, that objects are alterable,
and that, too, by the causality of ideas in
us. According to the first, there takes
place a transition from the real world into
the world of ideas, or a determining of
ideas by something objective ; according
to the second, a transition from the world
of ideas into the real world, or a determ-
ining of the objective by a (freely pro-
duced) idea in us.

By this second conviction, a second
problem is determined, viz. : how, by
something merely thought, an objective is
alterable, so as completely to correspond
with that something thought.

Since upon this assumption the possibil-
ity of all free action rests, the solution of
this problem is practical philosophy.

C. But with these two problems we find
ourselves involved in a contradiction. Ac-
cording to B, there is demanded the do-
minion of thought (the ideal) over the
world of sense ; but how is this conceiv-
able, if (according to A) the idea, in its
origin, is already only the slave of the ob-
jective? On the other hand, if the real
world is something quite independent of
us, and in accordance with which, as their
pattern, our ideas must shape themselves
(by A), then it is inconceivable how the
real world, on the other hand, can shape
itself after ideas in us (by B). In a word,
in the theoretical certainty we lose the
practical; in the practical we lose the the-
oretical. It is impossible that there

should be at once truth in our knowledge
and reality in our volition.

This contradiction must be solved, if
there is to be a philosophy at all; and the
solution of this problem, or the answering
of the question : How can ideas be con-
ceived as shaping themselves according to
objects, and at the same time objects as
shaping themselves to ideas ? — is not the
first, but the highest, task of transcendental
philosophy.

It is not difficult to see that this problem
is not to be solved either in theoretical or in
practical philosophy, but in a higher one,
which is the connecting link between the
two, neither theoretical nor practical, but
both at once.

How at once the objective world con-
forms itself to ideas in us, and ideas in us
conform themselves to the objective world,
it is impossible to conceive, unless there
exists, between the two worlds — the ideal
and the real — a preestablished harmony.
But this preestablished harmony itself is
not conceivable, unless the activity,
whereby the objective world is produced,
is originally identical with that which dis-
plays itself in volition, and vice versa.

Now it is undoubtedly a productive ac-
tivity that displays itself in volition ; all
free action is productive and productive
only with consciousness. If, then, we
suppose, since the two activities are one
only in their principle, that the same ac-
tivity which is productive with conscious-
ness in free action, is productive without
consciousness in the production of the
world, this preestablished harmony is a
reality, and the contradiction is solved.

If we suppose that all this is really the
case, then that original identity of the ac-
tivity, which is busy in the production of
the w^rld, with that which displays itself
in volition, will exhibit itself in the pro-
ductions of the former, and these will
necessarily appear as the productions of
an activity at once conscious and uncon-
scious.

Nature, as a whole, no less than in its
different productions, will, of necessity,
appear as a work produced with conscious-
ness, and, at the same time, as a pioduc-

164

Introduction to Idealism.

tion of the blindest mechanism. It is the
result of purpose, without being demon-
strable as such. The philosophy of the
aims of Nature, or teleology, is therefore
the required point of union between theo-
retical and practical philosophy.

D. Hitherto, we have postulated only in
general terms the identity of the uncon-
scious activity, which has produced Na-
ture, and the conscious activity, which
exhibits itself in volition, without having
decided where the principle of this activ-
ity lies — whether in Nature or in us.

Now, the system of knowledge can be
regarded as complete only when it reverts
to its principle. Transcendental philoso-
phy, therefore, could be complete only
when that identity — the highest solution
of its whole problem — could be demon-
strated in its principle, the Ego.

It is therefore postulated that, in the
subjective — in the consciousness itself —
that activity, at once conscious and un-
conscious, can be shown.

Such an activity can be no other than
the asthetic, and every work of art can be
conceived only as the product of such.
The ideal work of art and the real world
of objects are therefore products of one
and the same activity ; the meeting of the
two (the conscious and the unconscious)
without consciousness, gives the real — with
consciousness, the aesthetic world.

The objective world is only the primal,
still unconscious, poetry of the mind ; the
universal organum of philosophy, the key-
stone of its whole arch, is the philosophy
of art.

IV. — ORGAN OF TRANSCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHY.

1. The only immediate object of tran-
scendental consideration is the subjective
(II.) ; the only organ for philosophizing
in this manner is the inner sense, and its
object is such that, unlike that of mathe-
matics, it can never become the object of
external intuition. The object of mathe-
maties, to be sure, exists as little outside
of knowledge, as that of philosophy. The
whole existence of mathematics rests on
intuition ; it exists, therefore, only in in-
tuition; and this intuition itself is an ex-

ternal one. In addition to this, the math-
ematician never has to deal immediately
with the intuition— the construction itself —
but only with the thing constructed, which,
of course, can be exhibited outwardly ;
whereas the philosopher looks only at the
act of construction itself, which is purely
an internal one.

2. Moreover, the objects of the tran-
scendental philosopher have no existence,
except in so far as they are freely pro-
duced. Nothing can compel to this pro-
duction, any more than the external de-
scribing of a figure can compel one to
regard it internally. Just as the existence
of a mathematical figure rests on the outer
sense, so the whole reality of a philoso-
phical idea rests upon the inner sense.
The whole object of this philosophy is no
other than the action of Intelligence ac-
cording to fixed laws. This action can be
conceived only by means of a peculiar,
direct, inner intuition, and this again is
possible only by production. But this is
not enough. In philosophizing, one is not
only the object considered, but always at the
same time the subject considering. To the
understanding of philosophy, therefore,
there are two conditions indispensable :
first, that the philosopher shall be engaged
in a continuous internal activitv, in a con-
tinuous production of those primal actions
of the intelligence; second, that he shall
be engaged in continuous reflection upon
the productive action ; — in a word, that he
shall be at once the contemplated (produ-
cing) and the contemplating.

3. By this continuous duplicity of pro-
duction and intuition, that must become%
an object which is otherwise reflected by
nothing. It cannot be shown here, but
will be shown in the sequel, that this
becoming-reflected on the part of the
absolutely unconscious and non-objective,
is possible only by an aesthetic act of the
imagination. Meanwhile, so much is plain
from what has already been proved, that
all philosophy is productive. Philosophy,
therefore, no less than art, rests upon the
productive faculty, and the difference be-
tween the two, upon the different direction
of the productive power. For whereas

Genesis.

L65

production in art is directed outward, in
order to reflect the unconscious by pro-
ducts, philosophical production is directed
immediately inward, in order to reflect it
in intellectual intuition. The real sense
by which this kind of philosophy must be
grasped, is therefore the aesthetic sense,
and hence it is that the philosophy of art
is the true organum of philosophy ( III.)

Out of the vulgar reality there are only
two means of exit — poetry, which trans-
ports us into an ideal world, and philoso-
phy, which makes the real world vanish
before us. It is not plain why the sense
for philosophy should be more generally
diffused than that for poetry, especially
among that class of men, who, whether by
memory-work (nothing destroys more di-
rectly the productive) or by dead specula-
tion (ruinous to all imaginative power),
have completely lost the aasthetic organ.

4. It is unnecessary to occupy time with
common-places about the sense of truth,
and about utter unconcern in regard to
results, although it might be asked, what
other conviction can yet be sacred to him
who lays hands upon the most certain of
all — that there are things outside of us?
We may rather take one glance more at the
so-called claims of the common under-
standing.

The common understanding in matters
of philosophy has no claims whatsoever,
except those which every object of exam-
ination has, viz., to be completely explain-
ed.

It is not, therefore, any part of our busi-
ness to prove that what it considers true,
is true, but only to exhibit the unavoidable
character of its illusions. This implies
that the objective world belongs duly to
the necessary limitations which render
self-consciousness (which is I) possible;
it is enough for the common understand-
ing, if from this view again the necessity
of its view is derived.

For this purpose it is necessary, not only
that the inner works of the mental activity
should be laid open, and the mechanism of
necessary ideas revealed, but also that it
should be shown by what peculiarity of
our nature it is, that what has reality only
in our intuition, is reflected to us as some-
thing existing outside of us.

As natural science produces idealism
out of realism, by mentalizing the laws of-
Nature into laws of intelligence, or super-
inducing the formal upon the material
(I.), so transcendental philosophy pro-
duces realism out of idealism, by mate-
rializing the laws of Nature, or introducing
the material into the formal.

GENESIS.

By A. Eronson Alcott.

" God is the constant and immutable Good; the world is Good in a state of becoming, and the
human soul is that in and by which the Good in the world is consummated." — Plato.

I. — VESTIGES.

Behmen, the subtilest thinker on Genesis
since Plato, conceives that Nature fell from
its original oneness by fault of Lucifer
before man rose physically from its ruins ;
and moreover, that his present existence,
being the struggle to recover from Nature's
lapse, is embarrassed with double difficul-
ties by deflection from rectitude on his
part. We think it needs no Lucifer other
than mankind collectively conspiring, to Nature,.it must be consequent on Man's de-
account for Nature's mishaps, or Man's. generacy prior to their genesis. And it is
Since, assuming man to be Nature's ances- only as he lapses out of his integrity, by

tor, and Nature man's ruins rather, himself
is the impediment he seeks to remoi
and, moreover, conceiving Nature as cor-
responding in large — or maerocosmically —
to his intents, for whatsoever embarrass-
ments he finds therein, himself, and nor-c
other, takes the blame. Eldest of crea-
tures, and progenitor of all below him,
personally one and imperishable in essei
it follows that if debased forms appear in

166

Genesis.

debasing his essence, that he impairs his
original likeness, and drags it into the
prone shapes of the animal kingdom — these
being the effigies and vestiges of his indi-
vidualized and shattered personality. Be-
hold these upstarts of his loins, every-
where the mimics jeering at him saucily,
or gaily parodying their fallen lord.

" Most happy he who hath fit place assigned
To his beasts, and disaforestered his mind ;
Can use his horse, goat, wolf, and every beast,
And is not ape himself to all the rest."*

It is man alone who conceives and brings
forth the beast in him, that swerves and
dies; perversion of will by mis-choice be-
ing the fate that precipitates him into ser-
pentine form, clothed in duplicity, cleft
into sex,

" Parts of that Part which once was all."

It is but one and the same soul in him 3
entertaining a dialogue with himself, that
is symbolized in The Serpent, Adam, and
the Woman ; nor need there be fabulous
"Paradises Lost or Regained," for setting
in relief this serpent symbol of temptation,
this Lord or Lucifer in our spiritual Eden :

" First state of human kind,
Which one remains while man doth find
Joy in his partner's company ;
When two, alas ! adulterate joined,
The serpent made the three."

II. — THE DEUCE.

" I inquired what iniquity was, and found
it to be no substance, but perversion of the
Will from the Supreme One towards lower
things." — St. Augustine.

Better is he who is above temptation
than he who, being tempted, overcomes ;
since the latter but suppresses the evil in-
clination in his breast, which the former
has not. Whoever is tempted has so far
sinned as to entertain the tempting lust
stirring within him, and betraying his
lapse from singleness or holiness. The
virtuous choose, and are virtuous by choice ;
while the holy, being one, are above all
need of deliberating, their volitions an-

* " Had man withstood the trial, his de-
scendants would have been born one from
another in the same way that Adam — i. e. man-
kind — was, namely, in the image of God ; for
that which proceeds from the Eternal has eter-
nal manner of birth." — Behmen.

swering spontaneously to their desires. Ifc
is the cleft personality, or other within, that
confronts and seduces the Will ; the Ad-
versary and Deuce we become individually,
and thus impersonate in the Snake. f

III. — SERPENT SYMBOL.

One were an OSdipus to expound this
serpent mythology ; yet failing this, were
to miss finding the keys to the mysteries
of Genesis, and Nature were the chaos and
abyss ; since hereby the one rejoins man's
parted personality, and recreates lost man-
kind. Coeval with flesh, the symbol ap-
pears wherever traces of civilization exist,
a remnant of it in the ancient Phallus wor-
ship having come to us disguised in our
May-day dance. Nor was it confined to
carnal knowledge merely. The serpent
symbolized divine wisdom, also; and it
was under this acceptation that it became
associated with those " traditionary teach-
ers of mankind whose genial wisdom en-
titled them to divine honors." An early
Christian sect, called Ophites, worshipped
it as the personation of natural knowledge.
So the injunction, "Be ye wise as serpents
and harmless as doves," becomes the more
significant when we learn that seraph in
the original means a serpent; cherub, a
dove ; these again symbolizing facts in
osteological science as connected with the
latest theories of the invertebrated cra-

* It is a miserable thing to have been happy ;
and a self-contracted wretchedness is a double
one. Had felicity always been a stranger to
humanity, our present misery had been none ;
and had not ourselves been the authors of our
ruins, less. We might have been made un-
happy, but, since we are miserable, we chose
it. He that gave our outward enjoyments
might have taken them from us, but none
could have robbed us of innocence but our-
selves. While man knew no sin, he was igno-
rant of nothing that it imported humanity to
know ; but when he had sinned, the same
transgression that opened his eyes to see his
own shame, shut them against most things
else but it and the newly purchased misery.
With the nakedness of his body, he saw that
of his soul, and the blindness and dismay of
his faculties to which his former innocence
was a stranger, and that which showed them
to him made them. We are not now like the
creatures we were made, having not only lost
our Maker's image but our own ; and do not
much more transcend the creatures placed at
our feet, than we come short of our ancient
selves." — Glanvill.

Genes

is.

1G7

mum accepted by eminent naturalists, and
so substantiating tbe symbol in nature ;
this being ophiomorphous, a scries of
spires, crowned, winged, webbed, finned,
footed in structure, set erect, prone, trail-
ing, as charged with life in higher potency
or lower; man, supreme in personal up-
rightness, and holding the sceptre of do-
minion as he maintains his inborn recti-
tude, or losing his prerogative as he lapses
from his integrity, thus debasing his form
and parcelling his gifts away in the prone
shapes distributed throughout Nature's
kingdoms ; or, again, aspiring for lost su-
premacy, he uplifts and crowns his fallen
form with forehead, countenance, speech,
thereby liberating the genius from the
slime of its prone periods, and restoring
it to rectitude, religion, science, fellow-
ship, the ideal arts.*

" Unless above himself he can
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man."

IV. EMBRTONS.

" The form is in the archetype before it ap-
pears in the work, in the divine mind before
it exists in the creature." — Leibnitz.

As the male impregnates the female, so
mind charges matter with form and fecun-
dity ; the spermatic world being life in
transmission and body in embryo. So the
egg is a genesis and seminary of forms,
(the kingdoms of animated nature sleeping
coiled in its yolk) and awaits the quicken-
ing magnetism that ushers them into light.
Herein the human embryon unfolds in
series the lineaments of all forms in the
living hierarchy, to be fixed at last in its
microcosm, unreeling therefrom its facul-
ties into filamental organs, spinning so
minutely the threads, " that were it phys-
ically possible to dissolve away all other
members of the body, there would still re-
main the full and perfect figure of a man.
And it is this perfect cerebro-spinal axis,

* "I maintain that the different types of the
human family have an independent origin, one
from the other, and are not descended from
common ancestors. In fact, I believe that
men were created in nations, not in individ-
uals ; but not in nations in the present sense
of the word ; on the contrary, in such crowds
as exhibited slight, if any, diversity among
themselves, except that of sex."— Agussiz.

this statue-like tissue of filaments, that,
physically speaking, is the man." The
mind above contains him spiritually, and
reveals him physically to himself and his
kind. Every creature assists in its own
formation, souls being essentially creative
and craving form.

"For the creature delights in the image
of ' the Creator; and the soul of man will
in a manner clasp God to herself. Having
nothing mortal, she is wholly inebriated
from God ; for she glories in the hannonv
under which the human body exists."*

V. — PROMETHEUS.
" Imago Dei in animo ; mundi, in corpore."

Man is a soul, informed by divine ideas,
and bodying forth their image. His mind
is the unit and measure of things visible
and invisible. In him stir the creatures
potentially, and through his personal voli-
tions are conceived and brought forth in
matter whatsoever he sees, touches, and
treads under foot. The planet he spins.

Ho omnipresent is,

All round himself he lies,

Osiris spread abroad ;

Upstaring in all eyes.

Nature his globed thought,

Without him she were not,

Coamos from chaos were not spoken,

And God bereft of visible token.

A theosmeter — an instrument of instru-
ments — he gathers in himself all forces,
partakes in his plenitude of omniscience,
being spirit's acme, and culmination in na-
ture. A quickening spirit and mediator
between mind and matter, he conspires
with all souls, with the Soul of souls, in
generating the substance in which he im-
merses his form, and wherein he embosoms
his essence. Not elemental, but funda-
mental, essential, he generates elements
and "irees, expiring while consuming, and
perpetually replenishing his waste; the

* " Thou hast possessed my reins, thou hast
covered me in my mother's womb. My sub-
stance was not hid from thee when I was made
in a secret place, and there curiously wrought
as in the lowest parts of the earth : there thine
eyes did see my substance yet being imperfect :
and in thy Book were all my members writ-
ten, which in continuance were fashioned
when as yet there was none of them." — Psalm
exxxix : 13, 15, 10.

168

Genesis.

final conflagration a current fact of his ex-
istence. Does the assertion seem incred-
ible, absurd? But science, grown lumin-
ous and transcendent, boldly declares
that life to the senses is ablaze, refeeding
steadily its flame from the atmosphere it
kindles into life, its embers the spent re-
mains from which rises perpetually the
new-born Phoenix into regions where flame
is lost in itself, and light its resolvent em-
blem.*

"Thee, Eye of Heaven, the great soul envies not,
By thy male force is all we have, begot."

VI.

-IDEAL METHOD.

" It has ever been the misfortune of the mere
materialist, in his mania for matter on the one
hand and dread of ideas on the other, to invert
nature's order, and thus hang the world's pic-
ture as a man with his heels upwards." — Cud-
worth.

This inverse order of thought conducts
of necessity to conclusions as derogatory
to himself as to Nature's author. Assuming
matter as his basis of investigation, force
as father of thought, he confounds facul-
ties with organs, life with brute substance,
and must needs pile his atom atop of atom ?
cement cell on cell, in constructing his
column, sconce mounting sconce aspiringly
as it rises, till his shaft of gifts crown itself
surreptitiously with the ape's glorified
effigy, as Nature's frontispiece and head.
Life's atomy with life omitted altogether,
man wanting. Not thus reads the ideal
naturalist the Book of lives. But opening
at spirit, and thence proceeding to ideas
and finding their types in matter, life un-
folds itself naturally in organs, faculties
begetting forces, mind moulding things
substantially, its connections and. inter-
dependencies appear in series and degrees

* " Man feeds upon air, the plant collecting
the materials from the atmosphere and com-
pounding them for his food. Even life itself,
as we know it, is but a process of combustion,
of which decomposition is the final conclusion ;
through this combustion all the constituents
return back into air, a few ashes remaining to
the earth from whence they came. But from
these embers, slowly invisible flames, arise
into regions where our science has no longer
any value." — Scldeiden.

as he traces the leaves, thought the key to
originals, man the connexus, archetype,
and classifier of things; he, straightway,
leading forth abreast of himself the ani-
mated creation from the chaos, — the prime-
val Adam naming his mates, himself their
ancestor, contemporary and survivor.

VII. — DIALOGIC.

If the age of iron and brass be hard upon
us, fast welding its fetters and chains
about our foreheads and limbs, here, too, is
the Promethean fire of thought to liberate
letters, science, art, philosophy, using the
new agencies let loose by the Daedalus of
mechanic invention and discovery, in the
service of the soul, as of the senses. Hav-
ing recovered the omnipresence in nature,
graded space, tunnelled the abyss, joined
ocean and land by living wires, stolen the
chemistry of atom and solar ray,, made
light our painter, the lightning our runner,
thought is pushing its inquiries into the
unexplored regions of man's personality,
for whose survey and service every modern
instrument lends the outlay and means —
facilities ample and unprecedented — new
instruments for the new discoverers. Usino-
no longer contentedly the eyes of a toiling
circuitous logic, the genius takes the track
of the creative thought, intuitively, cosmi-
cally, ontologically. A subtler analysis is
finely disseminated, a broader synthesis
accurately generalized from the materials
accumulated on the mind during the cen-
turies, the globe's contents being gathered
in from all quarters : the book of creation,
newly illustrated and posted to date. The
new Calculus is ours : an organon alike
serviceable to naturalist and metaphysi-
cian : a Dialogic for resolving things into-
thoughts, matter into mind, power into
personality, man into God, many into one ;
soul in souls seen as the creative control-
ling spirit, pulsating in all bodies, inspir-
ing, animating, organizing, immanent in
the atoms, circulating at centre and cir-
cumference, willing in all wills, person-
ally embosoming all persons in unbroken
synthesis of Being.

Analysis of Hegel's ^Esthetics.

169

ANALYSIS OF HEGEL'S ESTHETICS,

Translated from the French of

Part III.
System of the Particular Arts.

Under the head of " System of the Par-
ticular Arts," Hegel sets forth, in this
third part, the theory of each of the arts —
Architecture, Sculpture, Painting, Music
and Poetry.

Before proceeding to the division of the
arts, he glances at the different styles
which distinguish the different epochs of
their development. He reduces them to
three styles : the simple or severe, the
ideal or beautiful, and the graceful.

1. At first the simple and natural style
presents itself to us, but it is not the
truly natural or true simplicity. That
supposes a previous perfection. Primi-
tive simplicity Is gross, confused, rigid,
inanimate. Art in its infancy is heavy
and trifling, destitute of life and liberty,
without expression, or with an exagger-
ated vivacity. Still harsh and rude in its
commencements, it becomes by degrees
master of form, and learns to unite it
intimately with content. It arrives thus at
a severe beauty. This style is the Beauti-
ful in its lofty simplicity. It is restricted
to reproducing a subject with its essential
traits. Disdaining grace and ornament, it
contents itself with the general and grand
expression which springs from the subject,
without the artist's exhibiting himself and
revealing his personality in it.

2. Next in order comes the beautiful
style, the ideal and pure style, which
holds the mean between simple expression
and a marked tendency to the graceful.
Its character is vitality, combined with a
calm and beautiful grandeur. Grace is
not wanting, but there is rather a natural
carelessness, a simple complacency, than
the desire to please — a beauty indifferent
to the exterior charms which blossom of
themselves upon the surface. Such is the
ideal of the beautiful style — the style of'
Phidias and Homer. It is the culminating
point of art.

Ch. Benaiid, by J. A. Martlijsci.

3. But this movement is short. The
ideal style passes quickly to the graceful,
to the agreeable. Here appears an aim
different from that of the realization of
the beautiful, which pure art ought to
propose to itself, to wit : the intention of
pleasing, of producing an impression on
the soul. Hence arise works of a style
elaborate with art, and a certain seeking
for external embellishments. The subject
is no more the principal thing. The at-
tention of the artist is distracted by orna-
ments and accessories — by the decorations,
the trimmings, the simpering airs, the at-
titudes and graceful postures, or the vivid
colors and the attractive forms, the luxury
of ornaments and draperies, the learned
making of verse. But the general effect
remains without grandeur and without no-
bleness. Beautiful proportions and grand
masses give place to moderate dimensions,
or are masked with ornaments. The
graceful style begets the style for effect,
which is an exaggeration of it. The art
then becomes altogether conspicuous; it
calls the attention of the spectator by
everything that can strike the senses. The
artist surrenders to it his personal ends
and his design. In this species of tete-
a-tete with the public, there is betrayed
through all, the desire of exhibiting his
wit, of attracting admiration for his abil-
ity, his skill, his power of execution.
This art — without naturalness, full of co-
quetry, of artifice and affectation, the op-
posite of the severe style which yields
nothing to the public — is the style of the
epochs of decadence. Frequently it has
recourse to a last artifice, to the affec-
tation of profundity and of simplicity,
which is then only obscurity, a mysterious
profundity which conceals an absence of
ideas and a real impotence. This air of
mystery, which parades itself, is in its
turn, hardly better than coquetry; the
principle is the same — the desire of pro-
ducing an effect.

The author then passes to the Division

170

Analysis of Hegel's Aesthetics.

of the Arts. The common method classes
them according to their means of repre-
sentation, and the senses to which they
are addressed. Two senses only are af-
fected hy the perception of the beautiful :
sight, which perceives forms and colors,
and hearing, which perceives sounds.
Hence the division into arts of design and
musical art. Poetry, which employs
speech, and addresses itself to the imag-
ination, forms a domain apart. Without
discarding this division, Hegel combines
it with another more philosophical princi-
ple of classification, and one which is
taken no longer from the external means
of art, but from their internal relation to
the very content of the ideas which it is
to represent.

Art has for object the representation of
the ideal. The arts ought then to be
classed according to the measure in which
they are more or less capable of express-
ing it. This gradation will have at the
same time the advantage of corresponding
to historic progress, and to the funda-
mental forms of art previously studied.

According to this principle, the arts
marshal themselves, and succeed one
another, to form a regular and complete
system, thus :

1. First Architecture presents itself.
This art, in fact, is incapable of repre-
senting an idea otherwise than in a vague,
indeterminate manner. It fashions the
masses of inorganic nature, according to
the laws of matter and geometrical pro-
portions; it disposes them with regularity
and symmetry in such a manner as to
offer to the eyes an image which is a sim-
ple reflex of the spirit, a dumb symbol of
the thought. Architecture is at the same
time appropriated to ends which are for-
eign to it: it is destined to furnish a
dwelling for man and a temple for Divin-
ity ; it must shelter under its roof, in its
enclosure, the other arts, and, in particu-
lar, sculpture and painting.

For these reasons architecture should,
historically and logically, be placed first
in the series of the arts.

2. In a higher rank is Sculpture, which
already exhibits spirit under certain de-
terminate traits. Its object, in fact, is

spirit individualized, revealed by thef hu-
man form and its living organism. Under
this visible appearance, by the features of
the countenance, and the proportions of
the body, it expresses ideal beauty, divine
calmness, serenity — in a word, the classic
ideal.

3. Although retained in the world of
visible forms, Painting offers a higher de-
gree of spirituality. To form, it adds the
different phases of visible appearance,
the illusions of perspective, color, light
and shades, and thereby it becomes capa-
ble, not only of reproducing the various
pictures of nature, but also of expressing
upon canvas the most profound sentiments
of the human soul, and all the scenes of
ethical life.

4. But, as an expression of sentiment,
Music still surpasses painting. What it
expresses is the soul itself, in its most in-
timate and profound relations; and this
by a sensuous phenomenon, equally invis-
ible, instantaneous, intangible — sound —
sonorous vibrations, which resound in the
abysses of the soul, and agitate it
throughout.

5. All these arts culminate in Poetry,
which includes them and surpasses them,
and whose superiority is due to its mode
of expression — speech. It alone is capa-
ble of expressing all ideas, all sentiments,
all passions, the highest conceptions of
the intelligence, and the most fugitive
impressions of the soul. To it alone is
given to represent an action in its com-
plete development and in all its phases.
It is the universal art — its domain is un-
limited. Hence it is divided into many
species, of which the principal are epic,
lyric and dramatic poetry.

These five arts form the complete and
organized system of the arts. Others,
such as the art of gardening, dancing, en-
graving, etc., are only accessories, and
more or less connected with the preced-
ing. They have not the right to occupy a
distinct place in a general theory ; they
would only introduce confusion, and dis-
figure the fundamental type which is pe-
culiar to each of them.

Such is the division adopted by Hegel.
He combines it, at the same time, with his

Analysis of Hegel's JEsihetics.

171

general division of the forms of the his-
toric development of art. Thus architect-
ure appears to him to correspond more
particularly to the symbolic type; sculp-
ture is the classic art, par excellence;
painting and music fill the category of the
romantic arts. Poetry, as art universal,
belongs to all epochs.

I. Architecture. — In the study of archi-
tecture, Elegel follows a purely historic
method. He limits himself to describing
and characterizing its principal forms in
the different epochs of history. This art,
in fact, lends itself to an abstract theory
less than the others. There are here few
principles, to establish; and when we de-
part from generalities, we enter into the
domain of mathematical laws, or into the
technical applications, foreign to pure
science. It remains, then, only to deter-
mine the sense and the character of its
monuments, in their relation to the spirit
of the people, and the epochs to which
they belong. It is to this point of view
that the author has devoted himself. The
division which he adopts on this subject,
and the manner in which he explains it,
are as follows :

The object of architecture, independent
of the positive design and the use to
which its monuments are appropriated, is
to express a general thought, by forms
borrowed from inorganic nature, by masses
fashioned and disposed according to the
laws of geometry and mechanics. But
whatever may be the ideas and the im-
cressions which the appearance of an edi-
fice produces, it never furnishes other than
an obscure and enigmatic emblem. The
thought is vaguely represented by those
material forms which spirit itself does not
animate.

If such is the nature of this art, it fol-
lows that, essentially symbolic, it must
predominate in that first epoch of history
which is distinguished by the symbolic
character of its monuments. It must show
itself there freer, more independent of
practical utility, not subordinated to a
foreign end. Its essential object ought to
be to express ideas, to present emblems, to
gymbolize the beliefs of those peoples, in-
capable as they are of otherwise express-

ing them. It is the proper language of
such an epoch — a language enigmatic and
mysterious ; it indicates the effort of the
imagination to represent ideas, still vague.
Its monuments are problems proposed to
future ages, and which as yet are but im-
perfectly comprehended.

Such is the character of oriental archi-
tecture. There the end is valueless or ac-
cessory ; the symbolic expression is the
principal object. Architecture is independ-
ent, and sculpture is confounded with it.

The monuments of Greek and Roman
architecture present a wholly different
character. Here, the aim of utility ap-
pears clearly distinct from expression.
The purpose, the design of the monument
comes out in an evident manner. It is a
dwelling, a shelter, a temple, etc.

Sculpture, for its part, is detached from
architecture, and assigns its end to it.
The image of the god, enclosed in the
temple, is the principal object. The tem-
ple is only a shelter, an external attendant.
Its forms are regulated according to the
laws of numbers, and the proportions of a
learned eurythniy ; but its true orna-
ments are furnished to it by sculpture.
Architecture ceases then to be independ-
ent and symbolic; it becomes dependent,
subordinated to a positive end.

As to Christian architecture or that of
the Middle Ages, it presents the union of
the two preceding characteristics. It is at
once devoted to a useful end, and emi-
nently expressive or symbolic — dependent
and independent. The temple is the house
of God ; it is devoted to the uses and cere-
monies of worship, and shows throughout
its design in its forms; but at the same
time these symbolize admirably the Chris-
tian idea.

Thus the symbolic, classic and romantic
forms, borrowed from history, and which
mark the whole development of art, serve
for the division and classification of the
forms of architecture. This being espe-
cially the art which is exercised in the do-
main of matter, the essential point to be
distinguished is whether the monument
which is addressed to the eyes includes in
itself its own meaning, or whether it is
considered as a means to a foreign end,

172

Analysis of Hegel's JEsthetics.

or finally whether, although in the service
of a foreign end, it preserves its independ-
ence.

The basis of the division heing thus
placed, Hegel justifies it by describing the
characters of the monuments belonging to
these three epochs. All this descriptive
part can not be analyzed : we are obliged
to limit ourselves to securing a comprehen-
sion of the general features, and to noting
the most remarkable points.

(a) Since the distinctive characteristic of
symbolic architecture is the expression of
a general thought, without other end than
the representation of it, the interest in its
monuments is less in their positive design
than in the religious conceptions of the
people, who, not having other means of
expression, have embodied their thought,
still vague and confused, in these gigantic
masses and these colossal images. Entire
nations know not how otherwise to express
their religious beliefs. Hence the sym-
bolic character of the structures of the
Babylonians, the Indians and the Egyp-
tians, of those works which absorbed the
life of those peoples, and whose meaning
we seek to explain to ourselves.

It is difficult to follow a regular order in
the absence of chronology, when we re-
view the multiplicity of ideas and forms
which these monuments and these symbols
present. Hegel thinks, nevertheless, that
he is able to establish the following grada-
tions :

In the first rank are the simplest monu-
ments, such as seem only designed to serve
as a bond of union to entire nations, or to
different nations. Such gigantic structures
as the tower of Belus or Babylon, upon
the shores of the Euphrates, present the
image of the union of the peoples before
their dispersion. Community of toil and
effort is the aim and the very idea of the
work ; it is the common work of their
united efforts, the symbol of the dissolu-
tion of the primitive family and of the
formation of a vaster society.

In a rank more elevated, appear the mon-
uments of a more determined character,
where is noticeable a mingling of archi-
tecture and sculpture, although they be-
long to the former. Such are those sym-

bols which, in the East, represent the
generative force of nature; the phallus
and the lingam scattered in so great num-
bers throughout Phrygia and Syria, and
of which India is the principal seat; in
Egypt, the obelisks, which derive their
symbolic significance from the rays of the
sun ; the Memnons, colossal statues which
also represent the sun and his beneficent
influence upon nature; the sphinxes,
which one finds in Egypt in prodigious
numbers and of astonishing size, ranged
in rows in the form of avenues. These
monuments, of an imposing sculpture, are
grouped in masses, surrounded by walls
so as to form buildings.

They present, in a striking manner, the
twofold character indicated above : free
from all positive design, they are, above
all, symbols ; afterward, sculpture is con-
founded with architecture. They are
structures without roof, without doors,
without aisles, frequently forests of col-
ums where the eye loses itself. The eye
passes over objects which are there for
their own sake, designed only to strike the
imagination by their colossal aspect and
their enigmatic sense, not to serve as a
dwelling for a god, and as a place of as-
semblage for his worshippers. Their order
and their disposition alone preserve for
them an architectural character. You walk
on into the midst of those human works,
mute symbols which remind you of divine
things ; your eyes are everywhere struck
with the aspect of those forms and those
extraordinary figures, of those walls be-
sprinkled with hieroglyphics, books of
stone, as it were, leaves of a mysterious
book. Everything there is symbolically de-
termined — the proportions, the distances,
the number of columns, etc. The Egyp-
tians, in particular, consecrated their lives
to constructing and building these monu-
ments, by instinct, as a swarm of bees
builds its hive. This was the whole life of
the people. It placed there all its thought,
for it could no otherwise express it.

Nevertheless, that architecture, in one
point s by its chambers and its halls, its
tombs, begins to approach the following-
class, which exhibits a more positive de-
sign, and of which the type is a house.

Analysis of HcgeVs JEsihetics.

173

A third rank marks the transition of
symbolic to classic architecture. Archi-
tecture already presents a character of
utility, of conformity to an end. The
monument has a precise design ; it serves
for a particular use taken aside from the
symbolic sense. It is a temple or a tomb.
Such, in the first place, is the subterranean
architecture of the Indians, those vast ex-
cavations which are also temples, species
of subterranean cathedrals, the caverns of
Mithra, likewise filled with symbolic sculp-
ture. But this transition is better charac-
terized by the double architecture, (subter-
ranean and above ground) of the Egyp-
tians, which is connected with their wor-
ship of the dead. An individual being, who
has his significance and his proper value ;
the dead one, distinct from his habitation
which serves him only for covering and
shelter, resides in the interior. The most
ancient of these tombs are the pyramids,
species of crystals, envelopes of stone
which enclose a kernel, an invisible being,
and which serve for the preservation of the
bodies. In this concealed dead one, resides
the significance of the monument which is
subordinate to him.

Here, then, Architecture ceases to be in-
dependent. It divides itself into two ele-
ments — the end and the means; it is the
means, and it is subservient to an end.
Further, sculpture separates itself from it,
and obtains a distinct office — that of shap-
ing the image within, and its accessories.
Here appears clearly the special design of
architecture, conformity to an end; also
it assumes inorganic and geometric forms,
the abstract, mathematical form, which
befits it in particular. The pyramid al-
ready exhibits the design of a house, the
rectangular form.

(b) Classic architecture has a two-fold
point of departure — symbolic architecture
and necessity. The adaptation of parts to
an end, in symbolic architecture, is acces-
sory. In the house, on the contrary, all
is controlled, from the first, by actual ne-
cessity and convenience. Now classic
architecture proceeds both from the one
and from the other principle, from neces-
sity and from art, from the useful and

from the beautiful, which it combines in
the most perfect manner. Necessity pro-
daces regular forms, right angles, plane
surfaces. But the end is not 6imply the
satisfaction of a physical necessity ; there
is also an idea, a religious representation,
a sacred image, which it has to shelter
and surround, a worship, a religious cere-
monial. The temple ought then, like the
temple fashioned by sculpture, to spring
from the creative imagination of the artist.
There is necessary a dwelling for the god,
fashioned by art and according to its laws.

Thus, while falling under the law of
conformity to an end, and ceasing to be
independent, architecture escapes from
the useful and submits to the law of the
beautiful ; or rather, the beautiful and
useful meet and combine themselves in the
happiest manner. Symmetry, eurythmy,
organic forms the most graceful, the most
rich, and the most varied, join themselves
as ornaments to the architectural forms.
The two points of view are united without
being confounded, and form an harmoni-
ous whole ; there will be, at the same time,
a useful, convenient and beautiful archi-
tecture.

What best marks the transition to Greek
architecture, is the appearance of the col-
umn, which is its type. The column is a
support. Therein is its useful and mechani-
cal design ; it fulfils that design in the
most simple and perfect manner, because
with it the power of support is reduced to
its minimum of material means. From
another side, in order to be adapted to its
end and to beauty, it must give up its
natural and primitive form. The beauti-
ful column comes from a form borrowed
from nature; but carved, shaped, it takes a
regular and geometric configuration. In
Egypf human figures serve as columns;
here they are replaced by caryatides. But
the natural, primitive form is the tree, the
trunk, the flexible stock, which bears its
crown. Such, too, appears the Egyptian
column ; columns are seen rising from the
vegetable kingdom in the stalks of the
lotus and other trees : the base resembles
an onion. The leaf shoots from the root,
like that of a reed, and the capital pre-

174

Analysis of Hegel's ^Esthetics.

gents the appearance of a flower. The
mathematical and regular form is absent.
In the Greek column, on the contrary, all
is fashioned according to the mathematical
laws of regularity and proportion. The
beautiful column springs from a form bor-
rowed from nature, but fashioned accord-
ing to the artistic sense.

Thus the characteristic of classic archi-
tecture, as of architecture in general, is
the union of beauty and utility. Its beauty
consists in its regularity, and although it
serves a foreign end, it constitutes a whole
perfect in itself; it permits its essential
aim to look forth in all its parts, and
through the harmony of its relations, it
transforms the useful into the beautiful.

The character of classic architecture be-
ing subordination to an end, it is that
end which, without detriment to beauty,
gives to the entire edifice its proper signifi-
cation, and which becomes thus the prin-
cipal regulator of all its parts ; as it im-
presses itself on the whole, and determines
its fundamental form. The ^first thing
as to a work of this sort, then, is to know
what is its purpose, its design. The gene-
ral purpose of a Grecian temple is to hold
the statue of a god. But in its exterior,
the character of the temple relates to a
different end, and its spirit is the life of
the Greek people.

Among the Greeks, open structures, col-
onnades and porticoes, have as object the
promenade in the open air, conversation,
public life under a pure sky. Likewise
the dwellings of private persons are insig-
nificant. Among the Romans, on the con-
trary, whose national architecture has a
more positive end in utility, appears later
the luxury of private houses, palaces,
villas, theatres, circuses, amphitheatres,
aqueducts and fountains. But the princi-
pal edifice is thnt whose end is most re-
mote from the wants of material life ; it
is the temple designed to serve as a shel-
ter to a divine object, which already be-
longs to the fine arts — to the statue of a
god.

Although devoted to a determinate end,
this architecture is none the less free from
it, in the sense, that it disengages itself

from organic forms ; it is more free even
than sculpture, which is obliged to repro-
duce them ; it invents its plan, the general
configuration, and it displays in external
forms all the richness of the imagination ;
it has no other laws than those of good
taste and harmony ; it labors without a
direct model. Nevertheless, it works
within a limited domain, that of mathe-
matical figures, and it is subjected to the
laws of mechanics. Here must be pre-
served, first of all, the relations between
the width, the length, the height of the
edifice ; the exact proportions of the col-
umns according to their thickness, the
weight to be supported, the intervals, the
number of columns, the style, the sim-
plicity of the ornaments. It is this which
gives to the theory of this art, and in par-
ticular of this form of architecture, the
character of dryness and abstraction. But
there dominates throughout, a natural
eurytbmy, which their perfectly accurate
sense enabled the Greeks to find and fix
as the measure and rule of the beautiful.
We will not follow the author in the de-
scription which he gives of the particular
characteristics of architectural forms ; we
will omit also some other interesting de-
tails upon building in wood or in stone as
the primitive type, upon the relation of
the different parts of the Greek temple.
In here following Vitruvius, the author
has been able to add some discriminating
and judicious remarks. What he says, in
particular, of the column, of its propor-
tions and of its design, of the internal
unity of the different parts and of their
effects as a whole, adds to what is already
known a philosophical explication which
satisfies the reason. We remark, especial-
ly, this passage, which sums up the gene-
ral character of the Greek temple: "In
general, the Greek temple presents an as-
pect which satisfies the vision, and, so to
speak, surfeits it. Nothing is very ele-
vated, it is regularly extended in length
and breadth. The eye finds itself allured
by the sense of extent, while Gothic archi-
tecture mounts even beyond measurement,
and shoots upward to heaven. Besides, the
ornaments are so managed that they do

Analysis of Hegel's JEsthetics.

175

not mar the general expression of sim-
plicity. In this, the ancients observe the
most beautiful moderation."

The connection of their architecture
with the genius, the spirit, and the life of
the Greek people, is indicated in the fol-
lowing passage : u In place of the spec-
tacle of an assemblage united for a single
end, all appears directed towards the ex-
terior, and presents us the image of an
animated promenade. There men who have
leisure abandon themselves to conversa-
tions without end, wherein rule gayety and
serenity. The whole expression of such a
temple remains truly simple and grand in
itself, but it has at the same time an air
of serenity, something open and graceful."
This prepares and conducts us to another
kind of architecture, which presents a
striking contrast to the preceding Chris-
tian or Gothic architecture.

(c) We shall not further attempt to re-
produce, even in its principal features, the
description which Hegel gives, in some
pages, of Romantic or Gothic architecture.
The author has proposed to himself, as
object, in the first place, to compare the
two kinds of architecture, the Greek and
the Christian, then to secure the apprehen-
sion of the relation of this form of archi-
tecture to the Christian idea. This is
what constitutes the peculiar interest of
this remarkable sketch, which, by its vigor
and severity of design, preserves its dis-
tinctive merit when compared with all de-
scriptions that have been made of the
architecture of the Middle Ages.

Gothic architecture, according to Hegel,
unites, in the first place, the opposite char-
acters of the two preceding kinds. Not-
withstanding, this union does not consist
in the simple fusion of the architectural
forms of the East and of Greece. Here,
still more than in the Greek temple, the
house furnishes the fundamental type. An
architectural edifice which is the house of
God, shows itself perfectly in conformity
with its design and adapted to worship ;
but the monument is also there for its own
sake, independent, absolute. Externally,
the edifice ascends, shoots freely into the
air.

The conformity to the end, although it

presents itself to the eyes, is therefore
effaced, and leaves to the whole the appear-
ance of an independent existence. The
monument has a determinate sense, and
shows it; but, in its grand aspect and its
sublime calm, it is lifted above all end in
utility, to something infinite in itself.

If we examine the relation of this archi-
tecture to the inner spirit and the idea of
Christian worship, we remark, in the first
place, that the fundamental form is here
the house wholly closed. Just as, in fact,
the Christian spirit withdraws itself into
the interior of the conscience, just so the
church is an enclosure, sealed on all sides,
the place of meditation and silence. " It
is the place of the reflection of the soul
into itself, which thus shuts itself up ma-
terially in space. On the other hand, if,
in Christian meditation, the soul with-
draws into itself, it is, at the same time,
lifted above the finite, and this equally
determines the character of the house
of God. Architecture takes, then, for
its independent signification, elevation
towards the infinite, a character which
it expresses by the proportions of its
architectural forms." These two traits,
depth of self-examination and elevation
of the soul towards the infinite, explain
completely the Gothic architecture and its
principal forms. They furnish also the
essential differences between Gothic and
Greek architecture.

The impression which the Christian
church ought to produce in contrast with
this open and serene aspect of the Greek
temple, is, in the first place, the calmness
of the soul which reflects into itself, then
that of a sublime majesty which shoots
beyond the confines of sense. Greek edi-
fices extend horizontally; the Christian
church should lift itself from the ground
and shoot into the air.

The most striking characteristic which
the house of God presents, in its whole
and its parts, is, then, the free flight, the
shooting in points formed either by broken
arches or by right lines. In Greek archi-
tecture, exact proportion between support
and heisrht is evervwhere observed. Here,

176

The Metaphysics of Materialism.

on the contrary, the operation of support-
ing and the disposition at a right angle —
the most convenient for this end — disap-
pears or is effaced. The walls and the
column shoot without marked difference
between what supports and 'what is sup-
ported, and meet in an acute angle. Hence

the acute triangle and the ogee, which
form the characteristic traits of Gothic
architecture.

We are not able to follow the author in
the detailed explication of the different
forms and the divers parts of the Gothic
edifice, and of its total structure.

THE METAPHYSICS OF MATERIALISM.

By D. G. Brinton.

Ubi tres physici, ibi duo athei, — the
proverb is something musty. Natural
science is and always has been materialis-
tic. The explanation is simple. There is as
great antagonism between chemical re-
search and metaphysical speculation, as
there is between what

" Youthful poets dream,
On summer's eve by haunted stream,"

and book-keeping by double entry, and
nothing is more customary than to deny
what we do not understand. Of late years
this scientific materialism has been making
gigantic strides. Since the imposing fab-
ric of the Hegelian philosophy proved but
a house built on sands, the scales and me-
tre have become our only gods.

Germany — mystic, metaphysical Ger-
many — strange to say, leads the van in
this crusade against all faith and all ideal-
ism. Vogt, the geologist, Moleschott, the
physiologist, Virchow, the greatest of all
living histologists, Buchner, Tiedemann,
Reuchlin, Meldeg, and many others, not
only hold these opinions, but have left the
seclusion of the laboratory and the clinic
to enter the arena of polemics in their fa-
vor. We do not mention the French and
English advocates of " positive philoso-
phy." Their name is Legion.

It is not our design to enter at all at
large into these views, still less to dispute
them, but merely to give the latest and
most approved defence of a single point
of their position, a point which we
submit is the kernel of the whole con-
troversy, and which we believe to be the
very Achilles heel and crack in the armor

of their panoply of argument — that is,
the Theory of the Absolvte. Demonstrate
the possibility of the Absolute, and ma-
terialism is impossible ; disprove it, and
all other philosophies are empty noth-
ings, — vox et prceterea nihil. Here, and
only here, is materialism brought face
to face with metaphysics ; here is the
combat a Voutrance in which one or the
other must perish. No one of its apostles
has accepted the proffered glaive more
heartily, and defended his position with
more wary dexterity, than Moleschott, and
it is mainly from his work, entitled Der
Kreislauf des Lebens, that we illustrate
the present metaphysics of materialism.

Our first question is, What is the test of
truth, what sanctions a law ? Until this
is answered, all assertion is absurd, and
until it is answered correctly, all philoso-
phy is vain. The response of the natural-
ist is : " The necessary sequence of cause
and effect is the prime law of the experi-
mentalist— -a law which he does not ask
from revelation, but will find out for him-
self by observation." The source of truth
is sensation; the uniform result of mani-
ifold experience is a law. Here a double
objection arises : first, that the term " a
necessary sequence " presupposes a law,
and begs the question at issue ; and, sec-
ondly, that, this necessity unproved, such
truth is nothing more than a probability,
for it is impossible to be certain that our
next experiment may not have quite a dif-
ferent result. Either this is not the road
to absolute truth, or absolute truth is un-
attainable. The latter horn of the dilem-
ma is at once accepted ; we neither know,

The Metaphysics of Materialism.

177

nor can know, a law to be absolute ; to us,
the absolute does not exist. Matter and
force with their relations are there, but
what we know of them is a varying quan-
tity, is of this age or the last, of this man
or that, dependent upon the extent and
accuracy of empirical science ; we cannot
speak of what we do not know, and we
know no law that conceivable experience
might not contradict.

But how, objects the reader, can this bo
reconciled with the pure mathematics ?
Here seem to be laws above experience,
laws admitting no exception.

The response leads us back to the origin
of our notions of Space and Time, on the
the former of which mathematics is
founded. The supposition that they are
innate ideas is of course rejected by the
materialist ; for he looks upon innate
ideas as fables; he considers them per-
ceptions derived positively from the senses,
but they do not belong to the senses alone,
nor are they perceptions merely ; " they
are ideas, but ideas that without the sensu-
ous perceptions of proximity and sequence
could never have arisen. Nay, more — the
perception of space must precede that of
time," for it is only through the former
that we can reach the latter. The plain-
est laws of space, those which were the
earliest impressions on the tabula rasa of
the infant mind, and which the hourly ex-
perience of life verifies, are caMed, by the
mathematician, axioms, and on these sim-
plest generalisations of our perceptions
he bases the whole of his structure. Ax-
ioms, therefore, are the uniform results of
experiments, the possible conditions of
which are extremely limited, and the fac-
tors of which have been subjected to all
these conditions.

It follows from a denial of the absolute
that all existence is concrete. Indeed, we
may say that the corner stone of the edi-
fice of materialism is embraced in the terse
sentence of Moleschott — all existence is ex-
istence through attributes. Existence per
se (Ftirsiclisein) is a meaningless term, and
substance apart from attribute, the ens
ineffabile, is a pedantic figment and noth-
ing more. Finally, there can be no attri-
bute except through a relation.
12

Let this trilogy of existence, attribute

and relation, be clearly before the mind,
and the position that the positive philos-
ophy bears to all others becoiu.'.s at once
luminous enough. There is no existence
apart from attributes, no attributes but
through relations, no relations but to other
existences. To exemplify : a stone is heavy,
hard, colored, perhaps bitter to the taste.
Now, says the idealist, this weight, this
hardness, this color, this bitterness, these
are not the stone, they are merely its prop-
erties or attributes, and the stone itself is
some substance behind them all, to which
they adhere and which we cannot detect
with our senses ; further, he might add, if
a moderate in his school, these attributes
are independently existent, the bitterness
is there when we are not tasting it, and
the attribute of color, though there be no
light. All this the materialist denies. To
him, the attributes and nothing else con-
stitute the stone, and these attributes have
no existence apart from their relations to
other objects. The bitterness exists only
in relation to the organs of taste, and the
color to the organs of sight, and the Weight
to other bodies of matter. Nothing, in
short, can be said to exist to us that is not
cognizable by our senses. But, objects
some one, there may be an existence which
is not to us, which is as much beyond our
ken as color is beyond the conception of
the born blind. The expression was used
advisedly : no such existence can become
the subject of rational language. "Does
not all knowledge predicate a knower, con-
sequently a relation of the subject to the
the observer ? Such a relation is an attri-
bute. Without it, knowledge is inconceiv-
able. Neither God nor man can raise him-
self above the knowledge furnished by
these relations to his organs of apprehen-

sion.

A disagreeable sequence to this logic
will not fail to occur to every one. If all
knowledge comes from the organs of sense,
then differently formed organs must fur-
nish very different and contradictory
knowledge, and one is as likely to be cor-
rect as another. The radiate animal, who
sees the world through a cornea alone, must
have quite another notion of light, color,

178

Letters en Faust.

and relative size, from the spider whose
eye is provided with lenses and a vitreous
humor. Consonantly with the theory,
each of these probably opposing views is
equally true. This ugly dilemma is fore-
seen by our author, for he grants that
"the knowledge of the insect, its knowl-
edge of the action of the outer world, is
altogether a different one from that of
man," but he avoids the ultimate result of
this reasoning.

To sum up the views of this school :
matter is eternal, force is eternal, but each
is impossible without the other ; what bears
any relation to our senses we either know
or can know; what does not, it is absurd
to discuss ; the highest thought is but the
physical elaboration of sensations, or, to
use the expression of Carl Vogt, " thought
is a secretion of the brain as urine is of the
kidneys. Without phosphorus there is no
thought." '' And so," concludes Mole-
schott, '• only when thought is based on
fact, only when the reason is granted no
sphere of action but the historical which
arises from observation, when the percep-
tion is at the same time thought, and the
understanding sees with consciousness,

does the contradiction between Philosophy
and Science disappear."

This, then, is the last word of material-
ism, this the solution it now offers us of
the great problem of Life. We enter no
further into its views, for all collateral
questions concerning the origin of the
ideas of the true, the good and the beauti-
ful, the vital force, and the spiritual life.,
depend directly on the question we have
above mentioned. Let the reader turn back
precisely a century to the Sysfeme de la
Nature, so long a boasted bulwark of the
rationalistic school, and judge for himself
what advance, if any, materialism has
made in fortifying this, the most vital
point of her structure. Let him ask him-
self anew whether the criticism of Hume
on the law of cause and effect can in any
way be met except after the example of
Kant, by the assumption of the absolute
idea, and we have little doubt what con-
clusion he will arrive at in reference to
that system which, while it boasts to offer
the only method of discovering truth,
starts with the flat denial of all truth
other than relative.

LETTERS ON FAUST.

By H. C. Brocemeter.

Dear H. — Yours of a recent date, re-
questing an epistolary criticism of " Goe-
the's Faust," has come to hand, and I
hasten to assure you of a compliance of
some sort. I. say a compliance of some
sort, for I cannot promise you a criticism.
This, it seems to me, would be both too
little and too much; too little if under-
stood in the ordinary sense, as meaning a
mere statement of the relation existing
between the work and myself ; too much
if interpreted as pledging an expression of
a work of the creative imagination, a.3 a
totality, in the terms of the understanding,
and submitting the result to the canons of
art.

The former procedure, usually called
criticism, reduced to its simplest forms,
amounts to this : that I, the critic, report

to you, that I was amused or bored, flat-
tered or satirized, elevated or degraded,
humanized or brutalized, enlightened or
mystified, pleased or displeased, by the
work under consideration ; and — since ii
depends quite as much upon my own hu-
mor, native ability, and culture acquired,
which set of adjectives I may be able to
report, as it does upon the work — I cannot
perceive what earthly profit such a labor
could be to you. For that which is clear
to you may bo dark to me ; hence, if I re-
port that a given work is a " perfect riddle
to me," you will only smile at my sim-
plicity. Again, that which amuses me
may bore you, for I notice that even at the
theatre, some will yawn with enmti while
others thrill with delight, and applaud the
play. Now, if each of these should tell
you how he liked the performance, the one

Letters on Faust.

179

would say "excellent," and the other
<e miserable," and you be none the wiser.
To expect, therefore, that I intend to enter
upon a labor of this kind, is to expect too
little.

Besides, such an undertaking 6eems to
me not without its peculiar danger ; for it
may happen that the work measures or
criticises the critic, instead of the latter
the former. If, for example, I should tell
you that the integral and differential cal-
culus is all fog to me — mystifies me com-
pletely — you would conclude my knowl-
edge of mathematics to be rather imperfect,
and thus use my own report of that work as
a sounding-lead to ascertain the depth of
my attainment. Nay, you might even go
further, and regard the work as a kind of
Doomsday Book, on the title page of
which I had " written myself down an
ass." Now, as I am not ambitious of a
memorial of this kind, especially when
there is no probability that the pages in
contemplation — Goethe's Faust — will per-
ish any sooner than the veritable Dooms-
day Book itself, I request you, as a special
favor, not to understand of me that I pro-
pose engaging in any undertaking of this
sort.*

Nor are you to expect an inquiry into
the quantity or quality of the author's
food, drink or raiment. For the present
infantile state of analytic science refuses
all aid in tracing such primary elements,
so to speak, in the composition of the
poem before us ; and hence such an inves-
tigation would lead, at best, to very sec-
ondary and remote conclusions. Nor shall
we be permitted to explore the likes and
dislikes of the poet, in that fine volume of

* In this connection, permit me, dear friend,
to mention a discovery which I made concern-
ing ray son Isaac, now three years old. Just
imagine my surprise when I found that every
book in my possession — Webster's Spelling-
book not excepted — is a perfect riddle to him,
and mystifies him as completely as ever the
works of Goethe, Hegel, Emerson, or any
other thinking man, do or did the learned
critics. But my parental pride, so much
elated by the discovery of this remarkable
precocity in my son — a precocity which, at
the age of three years, (!) shows him pos-
sessed of all the incapacity of such " learned
men " — was shocked, nay, mortified, by the
utter want of appreciation which the little fel-
low showed of this, his exalted condition !

scandal, for the kindred reason that nei-
ther crucible, reagent nor retort are at
hand which can be of the remotest service.

By the by, has it never occurred to you,
when perusing works of the kind last re-
ferred to, what a glowing picture the pious
Dean of St. Patrick's, the saintly Swift,
has bequeathed to us of their producers,
when he places the great authors, the
historical Gullivers of our race, in all
their majesty of form, astride the public
thoroughfare of a Liliputian age, and
marches the inhabitants, in solid battal-
ions, through between their legs? you re-
collect what he says ?

Nor yet are you to expect a treat of that
most delightful of all compounds, the ta-
ble talk and conversation — or, to use a
homely phrase, the literary dishwater
retailed by the author's scullion. To ex-
pect such, or the like, would be to expect
too little.

On the other hand, to expect that I shall
send you an expression, in the terms of
the understanding, of a work of the crea-
tive imagination, as a totality, and submit
the result to the canons of art, is to ex-
pect too much. For while I am ready,
and while I intend to comply with the
first part of this proposition, I am unable
to fulfil the requirement of the latter
part — that is, I am not able to submit the
result to the canons of art. The reason
for this inability it is not necessary to
develop in this connection any further
than merely to mention that I find it ex-
tremely inconvenient to lay my hand upon
the aforementioned canons just at this
time.

I must, therefore, content myself with
the endeavor to summon before you the
Idea which creates the poem — each act,
scene and verse — so that we may see the
part in its relation to the whole, and the
whole in its concrete, organic articulation.
If we succeed in this, then we may say
that we comprehend the work — a condition
precedent alike to the beneficial enjoyment
and the ratioiml judgment of the same,

II.

In my first letter, dear friend, 1 endeav-
ored to guard you against misapprehension

180

Letters on Faust.

as to what you might expect from me. Its
substance, if memory serves me, was that
I did not intend to write on Anthropology
or Psychology, nor yet on street, parlor or
court gossip, but simply about a work of
art.

I deemed these remarks pertinent in
view of the customs of the time, lest that,
in my not conforming to them, you should
judge me harshly without profit to your-
self. With the same desire of keeping up
a fair understanding with you, I must call
your attention to some terms and distinc-
tions which we shall have occasion to use,
and which, unless explained, might prove
shadows instead of lights along the path
of our intercourse.

I confess to you that I share the (I might

say) abhorrence so generally entertained by

the reading public, of the use of any gen-

ral terms whatsoever, and would avoid

them altogether if I could only see how.

But in reading the poem that we are to

consider, I come upon such passages as

these :

(Choir of invisible Spirits.)

"Woe! Woe!
Thou hast destroyed it,
The beautiful world !
It reels, it crumbles,
Crushed by a demigod's mighty hand !"

and I cannot see how we are to understand
these spirits, or the poet who gave them
voice, unless we attack this very general
expression "The beautiful world," here
said to have been destroyed by Faus-t.

I am, however, somewhat reconciled to
this by the example of my neighbor — a
non-speculative, practical farmer — now
busily engaged in harvesting his wheat.
For I noticed that he first directed his at-
tention, after cutting the grain, to collect-
ing and tying it together in bundles ; and
I could not help but perceive how much
this facilitated his labor, and how difficult
it would have been for him to collect his
wheat, grain by grain, like the sparrow of
the field. Though wheat it were, and not
chaff, still such a mode of handling would
reduce it even below the value of chaff.

Just think of handling the wheat crop
of these United States, the two hundred
and twenty-five millions of bushels a year,

in this manner! It is absolutely not to be
thought of, and we must have recourse to
agglomeration, if not to generalization.
But the one gives us general masses, and
the other general terms. The only thing
that we can do, therefore, is, in imitation
of our good neighbor of the wheat field,
to handle bundles, bushels, and bags, or —
what is still better, if it can be done by
some daring system of intellectual eleva-
tors — whole ship loads of grain at a time,
due care being taken that we tie wheat to
wheat, oats to oats, barley to barley, and
not promiscuously.

Now, with this example well before our
minds, and the necessity mentioned, which
compels us to handle — not merely the
wheat crop of the United States for one
year, but — whatever has been raised by
the intelligence of man from the begin-
ning of our race to the time of Goethe
the poet, together with the ground on
which it was raised, and the sky above —
for no less than this seems to be contained
in the expression " The beautiful world " —
I call your attention first to the expression
" form and matter,'' which, when applied
to works of intelligence, we must take the
liberty of changing into the expression
" form and content ," for since there is
nothing in works of this kind that mani-
fests gravity, it can be of no use to say so,
but may be of some injury.

The next is the expression " works of
art," which sounds rather suspicious in
some of its applications — sounds as if it
was intended to conceal rather than reveal
the worker. Now I take it that the
"works of art" are the works of the in-
telligence, and I shall have to classify
them accordingly. Another point with
reference to this might as well be noticed,
and that is that the old expressions
"works of art" and "works of nature"
do not contain, as they were intended to,
all the works that present themselves to
our observation — the works of science, for
example. Besides, we have government,
society, and religion, all of which are un-
doubtedly distinct from the " works of
art " no less than from the " works of na-
ture," and to tie them up in the same bun-
dle with either of them, seems to me to be

Letters on Faust.

1-1

like tying wheat with outs, and therefore subjects have the same predicate? It
to be avoided, as in the example before our would, therefore, perhaps be better to say
minds. This seems to be done in the ex- " the works of self-conscious intelligence "
pression " works of self-conscious intelli-
gence," and " works of nature."

But if we reflect upon the phrases
" works of self-conscious intelligence"
and " works of nature," it becomes ob-
vious that there must be some inaccuracy
contained in them ; for how can two distinct

and the " products of nature."

Without further rasping and filing of
old phrases, I call your attention, in the
next place, to the most general term which
we shall have occasion to use — u the
world."

Under this we comprehend :

Meteorologic=Electricity.

I. The natural world — Gravity ;
II. The spiritual world — Self-determination.

I. Under the natural world we comprehend the terrestrial globe, and that part of the
mniverse which is involved in its processes j these are :

(a) (1.) Mechanic=Gravity,
(2.) Chemic=Affinity,

(6) (1 ) Organic=Galvanism, j V ital=Sensation.

(2.) Vegetative=Assimilation, 3

II. Under " The Spiritual World," the world of conscious intelligence, we comprehend :

(a) The real world=implement, mediation.
(6) The actual world=self-determination.

(a) The real world contains whatever derives the end of its existence only, from
self-conscious intelligence.

(1.) The family= Affection.

(2.) Society=Ethics, ) Mediation>

(3.) State=Rights, )

(b) The actual world contains whatever derives the end and the means of its existence
from self-conscious intelligence.

(1.) Art=Manifestation,
(2.) Religion=Revelation,
(3.) Philosophy=Definition,

From this it appears that we have divid-
ed the world into three large slices — the
Natural, the Real, and the Actual — with
gravity for one and self-determination for
the other extreme, and mediation between

them.

III.

In my last, I gave you some general
terms, and the sense in which I intend
to use them. I also gave you a reason
why I should use them, together with
an illustration. But I gave you no rea-
son why I used these and no others — or
I did not advance anything to show that
there are objects to which they necessarily
apply. I only take it for granted that
there are some objects presented to your
observation and mine, that gravitate or

Self-determination.

weigh something, and others that do not.
To each I have applied as nearly as I could
the ordinary terms. Now this procedure,
although very unphilosophical, I can just-
ify only by reminding you of the object of
these letters.

If we now listen again to the chant of
the invisible choir,

" Thou hast destroyed it,
The beautiful world,"

it will be obvious that this can refer only
to the world of mediation and self-determ-
ination, to the world of spirit, of self-
conscious intelligence, for the world of
gravitation is not so easily affected. But
how is this— how is it that the world of
self-conscious intelligence is so easily
affected, is so dependent upon the individ-

182

Letters on Faust.

ual man ? This can be seen only by ex-
amining its genesis.

In the genesis of Spirit we have three
stages — manifestation, realization, and
actualization. The first of these, upon
■which the other two are dependent and
secpaent, falls in the individual man. For,
in him it is that Reason manifests itself
before it can realize, or embody itself in
this or that political, social, or moral in-
stitution. And it is not merely necessary
that it should so manifest itself in the in-
dividual; it must also realize itself in
these institutions before it can actualize
itself in Art, Religion, and Philosophy.
For in this actualization it is absolutely
dependent upon the former two stages of
its genesis for a content. From this it
appears that Art shows what Religion
teaches, and what Philosophy compre-
hends; or that Art, Religion and Philos-
ophy have the same content. Nor is it
difficult to perceive why this world of
spirit or self-conscious intelligence is so
dependent upon the individual man.

Again, in the sphere of manifestation
and reality, this content, the self-eonscious
intelligence, is the self- consciousness of an
individual, a nation, or an age. And art,
in the sphere of actuality, is this or that
work of art, this poem, that painting, or
yonder piece of sculpture, with the self-
consciousness of this or that individual,
nation, or age, for its content. Moreover,
the particularity (the individual, nation, or
age) of the content constitutes the indi-
viduality of the work of Art. And not only
this, but this particularity of the self-con-
sciousness furnishes the very contradic-
tion itself with the development and solu-
tion of which the work of art is occupied.
For the self-consciousness which consti-
tutes the content, being the self- conscious-
ness of an individual, a nation, or an age,
instead of being self-conscious intelligence
in its pure universality, contains in that
very particularity the contradiction which,
in the sphere of manifestation and reality,
constitutes the collision, conflict, and solu-
tion.*

* From this a variety of facts in the charac-
ter and history of the different works of art
become apparent. The degree of the effect

Now, if we look back upon th'e facts
stated, we have the manifestation, the
realization, and the actualization of self-
conscious intelligence as the three spheres
or stages in the process which evolves and
involves the entire activity of man, both
practical and theoretical. It is also obvi-
ous that the realization of self-conscious
intelligence in the family, society, and the
state, and its actualization in Art, Relig-
ion, and Philosophy, depend in their gen-
esis upon its manifestation in the individ-
ual. Hence a denial of the possibility of
this manifestation is a denial of the pos-
sibility of the realization and actualization
also.

Now if this denial assume the form of a
conviction in the consciousness of an in-
dividual, a nation, or an age, then there
results a contradiction which involves in
the sweep of its universality the entire
spiritual world of man. For it is the self-
consciousness of that individual, nation,
or age, in direct conflict with itself, not
with this or that particularity of itself,
but with its entire content, in the sphere
of manifestation, with the receptivity for,
the production of, and the aspiration after,
the Beautiful, the Good, and the True,'
within the individual himself ; in the
sphere of realization with the Family,
with Society, and with the State ; and
finally, in the sphere of actuality with
Art. Religion, and Philosophy.

Now this contradiction is precisely
what is 'presented in the proposition,
"Man cannot know truth." This you
will remember was, in the history of mod-
ern thought, the result of Kant's philos-
ophy. And Kant's philosophy was the
philosophy of Germany at the time of the
conception of Goethe's Faust. And Goethe
was the truest poet of Germany, and thus
he sings :

" So then I have studied philosophy,
Jurisprudence and medicine,
And what is worse, Theology,
Thoroughly, but, alas ! in vain,
And here I stand with study hoar,
A fool, and know what I knew before ;
Am called Magister, nay, LL.D.,

produced, for example, is owing to the degree
of validity attached to the two sides of the con-
tradiction. If the duties which the individual

Letters on Faust.

183

And for ten years, am busily
Engaged, leading through fen and close,
My trusting pupils by the nose ;
Yet see that nothing can be known.
This burns my heart, this, this alone '."

Here, you will perceive in the first sen-
tence of the poem, as was meet, the funda-
mental contradiction, the theme, or the
"argument," as it is so admirably termed
by critics, is stated in its naked abstract-
ness, just as Achilles' wrath is the first
sentence of the Iliad.

This theme, then, is nothing more nor
less than the self-consciousness in contra-
diction with itself, in conflict with its own
content. Hence, if the poem is to portray
this theme, this content, in its totality, it
must represent it in three spheres : first,
Manifestation — Faust in conflict with him-
self ; second, Realization — Faust in conflict
with the Family, Society, and the State;
thirdly, Actualization — Faust in conflict
with Art, Religion, and Philosophy.

Now, my friend, please to examine the
poem once more, reflect closely upon what
has been said, and then tell how much of
the poem can you spare, or how much is

owes to the family and the state come into
conflict, as in the Antigone of Sophocles, and
the consciousness of the age has not subordi-
nated the ideas upon which they are based,
but accords to each an equal degree of validit}',
we have a content replete with the noblest
effects. For this is not a conflict between the
abstract good and bad, the positive and the
negative, but a conflict within the good itself.
So likewise the universality of the effect is
apparent from the content. If this is the self-
consciousness of a nation, the work of art will
be national. To illustrate this, and, at the
same time, to trace the development of the par-
ticularity spoken of into a collision, we may
refer to that great national work of art — the
Iliad of Homer. The particularity which dis-
tinguishes the national self-consciousness of
the Greeks is the preeminent validity attached
by it to one of the before-mentioned modes of
the actualization of self-conscious intelligence
— the sensuous. Hence its worship of the
Beautiful. This preeminence and the conse-
quent subordination of the moral and the ra-
tional modes to it, is the root of the contradic-
tion, and hence the basis of the collision
which forms the content of the poem. Its
motive modernized would read about as fol-
lows : "The son of one of our Senators goes
to England ; is received and hospitably enter-
tained at the house of a lord. During his stay
he falls in love and subsequently elopes with
the young wife of his entertainer. For this
outrage, perpetrated by the young hopeful,
the entire fighting material of the island get

there in the poem as printed, which does
not flow from or develop this theme ?

IV.

In my last, dear friend, 1 called your at-
tention to the theme, to the content of the
poem in a general way, stating it in the
very words of the poet himself. To trace
the development of this theme from tho
abstract generality into concrete detail is
the task before us.

According to the analysis, we have to
consider, first of all, the sphere of Mani-
festation.

In this we observe the three-fold relation
which the individual sustains to self-con-
scious intelligence, viz : Receptivity for,
and production of, and aspiration for, the
True, the Good, and the Beautiful. Now
if it is true that man cannot know truth,
then it follows that he can neither receive
nor produce the True. For how shall he
know that whatever he may receive and
produce is true, since it is specially de-
nied that he can know it. This conclusion
as conviction, however, does not affect im-
mediately the third relation — the aspira-

thcmselves into their ships, not so much to
avenge the injured husband as to capture the
runaway wife."

But — now mark — adverse winds ensue,
powers not human are in arms against them,
and before these can be propitiated, a princess
of the blood royal, pure and undented, must
be sacrificed ! — is sacrificed, and for what ?
That all Greece may proclaim to the world
that pure womanhood, pure manhood, family,
society, and the state, are nothing, must be
sacrificed on the altar of the Beautiful. For
in the sacrifice of Iphigenia, all that could
perish in Helen, and more too — for Iphigenia
was pure and Helen was not — was offered up
by the Greeks, woman for woman, and nothing
remained but the Beautiful, for which she
henceforth became the expression. For in
this alone did Helen excel Iphigenia, and all
women.

But how is this ? Have not the filial, the
parental, the social, the civil relations, sanctity
and validity? Not as against the realization
of the Beautiful, says the Greek. Nor yet the
state? No; "I do not go at the command of
Agamemnon, but because I pledged lValty to
Beauty." "But then," Sir Achilles, "if the
Beautiful should present itself under some in-
dividual form— say that of Briseis— you would
for the sake of its" possession disobey the will
of the state?" " Of course. 5 ' And the poet
has to sing, "Achilles' wrath 1" and not "the
recovery of the runaway wife," the grand his-
torical action.

184

Letters on Fausi.

tion— nor qnench its gnawing. And this
is the first form of conflict in the individual.
Let us now open the book and place it be-
fore us.

The historic origin of our theme places
us in a German University, in the profes-
sor's private studio.

It is well here to remember that it is a
German University, and that the occupant
of the room is a German professor. Also
that it is the received opinion that the
Germans are a theoretical people ; by
which we understand that they act from
conviction, and not from instinct. More-
over, that their conviction is not a mere
holiday affair, to be rehearsed, say on
Sunday, and left in charge of a minister,
paid for the purpose, during the balance
of the week, but an actual, vital fountain
of action. Hence, the conviction of such
a character being given, the acts follow in
logical sequence.

With this remembered, 'let us now listen
to the self-communion of the occupant of
the room.

In bitter earnest the man has honestly
examined, and sought to possess himself
of the intellectual patrimony of the race.
In poverty, in solitude, in isolation, he
has labored hopefully, earnestly ; and now
he casts up his account and finds — what?
" That nothing can be known." His hair
is gray with more than futile endeavor,
and for ten years his special calling has
been to guide the students to waste their
lives, as he has done his own, in seeking
to accomplish the impossible — to know.
This is the worm that gnaws his heart !
As compensation, he is free from supersti-
tion — fears neither hell nor devil. But
this sweeps with it all fond delusions, all
conceit that he is able to know, and to
teach something for the elevation of man-
kind. Nor yet does he possess honor or
wealth— a dog would not lead a life like
this.

Here you will perceive how the first two
relations are negated by the conviction
that man cannot know truth, and how, on
the wings of aspiration, he sallies forth
into the realm of magic, of mysticism, of
subjectivity. For if reason, with its me-
diation, is impotent to create an object for

this aspiration, let us see what emotion
and imagination, without mediation, can
do for subjective satisfaction.

And here all is glory, all is freedom I
The imagination seizes the totality of the
universe, and revels in ecstatic visions.
What a spectacle ! But, alas I a spectacle
only I How am I to know, to comprehend
the fountain of life, the centre of which
articulates this totality ?

See here another generalization : the
practical world as a whole T Ah, that is
my sphere ; here I have a firm footing ;
here I am master ; here I command spirits I
Approach, and obey your master I

"Spirit. Who calls?
Faust. Terrific face !
Sp. Art thou he that called ?
Thou trembling worm f
Faust. Yes ; I'm he ; am Faust, thy peer.
Sp. Peer of the Spirit thou comprehendest — not of

me !
Faust. What ! not of thee ! Of whom, then ? I,

the image of Deity itself, and not even thy

peer?"

No, indeed, Mr. Faust, thou dost not in-
clude within thyself the totality of the
practical world, but only that part thereof
whieh thou dost comprehend — only thy
vocation, and hark 1 " It knocks !"

Oh, death ! I see, 'tis my vocation ; in-
deed, " It is my famulus !"

And this, too, is merely a delusion ; this-
great mystery of the practical world
shrinks to this dimension — a bread-prof es-
sorship.

It would seem so; for no theory of the
practical world is possible without the
ability to know truth. As individual, you
may imitate the individual, as the brute
his kind, and thus transmit a craft; but
you cannot seize the practical world io
transparent forms and present it as a har-
monious totality to your fellow-man, for
that would require that these transparent
intellectual forms should possess objec-
tive validity — and this they have not, ac-
cording to your conviction. And so it
cannot be helped.

But see what a despicable thing it is to
be a bread-professor !

And is this the mode of existence, thia
the reality, the only reality to answer the
aspiration of our soul — the aspiratk\n

Letters on Faust.

185

which sought to seize the universe, to kin-
dle its inmost recesses with the light of
intelligence, and thus illumine the path of
life? Alas, Reason gave us error — Imag-
ination, illusion — and the practical world,
the Will, a bread-professorship ! Nothing
else ? Yes ; a bottle of laudanum !

Let us drink, and rest forever ! But
hold, is there nothing else, really? No
emotional nature ? Hark ! what is that ?
Easter bells ! The recollections of my
youthful faith in a revelation ! They must
be examined. We cannot leave yet.

And see what a panorama, what a
strange world lies embedded with those
recollections. Let us see it in all its
varied character and reality, on this East-
er Sunday, for example.

I have endeavored before to trace the
derivation of the content of the first
scene of the poem, together with its
character, from the abstract theme of the
work. In it we saw that the fundamental
conviction of Faust leaves him naked —
leaves him nothing but a bare avocation, a
mere craft, and the precarious recollec-
tions of his youth (when he believed in
revealed truths) to answer his aspirations.
These recollections arouse his emotions,
and rescue him from nothingness (sui-
cide) — they fill his soul with a content.

To see this content with all its youthful
charm, we have to retrace our childhood's
steps before the gates of the city on this
the Easter festival of the year— you and I
being mindful, in the meantime, that the
public festivals of the Church belong to
the so-called external evidences of the
truth of the Christian Religion.

Well, here we are in the suburbs of the
city, and what do we see? First, a set of
journeymen mechanics, eager for beer and
brawls, interspersed with servant girls ;
students whose tastes run very much in
the line of strong beer, biting tobacco,
and the well-dressed servant girls afore-
said; citizens' daughters, perfectly out-
raged at the low taste of the students
who run after the servant girls, " when
they might have the very best of society;"
citizens dissatisfied with the new mayor of

the city — ",Taxes increase from day to
day, and nothing is done for the welfare
of the city." A beggar is not wanting.
Other citizens, who delight to speak of
war and rumors of war in distant coun-
tries, in order to enjoy their own peace at
home with proper contrast; also an "eld-
erly one," who thinks that she is quite
able to furnish what the well-dressed citi-
zens' daughters wish for — to the great
scandal of the latter, who feel justly in-
dignant at being addressed in public by
such an old witch (although, "between
ourselves, she did show us our sweethearts
on St. Andrew's night ") ; soldiers, who
sing of high-walled fortresses and proud
women to be taken by storm ; and, finally,
farmers around the linden tree, dancing a
most furious gallopade — a real Easter
Sunday or Monday " before the gate " — of
any city in Germany, even to this day.

And into this real world, done up in
holiday attire, but not by the poet — into
this paradise, this very heaven of the peo-
ple, where great and small fairly yell with
delight — Faust enters, assured that here
he can maintain his rank as a man ; " here
I dare to be a man!" And, sure enough,
listen to the welcome :

" Nay, Doctor, 'tis indeed too much
To be with us on such a day,
To join the throng, the common mas^,
You, you, the great, the learned man !
Take, then, this beaker, too," &c.

And here goes — a general health to the
Doctor, to the man who braved the pesti-
lence for us, and who even now, does not
think it beneath him to join us in our
merry-making — hurrah for the Doctor;
hip, hip, &c.

And is not this something, dear friend ?
Just think, with honest Wagner, when he
exclaims, "What emotions must crowd
thy breast, great man, while listening
to such honors?" and you will also say
with him :

" Thrice blest the man who draws such profits rare,
From talents all his own!"

Why, see ! the father shows you to his
son ; every one inquires— presses, rushes
to see you! The fiddle itself is hushed,
the dancers stop. Where you go, they fall
into lines; caps and hats lly into the air!

186

Letters on Faust.

But a little more, and they would fall upon
their knees, as if the sacred Host passed
that way !

And is not this great? Is not this the
very goal of human ambition ? .To Wag-
ner, dear friend, it is ; for the very essence
of an avocation is, and must be, "success
in life." But how does it stand with the
man whose every aspiration is the True,
the Good, and the Beautiful ? Will a
hurrah from one hundred thousand
throats, all in good yelling order, assist
him ? No.

To Wagner it is immaterial whether he
knows what he needs, provided he sees the
day when the man who has been worse to
the people than the very pestilence itself,
receives public honors ; but to Faust, to
the man really in earnest — who is not sat-
isfied when he has squared life with life,
and obtained zero for a result, or who
does not merely live to make a living, but
demands a rational end for life, and, in
default of that rational end, spurns life
itself — to such a man this whole scene
possesses little significance indeed. It
possesses, however, some significance, even
for him ! For if it is indeed true that man
cannot know truth — that the high aspi-
ration of his soul has no object — then this
scene demonstrates, at least, that Faust
possesses power over the practical world.
If he cannot know the world, he can
at least swallow a considerable portion
of it, and this scene demonstrates that he
can exercise a great deal of choice as to
the parts to be selected ; do you see this
conviction?

Do you see this conviction? Do you
see this dog? Consider it well; what is
it, think you? Do you perceive how it
encircles us nearer and nearer — becomes
more and more certain, and, if I mistake
not, a luminous emanation of gold, of
honor, of power, follows in its wake. It
seems to me as if it drew soft magic rings,
as future fetters, round our feet ! See,
the circles become smaller and smaller —
't is almost a certainty — 't is already near ;
come, come home with us !

The temptation here spread before us
by the poet, to consider the dog " ivell," is
almost irresistible; but all we can say in

this place, dear friend, is that if you will
look upon what is properly called an
avocation in civil society, eliminate from
it all higher ends and motives other than
the simple one of making a living — no
matter with what pomp and circumstance
— no doubt you will readily recognize
the poodle. But we must hasten to the
studio to watch further developments, for
the conflict is not as yet decided. We
are still to examine the possibility of a
divine revelation to man, who cannot know
truth.

And for this purpose our newly acquired
conviction, that we possess power over the
practical world — although not as yet in a
perfectly clear form before us — comforta-
bly lodged behind the stove, where it
properly belongs, we take down the origi-
nal text of the New Testament in order to
realize its meaning, in our own loved
mother tongue. It stands written : " In
the beginning was the Word." Word ?
Word ? Never ! Meaning it ought to be !
Meaning what? Meaning? No; it is

Power! No ; Deed!

Word, meaning,

power, deed — which is it ? Alas, how am
I to know, unless I can know truth? 'Tis
even so, our youthful recollections dis-
solve in mist, into thin air — and nothing is
left us but our newly acquired conviction,
the restlessness of which during this ex-
amination has undoubtedly not escaped
your attention, dear friend. ("Be quiet,
there, behind the stove." " See here,
poodle, one of us two has to leave this
room !") What, then, is the whole content
of this conviction, which, so long as there
was the hope of a possibility of a worthy
object for our aspiration, seemed so des-
picable ? What is it that governs the
practical world of finite motives, the ,
power that adapts means to ends, regard-
less of a final, of an infinite end? Is it
not the Understanding? and although
Reason — in its search after the final end,
with its perfect system of absolute means,
of infinite motives and interests — begets
subjective chimeras, is it not demonstrated
that the understanding possesses objective
validity? Nay, look upon this dog well;
does it not swell into colossal propor-
tions — is no dog at all, in fact, but the

Introduction to Philosophy.

1-7

very power that holds absolute sway over
the finite and negative — the understanding
itself — Mephistopheles in proper form?

And who calls this despicable? Is it
not Reason, the power that begets chime-
ras, and it alone? And shall we reject
the real, the actual — all in fact that pos-
sesses objective validity — because, for-
sooth, the power of subjective chimeras
declares it negative, finite, perishable ?
Never. " No fear, dear air, that I'll do
this. Precisely what I have promised is
the very aim of all my endeavor. Con-
ceited fool that I was ! I prized myself
too highly " — claimed kin with the infi-
nite. "I belong only in thy sphere" —
the finite. " The Great Spirit scorns me.
Nature is a sealed book to me; the thread
of thought is severed. Knowing disgusts
me. In the depths of sensuality I'll
quench the burning passion."

Here, then, my friend, we arrive at the
final result of the conflict in the first
sphere of our theme — in the sphere of
manifestation — that of the individual.
We started with the conviction that man
cannot know truth. This destroyed our
spiritual endeavors, and reduced our prac-
tical avocation to an absurdity. We
sought refuge in the indefinite — the mys-
ticism of the past — and were repelled by
its subjectivity. We next examined the
theoretical side of the practical world, and
found this likewise an impossibility and
suicide — a mere blank nothingness — as
the only resource. But here we were
startled by our emotional nature, whicii
unites us with our fellow-man, and seems
to promise some sort of a bridge over into

the infinite— certainly demands such a
transition. Investigating this, therefore,

with all candor, we found our fellow-men
wonderfully occupied — occupied like the
kitten pursuing its own tail! At the
same time it became apparent that we
might be quite a dog in this kitten dance,
or that the activity of the understanding
possessed objective validity. With this
conviction fairly established, although
still held in utter contempt, we examined
the last resource : the possibility of a
divine revelation of truth to men that can-
not know truth. The result, as the mere
statement of the proposition would indi-
cate, is negative, and thus the last chance
of obtaining validity for anything except
the activity of the understanding vanishes
utterly. But with this our contempt for
the understanding likewise vanishes. For
whatever our aspiration may say, it has
no object to correspond to it, and is there-
fore merely subjective, a hallucination, a
chimera, and the understanding is the
highest attainable for us. Here, therefore,
the subjective conflict ends, for we have
attained to objectivity, and this is the
highest, since there is nothing else that
possesses validity for man. Nor is this
by any means contemptible in itself,
for it is the power over the finite world,
and the net result is : That if you and I,
my friend, have no reason, cannot know
truth, we do have at least a stomach, a
capacity for sensual enjoyment, and an
understanding to administer to the same —
to be its servant. This, at least, is de-
monstrated by the kitten dance of the
whole world.

INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER V.

NECESSITY, CHANCE, FREEDOM.
I.

All things are necessitated ; each is ne-
cessitated by the totality of conditions ;
hence, whatever is must be so, and under
the conditions cannot be otherwise.

Remark. — This is the most exhaustive
statement of the position of the (i under-

TO PHILOSOPHY.

standing." Nothing seems more clear than
this to the thinker who has advanced be-
yond the sensuous grade of consciousness
and the stages of Perception.

ii.
But things change— something new be-
gins and something old ceases; but, still,
in each case, the first principle must ap-
ply, and the new thing— like the old— be

188

Introduction to Philosophy.

so " because necessitated by the totality
of conditions."

Remark. — The reader will notice that
•with the conception of change there enters
a second stage of mediation. First, we
have simple mediation in which the ground
and grounded are both real. Secondly, we
have the passage of a potentiality into a
reality, and vice versa. Therefore, with
the consideration of change we have en-
countered a contradiction which becomes
apparent upon further attempt to adjust
the idea of necessity to it.

m.
Jf the same totality of conditions neces-
sitates both states of the thing — the new
and the old — it follows that this totality
of conditions is adapted to both, and hence
is indifferent to either, i. e. it allows either,
and hence cannot be said to necessitate one
to the exclusion of the other, for it allows
one to pass over into the other, thereby
demonstrating that it did not restrict or
confine the first to be what it was. Hence
it now appears that chance or contingency
participated in the state of the thing.

IV.

But the states of the thing belong to the
totality, and hence when the thing changes
the totality also changes, and we are forced
to admit two different totalities as the con-
ditions of the two different states of the
thing.

Remark. — Here we have returned to our
startingpoint, and carried back our contra-
diction with us. In our zeal to relieve the
thing from the difficulty presented — that of
changing spontaneously — we have posited
duality in the original totality, and pushed
our change into it. But it is the same con-
tradiction as before, and we must continue
to repeat the same process forever in the
foolish endeavor to go round a circle until
we arrive at its end, or, what is the same,
its beginning.

If it requires a different totality of con-
ditions to render possible the change of a
thing from one state to another, then if a
somewhat changes the totality changes.
But there is nothing outside of the totality

to necessitate it, and it therefore must ne-
cessitate itself.

VI.

Thus necessity and necessitated have
proved in the last analysis to be one.
This, however, is necessity no longer, but
spontaneity, for it begins with itself and
ends with itself, (a) As necessitating it is
the active determiner which of course con-
tains the potentiality upon which it acts.
Had it no potentiality it could not change.
(6) As necessitated it is the potentiality
plus the limit which its activity has fixed
there, (c) But we have here self-determ-
ination, and thus the existence of the Uni-
versal in and for itself, which is the Ego.

Remark. — It cannot be any other mode
of existence than the Ego, for that which
dissolves all determinations and is the uni-
versal potentiality is only one and cannot
be distinguished into modes, for it creates
and destroys these. The ego can abstract
all else and yet abide — it is the actus
purus — its negativity annulling all determ-
inations and finitudes, while it is direct-
ed full on itself, and is in that very act
complete self-recognition. (See proof of
this in Chapter IV., in., 3.)

VII.

Thus the doctrine of necessity presup-
poses self-determination or Freedom as the
form of the Total, and necessity is only
one side — the realized or determined side —
of the process isolated and regarded in
this state of isolation. Against this side
stands the potentiality which, if isolated
in like manner, is called Chance or Con-
tingency.

CHAPTER VI.

OF MEDIATION.

The comprehension of mediation lies at
the basis of the distinction of sensuous
knowing from the understanding. The
transition from intuition to abstract think-
ing is made at first unconsciously, and for
this reason the one who has begun the pro-
cess of mediation handles the " mental
spectres" created by abstraction with the
utmost naivete', assuming for them absolute
validity in the world at large. It is only

Introduction to Philosophy.

189

the speculative insight that gains mastery
over such abstractions, and sees the Truth.
If this view could be unfolded in a popular
form, it would afford a series of solvents
for the thinker which are applicable to a
great variety of difficult problems. For it
must be remembered that the abstract
categories of the understanding — such as
essence and phenomenon, cause and effect,
substance and attribute, force and manifes-
tation, matter and form, and the like, give
rise to a series of antinomies, or contra-
dictory propositions, when applied to the
Totality. From the standpoint of medi-
ation — that of simple reflection, u common
sense" so called — these antinomies seem
utterly insoluble. The reason of this is
found in the fact that "common sense"
places implicit faith in these categories
(just mentioned)^ and never rises to the
investigation of them by themselves. To
consider the validity of these categories
by themselves is called a transcendental
procedure, for it passes beyond the ordinary
thinking; which uses them without distrust.

The transcendental investigation shows
that the insolubility attributed to these
antinomies arises from the mistake of the
thinker, who supposes the categories he
employs to be exhaustive. Speculative
insight begins with the perception that
they are not exhaustive; that they have by
a species of enchantment cast a spell upon
the mind, under which every thing seems
dual, and the weary seeker after Truth
wanders through a realm of abstractions
each of which assumes the form of a solid
reality — now a giant, and now a dwarf,
and now an impassible river, impenetrable
forest, or thick castle wall defended by
dragons.

The following questions will illustrate
the character of the problems here de-
scribed :

" Why deal with abstractions — why not
hold fast by the concrete reality?"

(This position combats mediation under
its form of abstraction.)

" Can we not know immediately by intui-
tion those objects that philosophy strives
in vain to comprehend? in short, are not
God, Freedom and Immortality certain to
us and yet indemonstrable ?"

(This position combats mediation as in-
volved in a system of Philosophy.)

These questions arise only in the mind
that has already gone beyond the doctrine
that it attempts to defend, and hence a self
refutation is easily drawn out of the source
from whence they originate.

ABSTRACTION.

(a) It will be readily granted that all
knowing involves distinction. We must
distinguish one object from another.

(b) But the process of distinguishing is
a process that involves abstraction. For
in separating this object from that, I con-
trast its marks, properties, attributes, with
those of the other. In seizing upon one
characteristic I must isolate it from all
others, and this is nothing more nor less
than abstraction.

(c) Therefore it is absurd to speak
of knowing without abstraction, for
this enters into the simplest act of per-
ception.

(d) Nor is this a subjective defect, an
"impotency of our mental structure," as
some would be ready to exclaim at this
point. For it is just as evident that tilings
themselves obtain reality only through
these very characteristics. One thing pre-
serves its distinctness from another by
means of its various determinations. With-
out these determinations all would collapse
into one, nay, even li one" would vanish,
for distinction being completely gone, one-
ness is not possible. This is the "Principle
of Indiscernibles " enunciated by Leibnitz.
Thus distinction is as necessary objectively
as subjectively. The thing abstracts in
order to be real. It defends itself against
what lies without it by specializing itself
into single properties, and thus becoming
in each a mere abstraction.

(e) Moreover, besides this prevalence .of
abstraction in the theoretic field, it is still
more remarkable in the practical world.
The business man decries abstractions. He
does not know that every act of the will
is an abstraction, and that it is also pre-
ceded by an abstraction. When he exhorts
you to "leave off abstractions and deal
with concrete realities," he does this : (1.)
he regards you as he thinks you are ; (2.)

190

The Philosophy of Baader.

he conceives you as different, i. e. as a
practical man; (3.) he exhorts you to
change from your real state to the possible
one which he conceives of (through the
process of abstraction). The simplest act
with design — that of going to dinner, for
example — involves abstraction. If I raise
my arm on purpose, I first abstract from
its real position, and think it under another
condition.

(/) But the chief point in all this is to
mark how the mind frees itself from the
untruth of abstraction. For it must be
allowed that all abstractions are false.
The isolation of that which is not suificient
for its own existence, (though as we have
seen, a necessary constituent of the pro-
cess of knowing and of existing,) sets up an
untruth as existent- Therefore the mind
thinks this isolation only as a moment of
a negative unity, (i. e. as an element of a
process). This leads us to the considera-
tion of mediation in the more general form,
involved by the second question.

IMMEDIATE KNOWING.

(a) Definition. — "Immediate" is a pre-
dicate applied to what is directly through
itself. The immediateness of anything is
the phase that first presents itself. It is
the undeveloped — an oak taken immedi-
ately is an acorn ; man taken immediately
is a child at birth.

(b) Definition. — "Mediation" signifies
the process of realization. A mediate or
mediated somewhat is what it is through
another, or through a process.

exists through its relations to all else in
the universe ; hence all concrete some-
whats are mediated. ct If a grain of sand
were destroyed the universe would col-
lapse."

(d) Principle. — An absolutely immediate
somewhat would be a pure nothing, for the
reason that no determination could belong
to it, (for determination is negative, and
hence mediation). Hence all immediate-
ness must be phenomenal, or the result of
abstraction from the concrete whole, and
this, of course, exhibits the contradiction
of an immediate which is mediated (a "re-
sult.")

(e) The solution of this contradiction is
found in "self-determination," (as we
have seen in former chapters). The self-
determined is a mediated ; it is through
the process of determination ; but is like-
wise an immediate, for it is its own media-
tion, and hence it is the beginning and
end — it begins unth its result, and ends in
its beginning, and thus it is a circular pro-
cess.

This is the great apergu of all specula-
tive philosophy.

(/) Definition. — Truth is the form of
the Total, or that which actually exists.

{g) Hence a knowing of Truth must be
a knowing of the self-determined, which is
both immediate and mediate. This is a
process or system. Therefore the knowing
of it cannot be simply immediate, but must
be in the form of a system. Thus the so-
called "immediate intuition" is not a
knowing of truth unless inconsistent with
what it professes.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF BAADER.

[The following letter from Dr. Franz Hoffmann to the St. Louis Philosophical Society has
been handed us for publication. It gives us pleasure to lay before our readers so able a presen-
tation of the claims of Baader, and we trust that some of our countrymen will be led by it to
investigate the original sources herein referred to.

We are requested to correct a mistatement that occurs in the first paragraph regarding the
objects of the Philosophical Society. It was not founded for the special purpose of "studying
German Philosoph}' from Kant to Hegel," although it has many members who are occupied
chiefly in that field. The Society includes among its members advocates of widely differing
sj'stems, all, however, working in the spirit of the Preamble to the Constitution, which says :
" The object of this Society is to encourage the study and development of Speculative Philos-
ophy ; to foster an application of its results to Art, Science, and Religion ; and to establish a
philosophical basis for the professions of Law, Medicine, Divinity, Politics, Education, Art, and
Literature." We are indebted to Dr. A. Strothotte for the translation of the letter. — Editor.]

This fact promises a corelation of philo-
sophical movements between North Amer-
ica and Germany which is of great import-
ance. I presume, however, that you have
already been led, or that you will be led,
to go back beyond Kant to the first traces
of German philosophy, and proceed from
Hegel to the present time.

Now, although a thorough and conipre-

WiiKZBUEG, Dec. 28, 18G6.
Mr. President: In the first number of
Vol. XLIX of the " Zeitschrift Jiir Philo-
sophie," published at Halle, in Prussia,
edited by Fichte, Ulrici and Wirth, notice
is taken of a philosophical society, organ-
ized at St. Louis, with the object of pur-
suing the study of German philosophy
from Kant to Hegel.

The Philosophy of Bander.

191

hensive view of Hegel's philosophy is in

the first place to be recommended, yet
the other directions in the movement of
thought must not be lost sight of.

In the Berlin organ of the Philosophical
Society of the Hegelians — Der Gedanke —
edited by .Michelet, may be found, as you
perhaps know, an index of the works of
Hegel's school, by Rosenkranz, whereas on
the other hand the rich literature of the
anti-Hegelian writers is nowhere met with
in any degree of completeness. Many of
them, however, are noticed in Fichte's
journal, and in the more recent works on
the history of philosophy, particularly in
those of Erdmann, and still more in those
of Ueberweg.

Among the prominent movements in
philosophical thinking, during and after
the time of Hegel, the profound utterances
of a great and genial teacher, Franz Ban-
der, reach a degree of prominence, even
higher than is admitted by Erdmann and
Ueberweg. This may be readily perceived
by referring to the dissertation on Franz
Baader, by Carl Philipp Fischer, of Erlan-
gen, and still more by having recourse to
Hamberger, Lutterbeck, and to my own

writings.

######

I take the liberty of recommending to
you and to the members of the Philosophi-
cal Society of St. Louis, the study of the
works of a philosopher who certainly will
have a great future, although his doctrines
in the progress of time may undergo modi-
fications, reforms and further develop-
ments. If Hegel had lived longer, the in-
fluence of Baader upon him would have
been greater yet than became visible dur-
ing his last years. He has thrown Schel-
ling out of his pantheism, and pressed him
towards a semi-pantheism, or towards a
deeper theism. The influence of Baader on
the philosophers after Hegel — J . H. Fichte,
Weisse, Sempler, C. Ph. Fischer and others
— is much greater than is commonly ad-
mitted. Whether they agree to it or not,
still it is a fact that Baader is the central
constellation of the movement of the Ger-
man spirit, from pantheism to a deeper
ideal-realistic theism. Such a genius,
whatever position may be taken with re-
gard to him, cannot be left unnoticed,
without running the risk of being left be-
hind the times. I ask nothing for Baader,
but to follow the maxim — " Try all and
keep the best." I regret that so great a
distance prevents me from sending your
honorable Society some of my explanatory
writings, which are admitted to be clear
and thorough. It may suffice if I add a
copy of my prospectus ; and let me here
remark, that a collection of my writings, in
four large volumes, will be published by

Deichert, in Erlangen. The first \ dume,
perhaps, will be ready at Easter, L867,

Erdmann, in his elements of the history
of philosophy, has treated of the doctrines
of Baader, too briefly it is true, but with
more justice than he has used in his for-
mer work on the history of modern philos-
ophy, -and he bears witness that his esteem
of Baader increases more and more. But
be evidently assigns to him a wrong ]
tion, by considering Oken and Baader as
extremes, and Hegel as the mean, while
Oken and Hegel are the extremes, and
Baader the mean. The most important
phenomenon in the school of Hegel is
the Idee der Wissenschaft of Rosenkranz,
{Logik und Metaphysik,) which repre-
sents ITegel in a sense not far distant
from the standpoint of Baader. * * *
* # # # C. II. Fischer's Characteris-
tics of Baader's Theosophy speaks with
high favor of him, but still I have to take
several exceptions. According to my opin-
ion, all the authors by him referred to, as
Schelling, Hegel, Sehleiermncher, Dauber
and Baader, we must call theosophers — or
call none of them so, but philosophers, in
Older to avoid misunderstanding. Then I
do not see how Schelling can be called
the "most genial philosopher of modern
times," and yet Baader the more, yi a, the
most profound. Finally, a want of system
must be admitted, but too great importance
is attributed to this. If, however, system-
atism could decide here, then not Schel-
ling but Hegel is the greatest philosopher
of modern times. At all events Fischer's
Memorial at the Centennial Birthday of
Baader is significant, and is written with
great spirit and warmth. The most import-
ant work of C. Ph. Fischer, bearing on
this subject, is his elements of the system
of philosophy, or Encyclopedia of the
Philosophical Sciences. This is one of
the most important cf the works of the
philosophers after Hegel and Baader. The
Athenauni of Froschhammer, (Journal for
Philosophy), appeared only for three years.
It had to cease its publication, because on
the one side the Ultramontanist party agi-
tated against it, and on the other Bide it
met with insufficient support. Its reissue
would be desirable, but just now not prac-
ticable, for want of interest on the part of
the public, although it could bear com-
parison with any other philosophical jour-
nal.

Here let me say, that from Baader. there
proceeded a strong impulse toward the re-
vival of the study of the lonj tten
spiritual treasures of the mystics and the-
osophers of the middle ages, and of the
time of the Reformation. From this im-
pulse monographs have made their appear-
ance about "Scotus Erigena, Albertus Mag-

192

In the Quarry.

mis — at least biographies of them — Thomas
Aquinas, Meister Eckhart, Tauler, Nicholas
Cusanus, Weigel, J. Bonnie, Oettinger, etc.
The most important of these I deem to be
Scotus Erigena, by Job. Huber, Christlieb
and Kaulich ; Meister Eckhart, by Bach,
and J. Bohme, by J. Haniberger. Bach on
Eckhart is especially instructive with re-
spect to the connection between modern
philosophy and the theosophy of Eckhart
and his school, to which also Nicholas
Cusanus belonged.

I presume that it will yet be discovered
that Copernicus was at least acquainted
with Nicholas Cusanus, if he did not even
sympathize with his' philosophy. The di-
rector of the observatory at Krakau, Ker-
linski, is at present preparing a mono-
graph on Copernicus, which will probably
throw light on this subject. Prowe's

pamphlet on Copernicus, which I have
noticed in Glaser's journal, refers to the
investigations of Kerlinski, who has re-
cently published a beautiful edition of the
works of Copernicus. As in the early ages,
first in the Pythagorean school, they ap-
proached the true doctrine of the Universe,
so in the middle ages it appears in the
school of Eckhart, for in a certain sense,
and with some restriction, Nicholas Cusa-
nus was the precursor of Copernicus.

I beg you, my dear sir, to communicate
this letter to your honorable Society:
should you see fit to publish it in a journal,
you are at liberty to do so.

I remain, Sir, with great respect,
Truly, yours,

Dr. Franz Hoffmann,
Prof, of Philos. at the University of Wurzburg.

IN THE QUARRY.

By A. C. B.

Impatient, stung with pain, and long delay,

I chid the rough-hewn stone that round me lay ;

I said — " What shelter art thou from the heat ?

What rest art thou for tired and way-worn feet?

What beauty hast thou for the longing eye ?

Thou nothing hast my need to satisfy !"

And then the patient stone fit answer made —

" Most true I am no roof with welcome shade ;

I am no house for rest, or full delight

Of sculptured beauty for the weary sight;

Yet am I still, material for all ;

Use me as such — I answer to thy call.

Nay, tread me only under climbing feet,

So serve I thee, my destiny complete ;

Mount by me into purer, freer air,

And find the roof that archeth everywhere ;

So what but failure seems, shall build success ;

For all, as possible, thou dost possess."

Who by the Universal squares his life,
Sees but success in all its finite strife;
In all that is, his truth-enlightened eyes
Detect the May-be through its thin disguise ;
And in the Absolute's unclouded sun,
To him the two already are the one.

THE JOURNAL

SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY.

Vol. I.

18 67.

No. 4.

INTRODUCTION TO THE OUTLINES OF A SYSTEM OF NATURAL

PHILOSOPHY;

OB,

ON THE IDEA OF SPECULATIVE PHYSICS AND THE INTERNAL ORGANIZA-
TION OE A SYSTEM OF THIS SCIENCE.

1799.

[Translated from the German

WHAT WE CALL NATURAL PHILOSOPHY IS A

NECESSARY - SCIENCE IN THE SYSTEM

OF KNOWING.

The Intelligence is productive in two
modes — that is, either blindly and uncon-
sciously, or freely and consciously; — un-
consciously productive in external intui-
tion, consciously in the creation of an ideal
world.

Philosophy removes this distinction by
assuming the unconscious activity as orig-
inally identical, and, as it were, sprung
from the same root with the conscious ;
this identity is by it directly proved in
the case of an activity at once clearly con-
scious and unconscious, which manifests
itself in the productions of genius, indi-
rectly, outside of consciousness, in the
products of Nature, so far as in them
all, the most complete fusion of the Ideal
with the Real is perceived.

Since philosophy assumes the uncon-
scious, or, as it may likewise be termed, the
real activity as identical with the conscious
or ideal, its tendency will originally be to
bring back everywhere the real to the
13

of Schelling, by Tom Davidson.]

ideal — a process which gives birth to what
is called Transcendental Philosophy. The
regularity displayed in all the movements
of Nature — for example, the sublime ge-
ometry which is exercised in the motions
of the heavenly bodies — is not explained
by saying that Nature is the most perfect
geometry ; but conversely, by saying that
the most perfect geometry is what pro-
duces in Nature ; — a mode of explanation
whereby the Real itself is transported into
the ideal world, and those motions are
changed into intuitions, which take place
only in ourselves, and to which nothing
outside of us corresponds. Again, the
fact that Nature, wherever it is left to it-
self, in every transition from a fluid to a
solid state, produces, of its own accord, as
it were, regular forms — which regularity,
in the higher species of crystallization,
namely, the organic, seems to become pur-
pose even ; or the fact that in the animal
kingdom — that product of the blind forces
of Nature — we see actions arise which are
equal in regularity to those that take place
with consciousness, and even external
works of art, perfect in their kind;— all

194

Schelling's Philosophy oj Nature.

this is not explained by saying that it is an
unconscious productivity, though in its
origin akin to the conscious, whose mere re-
flex we see in Nature, and which, from the
stand-point of the natural view, must ap-
pear as one and the same blind tendency,
which exerts its influence from crystalli-
zation upwards to the highest point of or-
ganic formation (in which, on one side,
through the art-tendency, it returns again
to mere crystallization) only acting upon
different planes.

According to this view, inasmuch as Na-
ture is only the visible organism of our
understanding, Nature can produce
nothing but what shows regularity and
design, and Nature is compelled to produce
that. But if Nature can produce only the
regular, and produces it from necessity, it
follows that the origin of such regular and
design-evincing products must again be
capable of being proved necessary in Na-
ture, regarded as self-existent and real,
and in the relation of its forces ; — that
therefore, conversely, the Ideal must arise
out of the Real, and admit of explanation
from it.

If, now, it is the task of Transcendental
Philosophy to subordinate the Real to the
Ideal, it is, on the other hand, the task of
Natural Philosophy to explain the Ideal
by the Real. The two sciences are
therefore but one science, whose two
problems are distinguished by the oppo-
site directions in which they move ; more-
over, as the two directions are not only
equally possible, but equally necessary,
the same necessity attaches to both in the
system of knowing.

II.

SCIENTIFIC CHARACTER OF NATURAL PHILOS-
OPHY.

Natural Philosophy, as the opposite of
Transcendental Philosophy, is distin-
guished from the latter chiefly by the fact
that it posits Nature (not, indeed, in so far
as it is a product, but in so far as it is at
once productive and product) as the self-
existent ; whence it may be most briefly
designated as the Spinozism of Physics.

It follows naturally from this that there is
no place in this science for idealistic
methods of explanation, such as Transcen-
dental Philosophy is fitted to supply, from
the circumstance that for it Nature is
nothing more than the organ of self-con-
sciousness, and everything in Nature is
necessary merely because it is only
through the medium of such a Nature that
self-consciousness can take place ; this
mode of explanation, however, is as mean-
ingless in the case of physics, and of our
science which occupies the same stand-
point with it, as were the old teleological
modes of explanation, and the introduc-
tion of a universal reference to final causes
into the thereby metamorphosed science
of Nature. For every idealistic mode
of explanation, dragged out of its own
proper sphere and applied to the explana-
tion of Nature, degenerates into the most
adventurous nonsense, examples of which
are well known. The first maxim of all true
natural science, viz., to explain everything
by the forces of Nature, is therefore accept-
ed in its widest extent in our science, and
even extended to that region, at the limit
of which all interpretation of Nature has
hitherto been accustomed to stop short ;
for example, to those organic phenomena
which seem to pre-suppose an analogy with
reason. For, granted that in the actions
of animals there really is something which
pre-supposes such analogy, on the princi-
ple of realism, nothing further would fol-
low than that what we call reason is a mere
play of higher and necessarily unknown
natural forces. For, inasmuch as all think-
ing is at last reducible to a producing and
reproducing, there is nothing impossible in
the thought that the same activity by which
Nature reproduces itself anew in each suc-
cessive phase, is reproductive in thought
through the medium of the organism (very
much in the same manner in which, through
the action and play of light, Nature, which
exists independently of it, is created im-
material, and, as it were, for a second
time), in which circumstance it is natural
that what forms the limit of our intuitive
faculty, no longer falls within the sphere
of our intuition itself.

Schelling's Philosophy of Nature.

195

III.

NATURAL PHILOSOPHY IS SPECULATIVE PHYSICS.
«

Our science, as far as we have gone, is
thoroughly and completely realistic ; it is
therefore nothing other than Physics, it is
only speculative Physics; in its tendency
it is exactly what the systems of the an-
cient physicists were, and what, in more
recent times, the system of the restorer of
Epicurean philosophy is, viz., Lesage's
Mechanical Physics, by which the specula-
tive spirit in physics, after a long scientific
sleep, has again, for the first time, been
awakened. It cannot be shown in detail
here (for the proof itself falls within the
sphere of our science), that on the mechan-
ical or atomistic basis which has been
adopted by Lesage and his most successful
predecessors, the idea of speculative phys-
ics is incapable of realization. For, inas-
much as the first problem of this science,
that of inquiring into the absolute cause
of motion (without which Nature is not
in itself a finished whole), is absolutely
incapable of a mechanical solution, see-
ing that mechanically motion results only
from motion ad infinitum, there remains
for the real construction of speculative
physics only one way open, viz., the
dynamic, which lays down that motion
arises not only from motion, but even from
rest ; that, therefore, there is motion in
the rest of Nature, and that all mechanical
motion is the merely secondary and deriva-
tive motion of that which is solely primi-
tive and original, and which wells forth
from the very first factors in the construc-
tion of a nature generally (the fundamental
forces).

In hereby making clear the points of
difference between our undertaking and all
those of a similar nature that have hitherto
been attempted, we have at the same time
shown the difference between speculative
physics and so-called empirical physics ;
a difference which in the main may be re-
duced to this, that the former occupies
itself solely and entirely with the original
causes of motion in nature, that is, solely
with the dynamical phenomena; the latter,
on the contrary, inasmuch as it never
reaches a final source of motion in nature,

deals only with the secondary motions,
and even with the original ones onlv
mechanical (and therefore likewise capa-
ble of mathematical construction). The
former, in fact, aims generally at the inner
spring-work and what is non-objective in
Nature ; the latter, on the contrary, only at
the surface of Nature, and what is object-
ive, and, so to speak, outside in it.

IV.

ON THE POSSIBILITY OF SPECULATIVE PHYSICS.

Inasmuch as our inquiry is directed not
so much upon the phenomena of Nature as
upon their final grounds, and our business
is not so much to deduce the latter from
the formeT as the former from the latter,
our task is simply this : to erect a science
of Nature in the strictest sense of the term ;
and in order to find out whether specula-
tive physics are possible, we must know
what belongs to the possibility of a doc-
trine of Nature viewed as science.

(a) The idea of knowing is here taken
in its strictest sense, and then it is easy to
see that, in this acceptation of the term, we
can be said to know objects only when they
are such that we see the principles of their
possibility, for without this insight my
whole knowledge of an object, e. g. of a
machine, with whose construction I am
unacquainted, is a mere seeing, that is, a
mere conviction of its existence, whereas
the inventor of the machine has the most
perfect knowledge of it, because he is, as
it were, the soul of the work, and because
it preexisted in his head before he exhibited
it as a reality.

Now, it would certainly be impossible to
obtain a glance into the internal construc-
tion of Nature, if an invasion of Nature
were not possible through freedom. It is
true that Nature acts openly and freely ;
its acts however are never isolated, but
performed under a concurrence of a host of
causes, which must first be excluded if we
are to obtain a pure result. Nature must
therefore be compelled to act under certain
definite conditions, which either do not exist
in it at all, or else exist only as modified by
others. — Such an invasion of Nature wo
call an experiment. Every experiment is
a question put to Nature, to which she is

196

Schelling's Philosophy of Nature.

compelled to give a reply. But every ques-
tion contains an implicit a priori judg-
ment ; every experiment that is an experi-
ment is a prophecy; experimenting itself
is a production of phenomena. The first
step, therefore, towards science, at least
in the domain of physics, is taken when
we ourselves begin to produce the objects
of that science.

(b) We know only the self-produced ;
knowing, therefore, in the strictest accepta-
tion of the term, is a pure knowing a priori.
Construction by means of experiment, is,
after all, an absolute self-production of the
phenomena. There is no question but
that much in the science of Nature may
be known comparatively a priori ; as, for
example, in the theory of the phenomena
of electricity, magnetism, and even light.
There is such a simple law recurring in
every phenomenon that the results of every
experiment may be told beforehand; here
my knowing follows immediately from a
known law, without the intervention of
any particular experience. But whence
then does the law itself come to me ? The
assertion is, that all phenomena are corre-
lated in one absolute and necessary law,
from which they can all be deduced ; in
short, that in natural science all that we
know, we know absolutely a priori. Now,
that experiment never leads to such a
knowing, is plainly manifest, from the fact
that it can never get beyond the forces of
Nature, of which itself makes use as means.

As the final causes of natural phenome-
na are themselves not phenomenal, we
must either give up all attempt ever to ar-
rive at a knowledge of them, or else we
must altogether put them into Nature, en-
dow Nature with them. But now, that
which we put into Nature has no other
value than that of apre-supposition (hypo-
thesis), and the science founded thereon
must be equally hypothetical with the prin-
ciple itself. This it would be possible to
avoid only in one case, viz., if that pre-
supposition itself were involuntary, and
as necessary as Nature itself. Assum-
ing, for example, what must be assumed,
that the sum of phenomena is not a
mere world, but of necessity a Nature —
that is, that this whole is not merely a

product, but at the same time productive, it
follows that in this whole we can never ar-
rive at absolute identity, inasmuch as this
would bring about an absolute transition
of Nature, in as far as it is productive,
into Nature as product, that is, it would
produce absolute rest; such wavering of
Nature, therefore, between productivity
and product, will, of necessity, appear
as a universal duplicity of principles,
whereby Nature is maintained in con-
tinual activity, and prevented from ex-
hausting itself in its product; and univer-
sal duality as the principle of explanation
of Nature will be as necessary as the idea
of Nature itself.

This absolute hypothesis must carry its
necessity within itself, but it must, besides
this, be brought to empiric proof ; for, in-
asmuch as all the phenomena of Nature
cannot be deduced from this hypothesis as
long as there is in the whole system of
Nature a single phenomenon which is not
necessary according to that principle, or
which contradicts it, the hypothesis is
thereby at once shown to be false, and
from that moment ceases to have validity
as an hypothesis.

By this deduction of all natural pheno-
mena from an absolute hypothesis, our
knowing is changed into a construction of
Nature itself, that is, into a science of Na-
ture a priori. If, therefore, such deduc-
tion itself is possible, a thing which can
be proved only by the fact, then also a
doctrine of Nature is possible as a science
of Nature ; a system of purely speculative
physics is possible, which was the point
to be proved.

Remark. — There would be no necessity
for this remarkj if the confusion which
still prevails in regard to ideas perspicu-
ous enough in themselves did not render
some explanation with regard to them re-
quisite.

The assertion that natural science must
be able to deduce all its principles apriori,
is in a measure understood to mean that
natural science must dispense with all ex-
perience, and, without any intervention of
experience, be able to spin all its princi-
ples out of itself — an affirmation so absurd
that the very objections to it deserve pity.

Schelling' l s Philosophy of Nature.

197

Not only do we know this or that through
experience, but ice originally know nothing
at all except through experience, and by
means of experience, and in this sense the
whole of our knowledge consists of the
data of experience. These data become
a priori principles when we become con-
scious of them as necessary, and thus
every datum, be its import what it may,
may be raised to that dignity, inasmuch
as the distinction between a priori and a
posteriori data is not at all, as many people
may have imagined, one originally cleaving
to the data themselves, but is a distinction
made solely with respect to our knowing,
and the kind of our knowledge of these
data, so that every datum which is merely
historical for me — i. e. a datum of experi-
ence — becomes, notwithstanding, an a pri-
ori principle as soon as I arrive, whether
directly or indirectly, at insight into its
internal necessity. Now, however, it must
in all cases be possible to recognize every
natural phenomenon as absolutely neces-
sary ; for, if there is no chance in nature
at all, there can likewise be no origi-
nal phenomenon of Nature fortuitous ; on
the contrary, for the very reason that Na-
ture is a system, there must be a neces-
sary connection for everything that happens
or comes to pass in it, in some principle
embracing the whole of Nature. Insight
into this internal necessity of all natural
phenomena becomes, of course, still more
complete, as soon as we reflect that there is
no real system which is not, at the same
time, an organic whole. For if, in an or-
ganic whole, all things mutually bear and
support each other, then this organization
must have existed as a whole previous to
its parts — the whole could not have arisen
from the parts, but the parts must have
arisen out of the whole. It is not, there-
fore, we know Nature, but Nature is, a
priori, that is, everything individual in
it is predetermined by the whole or by the
idea of a Nature generally. But if Nature
is a priori, then it must be possible to re-
cognize it as something that is a priori,
and this is really the meaning of our af-
firmation.

Such a science, like every other, does

not deal with the hypothetical, or the
merely probable, but depends upon the
evident ami the certain. Now. we may in-
deed be quit'' certain that every natural
phenomenon, through whatever number of
intermediate links, stands in connection
with the last conditions of a Nature; tin?
intermediate links themselves, however,
may be unknown to us, and still lying hid-
den in the depths of Nature. To find out
these links is the work of experimental re-
search. Speculative physics have nothing
to do but to show the need of these inter-
mediate links ;* but as every new discovery
throws us back upon a new ignorance, and
while one knot is being loosed a new one
is being tied, it is conceivable that the
complete discovery of all the intermediate
links in the chain of Nature, and there-
fore also our science itself, is an infinite
task. Nothing, however, has more im-
peded the infinite progress of this sci-
ence than the arbitrariness of the fic-
tions by which the want of profound in-
sight was so long doomed to be concealed.
This fragmentary nature of our knowledge
becomes apparent only when we separate
what is merely hypothetical from the pure
out-come of science, and thereupon set
out to collect the fragments of the great
whole of Nature again into a system. It
is, therefore, conceivable that speculative
physics (the soul of real experiment) has,
in all time, been the mother of all great
discoveries in Nature.

OF A SYSTEM OF SPECULATIVE PHYSICS GENE-
RALLY.

Hitherto the idea of speculative physics
has been deduced and developed ; it is
another business to show how this idea
must be realized and actually carried out.

The author, for this purpose, would at

* Thus, for example, it becomes very clear
through the whole course of our inquiry, that,
in order to render the dynamic organization of
the Universe evident in all its parts, we Btill
lack that central phenomenon of which Bacon
already speaks, which certainly lies in Nal
hut has not yet been extracted from it by ex-
periment. [U'tiKirkof the Original. Compare
below, third note to " General Remark."

198

Spelling's Philosophy of Nature.

once refer to his Outlines of a System of
Natural Philosophy, if he had not reason to
suspect that many even of those who might
consider those Outlines worthy of their at-
tention, would come to it with certain pre-
conceived ideas, which he has not pre-
supposed, and which he does not desire to
have pre-supposed.

The causes which may render an insight
into the tendency of those Outlines difficult,
are (exclusive of defects of style and ar-
rangement) mainly, the following :

1. That many persons, misled perhaps
by the word Natural Philosophy, expect to
find transcendental deductions from nat-
ural phenomena, such as, in different frag-
ments, exist elsewhere, and will regard
natural philosophy generally as a part of
transcendental philosophy, whereas it forms
a science altogether peculiar, altogether
different from, and independent of, every
other.

2. That the notions of dynamical physics
hitherto diffused, are very different from,
and partially at variance with, those which
the author lays down. I do not speak of
the modes of representation which several
persons, whose business is really mere ex-
periment, have figured to themselves in
this connection ; for example, where they
suppose it to be a dynamical explanation,
when they reject a galvanic fluid, and ac-
cept instead of it certain vibrations in the
metals ; for these persons, as soon as they
observe that they have understood nothing
of the matter, will revert, of their own
accord, to their previous representations,
which were made for them. I speak of
the modes of representation which have
been put into philosophic heads by Kant,
and which may be mainly reduced to this :
that we see in matter nothing but the oc-
cupation of space in definite degrees, in
all difference of matter, therefore, only
mere difference of occupation of space (i.
e. density,) in all dynamic (qualitative)
changes, only mere changes in the relation
of the repelling and attracting forces.
Now, according to this mode of represen-
tation, all the phenomena of Nature are
looked at only on their lowest plane, and
the dynamical physics of these philoso

phers begin precisely at the point where
they ought properly to leave off. It is in-
deed certain that the last result of every
dynamical process is a changed degree of
occupation of space — that is, a changed
density; inasmuch, now, as the dy-
namical process of Nature is one, and
the individual dynamical ' processes are
only shreds of the one fundamental pro-
cess — even magnetic and electric phe-
nomena, viewed from this stand-point,
will be, not actions of particular materials,
but changes in the constitution of matter
itself ; and as this depends upon the mu-
tual action of the fundamental forces, at
last, changes in the relation of the fund-
amental forces themselves. We do not
indeed deny that these phenomena at the
extreme limit of their manifestation are
changes in the relation of the princi-
ples themselves ; we only deny that these,
changes are nothing more ; on the contrary,
we are convinced that this so-called dynam-
mical principle is too superficial and defec-
tive a basis of explanation for all Nature's
phenomena, to reach the real depth and
manifoldness of natural phenomena, inas-
much as by means of it, in point of fact, no
qualitative change of matter as such is con-
structible (for change of density is only the
external phenomenon of a higher change).
To adduce proof of this assertion is not
incumbent upon us, till, from the opposite
side, that principle of explanation is shown
by actual fact to exhaust Nature, and the
great chasm is filled up between that kind
of d} - namical philosophy and the empiri-
cal attainments of physics — as, for ex-
ample, in regard to the very different kinds
of effects exhibited by simple substances —
a thing which, let us say at once, we con-
sider to be impossible.

We may therefore bo permitted, in the
room of the hitherto prevailing dynamic
mode of representation, to place our own
without further remark — a procedure which
will no doubt clearly show wherein the
latter differs from the former, and by which
of the two the Doctrine of Nature may
most certainly be raised to a Science of
Nature.

Schelling's Philosophy of Nature.

199

VI.

INTERNAL ORGANIZATION OF THE SYSTEM OF
SPECULATIVE PHYSICS.

An inquiry into the Principle of spec-
ulative physics must be preceded by in-
quiries into the distinction between the
speculative and the empirical generally.
This depends mainly upon the conviction
that between empiricism and theory there
is such a complete opposition that there
can be no third thing in which the two
may be united; that, therefore, the idea
of Experimental Science is a mongrel idea,
which implies no connected thought, or
rather, which cannot he thought at all.
What is pure empiricism is not science,
and, vice versa, what is science is not em-
piricism. This is not said for the purpose
of at all depreciating empiricism, but
is meant to exhibit it in its true and
proper light. Pure empiricism, be its ob-
ject what it may, is history (the absolute
opposite of theory), and, conversely, his-
tory alone is empiricism.*

Physics, as empiricism, are nothing but
a collection of facts, of accounts of what
has been observed — what has happened
under natural or artificial circumstances.
In what we at present designate physics,
empiricism and science run riot together,
and for that very reason they are neither
one thing nor another.

Our aim, in view of this object, is to
separate science and empiricism as soul
and body, and by admitting nothing into
science which is not susceptible of an a pri-
ori construction, to strip empiricism of all
theory, and restore it to its original naked-
ness.

The opposition between empiricism and
science rests therefore upon this : that the

* If only those warm panegyrists of em-
piricism, who exalt it at tlie expense of
science, did not, true to tlie idea of empiri-
cism, try to palm oif upon us as empiricism
their own judgments, and what they have put
into nature, and imposed upon objects ; for
though many persons think they can talk
about it, there is a great dual more belonging
to it than many imagine — to eliminate purely
the accomplished from Nature, and to state it
with the same fidelity with which it has been
eliminated. — Remark of the Original.

former regards its object in being- as some-
thing already prepared and accomplished;
science, on the other hand, views its ob-
ject in becoming, and as something that
has yet to be accomplished. As science
cannot set out from anything that is a
product — that is, a thing — it must set out
from the unconditioned ; the first inquiry
of speculative physics is that which relates
to the unconditioned in natural science.

As this inquiry is, in the Outlines, de-
duced from the highest principles, the
following may be regarded as merely an
illustration of those inquiries :

Inasmuch as everything of which we can
say that it is, is of a conditioned nature,
it is only being itself that can be the un-
conditioned. But seeing that individual
being, as a conditioned, can be thought
only as a particular limitation of the pro-
ductive activity (the sole and last sub-
strate of all reality) being itself is
thought as the same productive activity
in its unlimited ness. For the philosophy
of nature, therefore, nature is originally
only productivity, and from this as its
principle science must set out.

So long as we know the totality of ob-
jects only as the sum of being, this totality
is a mere world — that is, a mere product
for us. It would certainly be impossible
in the science of Nature to rise to a higher
idea than that of being, if all permanence
(which is thought in the idea of being)
were not deceptive, and really a continu-
ous and uniform reproduction.

In so far as we regard the totality of
objects not merely as a product, but at
the same time necessarily as productive, it
rises into Nature for us, and this identity
of th n product and the productivity, and
this alone is implied, even in the ordinary
use of language by the idea of Nature.

Nature as a mere product (tiatura na-
turata) we call Nature as object (with this
alone all empiricism deals). Nature as
productivity (natura naturans) wo call
Nature as subject (with this alone all the-
ory deals).

As the object is never unconditioned,
something absolutely non-objective must

200

Schilling's Philosophy of Nature.

be put into Nature; this absolutely non-
objective is nothing else but that original
productivity of Nature. In the ordinary
view it vanishes in the product : conversely
in the philosophic view the product van-
ishes in the productivity.

Such identity of the product and the
productivity in the original conception of
Nature is expressed by the ordinary views
of Nature as a whole, which is at once the
cause and the effect of itself, and is in its
duplicity (which goes through all phenom-
ena) again identical. Furthermore, with
this idea the identity of the Real and the
Ideal agrees — an identity which is thought
in the idea of every product of Nature,
and in view of which alone the nature of
art can be placed in opposition thereto.
For whereas in art the idea precedes the
act — the execution — in Nature idea and
act are rather contemporary and one ; the
idea passes immediately over into the
product, and cannot be separated from it.

This identity is cancelled by the em-
pirical view, which sees in Nature only the
effect (although on account of the con-
tinual wandering of empiricism into the
field of science, we have, even in purely
empirical physics, maxims which presup-
pose an idea of Nature as subject — as, for
example, Nature chooses the shortest way;
Nature is sparing in causes and lavish in
effects) ; it is also cancelled by specula-
tion, which looks only at cause in Nature.

We can say of Nature as object that it
is, not of Nature as subject; for this is
being or productivity.

This absolute productivity must pass
over into an empirical nature. In the idea
of absolute productivity, is the thought of
an ideal infinity. The ideal infinity must
become an empirical one.

But empirical infinity is an infinite be-
coming. Every infinite series is but the
exhibition of an intellectual or ideal infin-
ity. The original infinite series (the ideal
of all infinite series) is that wherein our
intellectual infinity evolves itself, viz.,
Time. The activity which sustains this
series is the same as that which sustains
our consciousness; consciousness, how-

ever, is continuous. Time, therefore, as the
evolution of that activity, cannot be pro-
duced by composition. Now, a& all other in-
finite series are only imitations of the
originally infinite series, Time, no infinite
series can be otherwise than continuous. In
the original evolution the retarding agent
(without which the evolution would take
place with infinite rapidity) is nothing but
original reflection ; the necessity of re-
flection upon our acting in every organic
phase (continued duplicity in identity) is
the secret stroke of art whereby our being
receives permanence.

Absolute continuity, therefore, exists
only for the intuition, but not for the
reflection. Intuition and reflection are
opposed to each other. The infinite series
is continuous for the productive intui-
tion — interrupted and composite for the
reflection. It is on this contradiction be-
tween intuition and reflection that those
sophisms are based, in which the possibil-
ity of all motion is contested, and which
are solved at every successive step by the
productive activity. To the intuition, for
example, the action of gravity takes place
with perfect continuity ; to the reflection,
by fits and starts. Hence all the laws of
mechanics, whereby that which is properly
only the object of the productive intuition
becomes an object of reflection, are really
only laws for the reflection. Hence those
fictitious notions of mechanics, the atoms
of time in which gravitation acts, the law
that the moment of solicitation is infinitely
small, because otherwise an infinite rapid-
ity would be produced in finite time, &c,
&c. Hence, finally, the assertion that in
mathematics no infinite series can really
be represented as continuous, but only as
advancing by fits and starts.

The whole of this inquiry into the op-
position between reflection and the pro-
ductivity of the intuition, serves only to
enable us to deduce the general statement
that in all productivity, and in productiv-
ity alone, there is absolute continuity — a
statement of importance in the considera-
tion of the whole of Nature ; inasmuch,
for example, as the law that in Nature
there is no leap, that there is a continuity
of forms in it, &c, is confined to the orig-

Schclling's Philosophy of Nature.

201

inal productivity of Nature, in which
certainly there must be continuity, where-
as from the stand-point of reflection all
things must appear disconnected and with-
out continuity — placed beside each other,
as it were ; we must therefore admit that
both parties are right ; those, namely, who
assert continuity in Nature — for example,
in organic Nature — no less than those who
deny it, when we take into consideration
the difference of their respective stand-
points ; and we thereby, at the same time,
arrive at the distinction between dynam-
ical and atomistic physics ; for, as will
soon become apparent, the two are distin-
guished only by the fact that the former
occupies the stand-point of intuition, the
latter that of reflection.

These general principles being pre-
supposed, we shall be able, with more cer-
tainty, to reach our aim, and make an
exposition of the internal organism of our
system.

(a) In the idea of becoming, we think
the idea of gradualness. But an absolute
productivity will exhibit itself empirically
as a becoming with infinite rapidity,
whereby there results nothing real for the
intuition.

(Inasmuch as Nature must in reality be
thought as engaged in infinite evolution 5
the permanence, the resting of the pro-
ducts of Nature — the organic ones, for
instance — is not to be viewed as an abso-
lute resting, but only as an evolution pro-
ceeding with infinitely small rapidity or
with infinite tardiness. But hitherto evo-
lution, with even finite rapidity, not to
speak of infinitely small rapidity, has not
been constructed.)

(b) That the evolution of Nature should
take place with finite rapidity, and thus
become an object of intuition, is not
thinkable without an original limitation
(a being limited) of the productivity.

(c) But if Nature be absolute productiv-
ity, then the ground of this limitation may
lie outside of it. Nature is originally only
productivity ; there can, therefore, be
nothing determined in this productivity

(all determination is negation) and so
products can never be reached by it. If
products are to be reached, the productiv-
ity must pass from being undetermined to
being determined — that is, it must, as
pure productivity, be cancelled. If now
the ground of determination of productiv-
ity lay outside of Nature, Nature would i
be originally absolutely productivity. De-
termination, that is, negation, must cer-
tainly come into Nature; but this negation,
viewed from a higher stand-point, must
again be positivity.

(d) But if the ground of this limitation
lies within Nature itself, then Nature -
ceases to be pure identity. (Nature, in
so far as it is only productivity, is pure
identity, and there is in it absolutely
nothing capable of being distinguished.
In order that anything may be distin-
guished in it, its identity must be can-
celled — Nature must not be identity, but
duplicity.)

Nature must originally be an object to
itself; this change of the pure subject
into a self-object is unthinkable without
an original sundering in Nature itself.

This duplicity cannot therefore be fur-
ther deduced physically ; for, as the con-
dition of all Nature generally, it is the
principle of all physical explanation, and
all physical explanation can only have for
its aim the reduction of all the antitheses
which appear in Nature to that origi-
nal antithesis in the heart of Nature,
which does not, however, itself appear.
Why is there no original phenomenon of
Nature without this duplicity, if in Nature
all things are not mutually subject and ob-
ject to each other ad infinitum, and Nature
even, in its origin, at once product and
productive?

(e) If Nature is originally duplicity,
there must be opposite tendencies even in
the original productivity of Nature. (The
positive tendency must be opposed by
another, which is, as it were, ami -produc-
tive — retarding production ; not as the
contradictory, but as the negative— the
really opposite of the former.) It is only
then that, in spite of its being limited,
there is no passivity in Nature, when even

202

Softening's Philosophy of Nature.

that which limits it is again positive, and
its original duplicity is a contest of really
opposite tendencies.

(/) In order to arrive at a product,
these opposite tendencies must concur.
But as they are supposed equal, (for there
is no ground for supposing them unequal.)
wherever they meet they will annihilate
each other ; the product is therefore = 0,
and once more no product is reached.

This inevitable, though hitherto not very
closely remarked contradiction (namely,
that a product can arise only through the
concurrence of opposite tendencies, while
at the same time these opposite tendencies
mutually annihilate each other) is capable
of being solved only in the following man-
ner : There is absolutely no subsistence of
a product thinkable, without a continual
process of being reproduced. The product
must be thought as annihilated at every
step, and at every step reproduced anew.
We do not really see the subsisting of a
product, but only the continual process of
being reproduced.

(It is of course very conceivable how the

series 1 — l-(-l — 1 on to infinity is

thought as equal neither to 1 nor to 0.
The reason however why this series is
thought as =o lies deeper. There is one
absolute magnitude (=1), which, though
continually annihilated in this series, con-
tinually recurs, and by this recurrence
produces, not itself, but the mean between
itself and nothing. — Nature, as object, is
that which comes to pass in such an in-
finite series, and is = a fraction of the
original unit, to which the never cancelled
duplicity supplies the numerator.)

(g) If the subsistence of the product is
a continual process of being reproduced,
then all persistence also is only in nature
as object ; in nature as subject there is
only infinite activity.

The product is originally nothing but a
mere point, a mere limit, and it is only
from Nature's combatting against this
point that it is, so to speak, raised to a
full sphere — to a product. (Suppose, for
illustration, a stream; it is pure identity ;
where it meets resistance, there is formed
a whirlpool ; this whirlpool is not anything

abiding, but something that every moment
vanishes, and every moment springs up
anew. — In Nature there is originally noth-
ing distinguishable ; all products are, so to
speak, still in solution, and invisible in the
universal productivity. It is only when
retarding points are given, that they are
thrown off and advance out of the univer-
sal identity. — At every such point the
stream breaks (the productivity is anni-
hilated), but at every step there comes a
new wave which fills up the sphere).

The philosophy of nature has not to ex-
plain the productive (side) of nature ; for if
it does not posit this as in nature originally,
it will never bring it into nature. It has
to explain the permanent. But the fact
that anything should become permanent in
nature, can itself receive its explanation
only from that contest of nature against
all permanence. The products would ap-
pear as mere points, if nature did not give
them extension and depth by its own pres-
sure, and the products themselves would
last only an instant, if nature did not at
every instant crowd up against them.

(/i) This seeming product, which is re-
produced at every step, cannot be a
really infinite product ; for otherwise pro-
ductivity would actually exhaust itself in it;
in like manner it cannot be a finite pro-
duct ; for it is the force of the whole of
nature that pours itself into it. It must
therefore be at once infinite and finite ; it
must be only seemingly finite, but in in-
finite development.

The point at which this product origi-
nally comes in, is the universal point of
retardation in nature, the point from which
all evolution in nature begins. But in
nature, as it is evolved, this point lies not
here or there, but everywhere where there
is a product.

This product is a finite one, but as the
infinite productivity of nature concentrates
itself in it, it must have a tendency to in-
finite development. — And thus gradually,
and through all the foregoing intermediate
links, we have arrived at the construction
of that infinite becoming— the empirical
exhibition of an ideal infinity.

Schdling's Philosophy of Nature.

203

We behold in what is called nature (i. e.
in this assemblage of individual objects),
not the primal product itself, but its evolu-
tion, (hence the point of retardation can-
not remain one.) — By what means this ev-
olution is again absolutely retarded, which
must happen, if we are to arrive at a fixed
product, has not yet been explained.

But through this product an original in-
finity evolves itself; this infinity can never
decrease. The magnitude which evolves
itself in an infinite series, is still infinite
at every point of the line; and thus nature
will be still infinite at every point of the
evolution.

There is only one original point of re-
tardation to productivity ; but any num-
ber of points of retardation to evolution
may be thought. Every such point is
marked for us by a product : but at every
point of the evolution nature is still in-
finite ; therefore nature is still infinite in
every product, and in every one lies the
germ of a universe.*

(The question, by what means the infin-
ite tendency is retarded in the product, is
still unanswered. The original retarda-
tion in the productivity of nature, explains
only why the evolution takes place with
finite rapidity, but not why it takes place
with infinitely small rapidity.)

(i) The product evolves itself ad infini-
tum. In this evolution, therefore, nothing
can happen, which is not already a pro-
duct (synthesis), and which might not di-
vide up into new factors, each of these
again having its factors.

Thus even by an analysis pursued ad
infinitum, we could never arrive at any-
thing in nature which should be absolutely
simple.

(A) If however we suppose the evolution
as completed, (although it never can be

* A traveller in Italy makes the remark
that the whole history of the world may be
demonstrated on the great obelisk at Rome;
so, likewise, in every product of Nature.
Every mineral body is a fragment of the
annals of the earth. But what is the earth ?
Its history is interwoven with the history of
the whole of Nature, and so passes from the
fossil through the whole of inorganic and or-
ganic Nature, till it culminates in the history
of the universe — one chain. — Remark of the
Original.

completed,) still the evolution could not
stop at anything which was a product, but
only at the purely productive.

The question arises, whether a final,
such that it is no longer a substi
but the cause of all substrate, no
longer a product, but absolutely produc-
tive — we will not say occurs, for that is
unthinkable, but — can at least be proved
in experience.

(/) Inasmuch as it bears the character
of the unconditioned, it would have to ex-
hibit itself as something, which, although
itself not in space, is still the principle of
all occupation of space.

What occupies space is not matter, for
matter is the occupied space itself. That,
therefore, which occupies space cannot be
matter. Only that which is, is in space,
not being itself.

It is self-evident that no positive exter-
nal intuition is possible of that which is
not in space. It would therefore have to
be capable of being exhibited negatively.
This happens in the following manner :

That which is in space, is, as such,
mechanically and chemically destructible.
That which is not destructible either me-
chanically or chemically must therefore
lie outside of space. But it is only the
final ground of all quality that has any-
thing of this nature ; for although one qual-
ity may be extinguished by another, this
can nevertheless only happen in a third
product, C, for the formation and main-
tenance of which A and B, (the opposite
factors of 0,) must continue to act.

But this indestructible (somewhat),
which is thinkable only as pure intensity,
is, as the cause of all substrate, at the
same time the principle of divisibility ad
infinitum. (A body, divided ad infinitum
still occupies space in the same deg
with its smallest part.)

That, therefore, which is purely produc-
tive without being a product, is but the
final ground of quality. But every quality
is a determinate one, whereas productivity
is originally indeterminate, In the quali-
ties, therefore, productivity i rs as al-
ready retarded, and as it appears m
original in them generally, it irs in
them most originally retarded.

204

Schelling's Philosophy of Nature.

This is the point at which our mode of
conception diverges from those of the cur-
rently so-called dynamical physics.

Our assertion, briefly stated, is this : —
If the infinite evolution of nature were
completed (which is impossible) it would
separate up into original and simple ac-
tions, or, if we may so express ourselves,
into simple productivities. Our assertion
therefore is not : There are in nature such
simple actions ; but only, they are the
ideal grounds of the explanation of qual-
ity. These entelechies cannot actually be
shown, they do not exist; we have not
therefore to explain here anything more
than is asserted, namely, that such original
productivities must be thought as the
grounds of the explanation of all quality.
This proof is as follows :

The affirmation that nothing which is in
space, that is, that nothing at all is
mechanically simple, requires no demon-
stration. That, therefore, which is in re-
ality simple, cannot be thought as in space,
but must be thought as outside of space.
But outside of space only pure intensity is
thought. This id'ea of pure intensity is
expressed by the idea of action. It is not
the product of this action that is simple,
but the action itself abstracted from the
product, and it must be simple in order that
the product may be divisible ad infinitum.
For although the parts are near vanishing,
the intensity must still remain. And this
pure intensity is what, even in infinite di-
visibility, sustains the substrate.

If, therefore, the assertion that affirms
something simple as the basis of the ex-
planation of quality is atomistic, then our
philosophy is atomistic. But, inasmuch
as it places the simple in something that
is only productive without being a pro-
duct, it is dynamical atomistics.

This much is clear, that if we admit an
absolute division of nature into its factors,
the last (thing) that remains over, must be
something, which absolutely defies all di-
vision, that is, the simple. But the sim-
ple can be thought only as dynamical,
and as such it is not in space at all (it
designates only what is thought as alto-
gether outside of space-occupation) ; there
is therefore no intuition of it possible, ex-

cept through its product. In like manner
there is no measure for it given but its
product. For to pure thought it is the
mere origin of the product (as the point is
only the origin of the line), in one word
pure entelechy. But that which is known,
not in itself, but only in its product, is
known altogether empirically. If, there-
fore, every original quality, as quality
(not as substrate, in which quality
merely inheres), must be thought as pure
intensity, pure action, then qualities gen-
erally are only the absolutely empirical in
our knowledge of nature, of which no con-
struction is possible, and in respect to
which there remains nothing of the phi-
losophy of nature, save the proof that they
are the absolute limit of its construction.

The question in reference to the ground
of quality posits the evolution of nature
as completed, that is, it posits something
merely thought, and therefore can be an-
swered only by an ideal ground of expla-
nation. This question adopts the stand-
point of reflection (on the product), where-
as genuine dynamics always remain on the
stand-point of intuition.

(It must here, however, be at once re-
marked that if the ground of the explana-
tion of quality is conceived as an ideal
one, the question only regards the explana-
tions of quality, in so far as it is thought
as absolute. There is no question, for in-
stance, of quality, in so far as it shows
itself in the dynamical process. For qual-
ity, so far as it is relative, there is cer-
tainly a [not merely ideal, but actually
real] ground of explanation and determin-
ation ; quality in that case is determined
by its opposite, with which it is placed in
conflict, and this antithesis is itself again
determined by a higher antithesis, and so
on back into infinity ; so that, if this uni-
versal organization could dissolve itself, all
matter likewise would sink back into dy-
namical inactivity, that is, into absolute
defect of quality. (Quality is a higher
power of matter, to which the latter ele-
vates itself by reciprocity.) It is demon-
strated in the sequel that the dynamical
process is a limited one for each individual
sphere ; because it is only thereby that
definite points of relation for the determ-

Schilling's Philosophy of Nature.

205

ination of quality arise. This limitation
of the dynamical process, that is, the
proper determination of quality, takes
place by means of no force other than that
by which the evolution is universally and
absolutely limited, and this negative ele-
ment is the only one in things that is in-
divisible, and mastered by nothing. — The
absolute relativity of all quality may be
shown from the electric relation of bodies,
inasmuch as the same body that is posi-
tive with one is negative, with another,
and conversely. But we might now
henceforth abide by the statement (which
is also laid down in the Outlines) : All qual-
ity is electricity, and conversely, the elec-
tricity of a body is also its quality, (for all
difference of quality is equal to difference
of electricity, and all [chemical] quality is
reducible to electricity). — Everything that
is sensible for us (sensible in the nar-
rower acceptation of the term, as colors,
taste, &c), is doubtless sensible to us
only through electricity, and the only im-
mediately sensible (element) would then
be electricity,* a conclusion to which the
universal duality of every sense leads us
independently, inasmuch as in Nature there
is properly only one dualty. In galvanism,
sensibility, as a reagent, reduces all qual-
ity of bodies, for which it is a reagent to
an original difference. All bodies which,
in a chain, at all affect the sense of taste
or that of sight, be their differences ever
so great, are either alkaline or acid, excite
a negative or positive shock, and here they
always appear as active in a higher than
the merely chemical power.

Quality considered as absolute is incon-
structible, because quality generally is not
anything absolute, and there is no other
quality at all, save that which bodies
show mutually in relation to each other,
and all quantity is something in virtue of
which the body is, so to speak, raised
above itself.

All hitherto attempted construction of

* Volta already asks, with reference to the
affection of the senses by galvanism — " Might
not the electric fluid be the immediate cause
of all flavors ? Might it not be the cause of
sensation in all the other senses V — Remark of
the Original.

quality reduces itself to the two attempts ;
to express qualities by figures, and so, for
each original quality, to assume a partic-
ular figure in Nature ; or else, to express
quality by analytical formula} (in which
the forces of attraction and repulsion sup-
ply the negative and positive magnitudes.)
To convince oneself of the futility of this
attempt, the shortest method is to appeal
to the emptiness of the explanations to
which it gives rise. Hence wo limit our-
selves here to the single remark, that
through the construction of all matter out
of the two fundamental forces, different
degrees of density may indeed be con-
structed, but certainly never different qual-
ities as qualities ; for although all dynam-
ical (qualitative) changes appear, in their
lowest stage, as changes of the funda-
mental forces, yet we see at that stage
only the product of the process — not the
process itself — and those changes are what
require explanation, and the ground of ex-
planation must therefore certainly be
sought in something higher.

The only possible ground of explanation
for quality is an ideal one ; because this
ground itself presupposes something
purely ideal. If any one inquire into the
final ground of quality, he transports him-
self back to the starting point of Nature.
But where is this starting point? and does
not all quality consist in this, that matter
is prevented by the general concatenation
from reverting into its originality ?

From the point at which reflection and
intuition separate, a separation, be it re-
marked, which is possible only on the hy-
pothesis of the evolutions being complete,
physics divide into the two opposite direc-
tions, into which the two systems, the
atomistic and the dynamical, have been
divided.

The dynamical system denies the abso-
lute evolution of Nature, and passes from
Nature as synthesis (i. e. Nature as sub-
ject) to Nature as evolution (i. e. Nature
as object) ; the atomistic system passes
from the evolution, as the original) to Na-
ture as synthesis; the former passes from
the stand-point of intuition to that of re-
flection ; the latter from the stand-point
of reflection to that of intuition.

•200

Schelling's Philosophy of Nature.

Both directions are equally possible. If
the analysis only is right, then the syn-
thesis must be capable of being found
again through analysis, just as the analy-
sis in its turn can be found through the
synthesis. But whether the analysis is
correct can be tested only by the fact that
we can pass from it again to the synthesis.
The synthesis therefore is, and continues,
the absolutely presupposed.

The problems of the one system turn
exactly round into those of the other ;
that which, in atomical physics, is the
cause of the composition of Nature is, in
dynamical physics, that which checks evo-
lution. The former explains the composi-
tion of Nature by the force of cohesion,
whereby, however, no continuity is ever
introduced into it; the latter, on the con-
trary, explains cohesion by the continuity
of evolution. (All cohesion is originally
only in the productivity.)

Both systems set out from something
purely ideal. Absolute synthesis is as
much purely ideal as absolute analysis.
The Real occurs only in Nature as product ;
but Nature is not product, either when
thought as absolute involution or as abso-
lute evolution; product is what is con-
tained between the two extremes.

The first problem for both systems is to
construct the product — i. e. that wherein
those opposites become real. Both reckon
with purely ideal magnitudes so long as
the product is not constructed : it is only
in the directions in which they accomplish
this that they are opposed. Both systems,
as far as they have to deal with merely
ideal factors, have the same value, and the
one forms the test of the other. — That
which is concealed in the depths of pro-
ductive Nature must be reflected as prod-
uct in Nature as Nature, and thus the
atomistic system must be the continual
reflex of the dynamical. In the Outlines,
of the two directions, that of atomistic
physics has been chosen intentionally. It-
will contribute not a little to the under-
standing of our science, if we here de-
monstrate in the productivity what was
there shown in the product.

(m) In the pure productivity of Nature
there is absolutely nothing distinguishable

except duality ; it is only productivity
dualized in itself that gives the product.

Inasmuch as the absolute productivity
arrives only at producing per te, not at the
producing of a determinate [somewhat],
the tendency of Nature, in virtue of which
product is arrived at, must be the nega-
tive of productivity.

In Nature, in so far as it is real, there
can no more be productivity without a
product, than a product without productiv-
ity. Nature can only approximate to the
two extremes, and it must be demonstrated
that it approximates to both.

(a) Pure 'productivity passes originally
into formlessness.

Wherever Nature loses itself in form-
lessness, productivity exhausts itself in it.
(This is what we express when we talk of
a becoming latent.) — Conversely, wherever
the form predominates — i. e. wherever the
productivity is limited — the productivity
manifests itself ; it appears, not as a (re-
presentable) product, but as productivity,
although passing over into one product, as
in the phenomena of heat. (The idea of
imponderables is only a symbolic one.)

(6) If productivity passes into formless-
ness, then, objectively considered, it is the
absolutely formless.

(The boldness of the atomical system
has been very imperfectly comprehended.
The idea which prevails in it, of an abso-
lutely formless [somewhat] everywhere
incapable of manifestation as determinate
mattei", is nothing other than the symbol
of nature approximating to productivity. —
The nearer to productivity the nearer to
formlessness.

(y) Productivity appears as productivity
only when limits are set to it.

That which is everywhere and in every-
thing, is, for that very reason, nowhere. —
Productivity is fixed only by limitation. —
Electricity exists only at that point at
which limits are given, and it is only a
poverty of conception that would look for
anything else in its phenomena beyond the
phenomena of (limited) productivity. —
The condition of light is an antithesis
in the electric and galvanic, as well as in
the chemical, process, and even light
which comes to us without our coopera-

Schelling's Philosophy of Nature.

207

tion (the phenomenon of productivity
exerted all round by the sun) presupposes
that antithesis.*

(<5) It is only limited productivity that
gives the start to product. (The explana-
tion of product must begin at the origina-
tion of the fixed point at which the start
is made.) The condition of all forma-
tion is duality. (This is the more pro-
found signification that lies in Kant's
construction of matter from opposite
forces.)

Electrical phenomena are the general
scheme for the construction of matter uni-
versally.

(e) In Nature, neither pure productivity
nor pure product can ever be arrived at.

The former is the negation of all prod-
uct, the latter the negation of all produc-
tivity.

(Approximation to the former is the ab-
solutely decomposible, to the latter the ab-
solutely indecomposible, of the atomistics.
The former cannot be thought without, at
the same time, being the absolutely incom-
posible, the latter without, at the same
time, being the absolutely composible.)

Nature will therefore originally be the
middle [somewhat] arising out of the two,
and thus we arrive at the idea of a pro-
ductivity engaged in a transition into prod-
uct, or of a product that is productive ad
infinitum. We hold to the latter defini-
tion.

The idea of the product (the fixed) and
that of the productive (the free) are mu-
tually opposed.

Seeing that what we have postulated is
already product, it can, if it is productive
at all, be productive only in a determinate
way. But determined productivity is
(active) formation. That third [some-
what] must therefore be in the state of
formation.

* According to the foregoing experiments,
it is at least not impossible to regard the
phenomena of light and those of electricity
as one, since in the prismatic spectrum the
colons may at least be considered as opposites,
and the white light, which regularly falls in
the middle, be regarded as the indifference-
point ; and for reasons of analogy one is
tempted to consider this construction of the
phenomena of light as the real one. — Remark
of the Original.

But the product is supposed to be pro-
ductive ad infinitum (that transition is
never absolutely to take place); it will
thorefore at every stage be productive in a
determinate way ; the productivity will
remain, but not the product.

(The question might arise how a transi-
tion from form to form is possible at all
here, when no form is fixed. Still, that
momentary forms should be reached, has
already been rendered possible by the fact
that the evolution cannot take place with
infinite rapidity, in which case, therefore,
for every step at least, the form is cer-
tainly a determinate one.)

The product will appear as in infinite
metamorphosis.

(From the stand-point of reflection, as
continually on the leap from fluid to solid,
without ever reaching, however, the re-
quired form. — Organizations that do not
live in the grosser element, at least live on
the deep ground of the aerial sea — many
pass over, by metamorphoses, from one
element into another ; and what does the
animal, whose vital functions almost all
consist in contractions, appear to be, other
than such a leap ?)

The metamorphosis will not possibly
take place without rule. For it must re-
main within the original antithesis, and
is thereby confined within limits. -t

(This accordance with rule will express
itself solely by an internal relationship of
forms — a relationship which again is not
thinkable without an archetype which lies
at the basis of all, and which, with how-
ever manifold divergences, they neverthe-
less all express.

But even with such a product, we have
not that which we were in quest of — a
product which, while productive ad injini-
tum, remains the same. That tin's product
should remain the same seems unthink-
able, because it is not thinkable without
an absolute checking or suppression of the
productivity. — The product would have to
be checked, as the productivity was
checked, for it is still productive— checked

t Hence wherever the antithesis is can-
celled or deranged, the metamorphosis be-
comes irregular. For what is disease even
but metamorphosis ?— Remark of the Original.

:08

Schelling's Philosophy of Nature.

by dualization and limitation resulting
therefrom. But it must at the same time
be explained how the productive product
can be checked at each individual stage of
its formation, without its ceasing to be
productive, or how, by dualization itself,
the permanence of the productivity is se-
cured.

[n this way we have brought the reader
as far as the problem of the fourth sec-
tion of the Outlines, and we leave him to
find in it for himself the solution along
with the corollaries which it brings up. —
Meanwhile, we shall endeavor to indicate
how the deduced product would neces-
sarily appear from the stand-point of re-
flection.

The product is the synthesis wherein
the opposite extremes meet, which on the
one side are designated by the absolutely
decomposible — on the other as indecom-
posible. — How continuity comes into the
absolute discontinuity with which he sets
out, the atomic philosopher endeavors to
explain by means of cohesive, plastic
power, &c, &c. In vain, for continuity is
only productivity itself.

The manifolduess of the forms which
such product assumes in its metamorphosis
was explained by the difference in the
stages of development, so that, parallel
with every step of development, goes a
particular form. The atomic philosopher
posits in nature certain fundamental forms,
and as in it everything strives after form,
and every thing which does form itself has
also its particular form, so the funda-
mental forms must be conceded, but cer-
tainly only as indicated in nature, not as
actually existent.

From the standpoint of reflection, the
becoming of this product must appear as
a continual striving of the original actions
toward the production of a determinate
form, and a continual recancelling of those
forms.

Thus, the product would not be product
of a simple tendency; it would be only
the visible expression of an internal pro-
portion, of an internal equipoise of the
original actions, which neither reduce
themselves mutually to absolute formless-
ness, nor yet, by reason of the universal

conflict, allow the production of a determ-
inate and fixed form.

Hitherto (so long as we have had to deal
merely with ideal factors), there have
been opposite directions of investigation
possible; from this point, inasmuch as we
have to pursue a real product in its de-
velopments, there is only one direction.

(n) By the unavoidable separation of
productivity into opposite directions at
every single step of development the pro-
duct itself is separated into individual
products, by which, however, for that very
reason, only different stages of develop-
ment are marked.

That this is so may be shown either in
the products themselves, as is done when
we compare them with each other with
regard to their form, and search out a con-
tinuity of formation — an idea which, from
the fact that continuity is never in the
products (for the reflection), but always
only in the productivity, can never be per-
fectly realized.

In order to find continuity in produc-
tivity, the successive steps of the tran-
sition of productivity into product must be
more clearly exhibited than they have
hitherto been. From the fact that the
productivity gets limited, (v. supra,) we
have in the first instance only the start for
a product, only the fixed point for the pro-
ductivity generally. It must be shown
how the productivity gradually materializes
itself, and changes itself into products
ever more and more fixed, so as to produce
a dynamical scale in nature, and this is
the real subject of the fundamental prob-
lem of the whole system.

In advance, the following may serve to
throw light on the subject. In the first
place, a dualization of the productivity is
demanded ; the cause through which this
dualization is effected remains in the first
instance altogether outside of the investi-
gation. By dualization a change of con-
traction and expansion is perhaps con-
ditioned. This change is not something
in matter, but is matter itself, and thi first
stage of productivity passing over into
product. Product cannot be reached ex-
cept through a stoppage of this change,
that is, through a third [somewhat] which

Schilling's Philosophy of Natwrt.

209

fixes that change itself, and thus matter in capable of being shown in the deduced

its lowest stage— in the first power — would product itself, if it is capable of bcinn-

be an object of intuition ; that change deduced at all.)

would be seen in rest, or in equipoise, just The deduced product is an activity di-

as, conversely again, by the suppression of reefed outwards; this cannot be distin-

the third [somowhat] matter might be guished as such without an activity direct-

raised to a higher power. Now it might ed inwards from without, (i. e. directed

be possible that those products just de- upon itself,) and this activity, on the

duced stood upon quite different degrees of other hand, cannot be thought, unless it is

materiality, or of that transition, or that pressed back (reflected) from without.

those different degrees were more or less In the opposite directions, which arise

distinguishable in the one than in the other;
that is, a dynamical scale of those prod-
ucts would thereby have to be demon-
strated.

(o) In the solution of the problem itself,
we shall continue, in the first instance, in
the direction hitherto taken, without know-
ing where it may lead us.

There are individual products brought
into nature; but in these products produc-
tivity, as productivity, is held to be still
always distinguishable. Productivity has
not yet absolutely passed over into prod-
uct. The subsistence of the product is
supposed to be a continual self-reproduc-
tion.

The problem arises : By what is this
absolute transition — exhaustion of the pro-
ductivity in the product — prevented? or
by what does its subsistence become a con-
tinual self-reproduction ?

It is absolutely unthinkable how the
activity that everywhere tends towards a
product is prevented from going over into
it entirely, unless that transition is pre-
vented by external influences, and the prod-
act, if it is to subsist, is compelled at
every step to reproduce itself anew.

Up to this point, however, no trace has
been discovered of a cause opposed to the
product (to organic nature). Such a cause
can, therefore, at present, only be postu-
lated. (We thought we saw the whole of
nature exhaust itself in that product, and
it is only here that we remark, that in order
to comprehend such product, something
else must be presupposed, and a new an-
tithesis must come into nature.

Nature has hitherto been for us absolute

through this antithesis lies the principle
for the construction of all the phenomena
of life — on the suppression of those oppo-
site directions, life remains over, either as
absolute activity or absolute receptivity,
since it is possible only as the perfect
inter-determination of receptivity and ac-
tivity.

We therefore refer the reader to the Out-
lines themselves, and merely call his at-
tention to the higher stage of construction
which we have here reached.

We have above (g) explained the origin
of a product generally by a struggle of na-
ture against the original point of check,
whereby this point is raised to a full
sphere, and thus receives permanence.
Here, since we are deducing a struggle of
external nature, not against a mere point,
but against a product, the first construc-
tion rises for us to a second power, as it
were, — we have a double product, (and thus
it might well be shown in the sequel that
organic nature generally is only the higher
power of the inorganic, and that it rises
above the latter for the very reason that in
it even that which was already product
again becomes product.

Since the product, which we have de-
duced as the most primary, drives us to a
side of nature that is opposed to it, it is
clear that our construction of the origin of
a product generally is incomplete, and that
we have not yet, by a long way, satisfied
our problem ; (the problem of all science is
to construct the origin of a fixed product.)

A productive product, as such, can sub-
sist only under the influence of external
forces, because it is only thereby that pro-

ident it y in duplicity; here we come upon ductivity is interrupted— prevented from

an antithesis that must again take place being extinguished in the product. For

within the other. This antithesis must be these external forces there must now again
14

210

Sckelling's Philosophy of Jfahite.

be a particular sphere ; those forces must
lie in a world which is not productive. But
that world, for this very reason, would be a
world fixed and undetermined in every re-
spect. The problem — how a product in
nature is arrived at — has therefore re-
ceived a one-sided solution by all that has
preceded. "The product is checked by
dualization of the productivity at every
single step of development." But this is
true only for the productive product,
whereas we are here treating of a non-pro-
ductive product.

The contradiction which meets us here
can be solved only by the finding of a
general expression for the construction of
a product generally, (regardless of whether
it is productive or has ceased to be so).

Since the existence of a world, that
is not productive (inorganic) is in the
first instance merely postulated, in order
to explain the productive one, so its con-
ditions can be laid down only hypo-
thetically, and as we do not in the first in-
stance know it at all except from its op-
position to the productive, those conditions
likewise must be deduced only from this
opposition. From this it is of course clear,
— what is also referred to in the Outlines —
that this second section, as well as the first,
contains throughout merely hypothetical
truth, since neither organic nor inorganic
nature is explained without our having re-
duced the construction of the two to a com-
mon expression, which, however, is possible
only through the synthetic part. — This must
leadto the highest and most general princi-
plesfor the construction of a rcahwe general-
ly ; hence we must refer the reader who is
concerned about a knowledge of our system
altogether to that part. The hypothetical
deduction of an inorganic world and its
conditions we may pass over here all the
more readily, that they are sufficiently de-
tailed in the Outlines, and hasten to the
most general and the highest problem of
our science.

The most general problem of speculative
physics may now be expressed thus : To
reduce the construction of organic and in-
organic products to a common expression.

We can state only the main principles of
such a solution, and of these, for the most
part, only such as have not been completely
educed in the Outlines themselves — (3d
principal section.)

Here at the very beginning we lay down
the principle that as the organic product is
the product in the second power, the organic
construction of the product must be, at
least, the sensuous image of the original
constrxiction of all product.

(a) In order that the productivity may
be at all fixed at a point, limits must be
given. Since limits are the condition of
the first phenomenon, the cause whereby
limits are produced cannot he a phenome-
non, it goes back into the interior of na-
ture, or of each respective product.

In organic nature, this limitation of pro-
ductivity is shown by what we call sensi-
bility, which must be thought as the
first condition of the construction of the
organic product.

(b) The immediate effect of confined pro-
ductivity is a change of contraction and
expansion in the matter already given, and
as we now know, constructed, as it were,
for the second time.

(c) Where this change stops, produc-
tivity passes over into product, and where
it is again restored, product passes over
into productivity. For since the product
must remain productive ad infinitum,
those three stages of productivity must be
capable of being distinguished in the prod-
uct ; the absolute transition of the latter
into product is the cancelling of product
itself.

(d) As these three stages are distin-
guishable in the individual, so they must be
distinguishable in organic nature through-
out, and the scale of organizations is noth-
ing more than a scale of productivity itself.
(Productivity exhausts itself to degree c in
the product A, and can begin with the prod-
uct B only at the point where it left off
with A, that is, with degree d, and so on
downwards to the vanishing of all produc-
tivity. If we knew the absolute degree of
productivity of the earth for example — a
degree which is determined by the earth's

Schelling's Philosophy of Nature.

211

relation to the sun — the limit of organiza-
tion upon it might be thereby more accu-
rately determined than by incomplete ex-
perience — which must be incomplete for
this reason, if for no other, that the catas-
trophes of nature have, beyond doubt,
swallowed the last links of the chain. A
true system of Natural History, which has
for its object not the products [of nature]
but nature itself, follows up the one pro-
ductivity that battles, so to speak, against
freedom, through all its windings and
turnings, to the point at which it is at last
compelled to perish in the product.)

It is upon this dynamical scale, in the
individual, as well as in the whole of or-
ganic nature, that the construction of all
organic phenomena rests.

B.*

These principles, stated universally, lead
to the following fundamental principles of
a universal theory of nature.

(a) Productivity must be primarily lim-
ited. Since outside of limited productiv-
ity there is [only] pure identity the limit-
ation cannot be established by a differ-
ence already existing, and therefore must
be so by an opposition arising in produc-
tivity itself — an opposition to which we
here revert as a first postulate.!

(6) This difference thought purely is the
first condition of all [natural] activity, the
productivity is attracted and repelledj be-
tween opposites (the primary limits) ; in
this change of expansion and contraction
there arises necessarily a common element,
but one which exists only in change. If

* From this point onwards, there are, as in
the Outlines, additions in notes (similar to the
few that have already been admitted into the
text in brackets [ ] ). They are excerpted
from a MS. copy of the author's.

t The first postulate of natural science is an
antithesis in the pure identity of Nature. This
antithesis must be thought quite purely, and
not with any other substrate besides that of
activity ; for it is the condition of all substrate.
The person who cannot think activity or op-
position without a substrate, cannot philoso-
phize at all. For all philosophizing goes only
to the deduction of a substrate.

X The phenomena of electricity show the
scheme of nature oscillating between productiv-
ity and product. This condition of oscilla-
tion or change, attractive and repulsive force,
is the real condition of formation.

it is to exist outside of chango, thon the
change itself must become fixed. The act-
ive in change is the productivity sundered
within itself,
(c) It is asked :

(«) By what moans such change can 1 ■
fixed at all; it cannot be fixed by anything
that is contained as a link in change itself,
and must therefore be fixed by a lerti
quid.

(/3) But this tertium quid must be able
to invade that original antithesis ; but out-
side oi that antithesis nothing is* ; it (that
tertium quid) must therefore be primarily
contained in it, as something which is
mediated by the antithesis, and by which
in turn the antithesis is mediated; for
otherwise there is no ground why it should
be primarily contained in that antithesis.

The antithesis is dissolution of identity.
But nature is primarily identity. In that
antithesis, therefore, there must again be
a struggle after identity. This struggle is
immediately conditioned through the an-
tithesis; for if there was no antithesis,
there would be identity, absolute rest, and
therefore no struggle toward identity. If,
on the other hand, there were not identity
in the antithesis, the antithesis itself
could not endure.

Identity produced out of difference is
indifference; that tertium quid is there-
fore a struggle towards indifference — a
struggle which is conditioned by the dif-
ference itself, and by which it, on the
other hand, is conditioned. — (The differ-
ence must not be looked upon as a differ-
ence at all, and is nothing for the intuition,
except through a third, which sustains it —
to which change itself adheres.)

This tertium quid, therefore, is all that
is substrate in that primal change. But
substrate posits change as much as change
posits substrate; and there is here no
first and no second; but difference and
struggle towards indifference, are, as far
time is concerned, one and contemporary.
Axiom. No identity in Nature ia abso-
lute, but all is only indifference.

Since that tertium quid itself presup-
poses the primary antithesis, the antithesis

•For it is the only thing that is given us
to derive all other things from.

OIO

Schelling's Philosophy of Nature.

itself cannot be absolutely removed by it;
the condition of the continuance of that
tertium quid [of that third activity, or of
Nature] is the perpetual continuance of the
antithesis, just as, conversely, the contin-
uance of the antithesis is conditioned by the
continuance of the tertium quid.

But how, then, shall the antithesis be
thought as continuing?

We have one primary antithesis, between
the limits of which all Nature must lie ; if
we assume that the factors of this antith-
esis can really pass over into each other,
or go together absolutely in some tertium
quid (some individual product), then the
antithesis is removed, and along with it
the struggle, and so all the activity of
nature. But that the antithesis should en-
dure, is thinkable only by its being infi-
nite — by the extreme limits being held
asunder in infinitum— so that always only
the mediating links of the synthesis, never
the last and absolute synthesis itself, can be
produced, in which case it is only relative
points of indifference that are always at-
tained, never absolute ones, and every
successively originated difference leaves
behind a new and still unremoved antith-
esis, and this again goes over into in-
difference, which, in its turn, partially
removes the primary antithesis. Through
the original antithesis and the struggle to-
wards indifference, there arises a product,
but the product partially does away with
the antithesis ; through the doing away of
that part — that is, through the origination
of the product itself — there arises a new
antithesis, different from the one that has
been done away with, and through it, a prod-
uct different from the first ; but even this
leaves the absolute antithesis unremoved,
duality therefore, and through it a product,
will arise anew, and so on to infinity.

Let us say, for example, that by the
product A, the antitheses c and d are
united, the antitheses b and e still lie
outside of that] union. This latter is
done away with in B, but this product
also leaves the antithesis a and f unre-
moved ; if we say that a and / mark the
extreme limits, then the union of these
will be that product which can never be
arrived at.

Between the extremes a and /, lie the
antitheses c and d, b and e ; but the series
of these intermediate antitheses is infinite ;
all these intermediate antitheses are inclu-
ded in the one absolute antithesis. — In the
product A, of a only c, and of /only d is
removed ; let what remains of a be called
b, and of /, e ; these will indeed, by virtue
of the absolute struggle towards indiffer-
ence, become again united, but they leave
a new antithesis uncancelled, and so there
remains between a and /an infinite series
of intermediate antitheses, and the product
in which those absolutely cancel themselves
never is, but only becomes.

This infinitely progressive formation
must be thus represented. The original
antithesis would necessarily be cancelled
in the primal product A. The product
would necessarily fall at the indifference-
point of a and/ but inasmuch as the anti-
thesis is an absolute one, which can be
cancelled only in an infinitely continued,
never actual, synthesis, A must be thought
as the centre of an infinite periphery,
(whose diameter is the infinite line a /.)
Since in the product of a and/, only c and
d are united, there arises in it the new di-
vision b and e, the product will therefore
divide up into opposite directions ; at the
point where the struggle towards indiffer-
ence attains the preponderance, b and e
will combine and form a new product dif-
ferent from the first — but between a and/
there still lie an infinite number of anti-
theses ; the indifference-point B is there-
fore the centre of a periphery which is
comprehended in the first, but is itself
again infinite, and so on.

The antithesis of b and e in B is main-
tained through A, because it (A) leaves
the antithesis un-united; in like manner
the antithesis in C is maintained through
B, because B, in its turn, cancels only a
part of a and/. But! the antithesis in Cis
maintained through B, only in so far as A
maintains the antithesis in B. * What

* The whole of the uncancelled antithesis of
A is carried over to B. But again, it cannot
entirely cancel itself in B, and is therefore car-
ried over to C. The antithesis in C is there-
fore maintained by B, but only in so far as A
maintains the antithesis which is the condition
of B.

ScheUivg , s Philosophy of Nature.

213

therefore in C and B results from this an-
tithesis — [suppose, for example, the result
of it were universal gravitation] — is occa-
sioned by the common influence of A, so
that B and C. and the infinite number of
other products that come, as intermediate
links between a and /, are, in relation to
A. only one product. — The difference, which
remains over in A after the union of c and
d, is only one, into which then B, C, &c,
again divide.

But the continuance of the antithesis is,
in the ease of every product, the condition
of the struggle towards indifference, and
thus a struggle towards indifference is
maintained through A in B, and through
B in C. — But the antithesis Avhich A leaves
uncancelled, is only one, and therefore
also this tendency in B, in C, and so on to
infinity, is only conditioned and maintained
through A.

The organization thus determined is no
other than the organization of the Universe
in the system of gravitation. — Gravity is
simple, but its condition is duplicity. — In-
difference arises only out of difference. —
The cancelled duality is matter, inasmuch
as it is only mass.

The absolute indifference-point exists
nowhere, but is, as it were, divided among
several single points. — The Universe which
forms itself from the centre towards the
periphery, seeks the point at which even the
extreme antitheses of nature cancel them-
selves ; the impossibility of this cancelling
guarantees the infinity of the Universe.

From every product A, the uncancelled
antithesis is carried over to a new one, B,
the former thereby becoming the cause of
duality and gravitation for B. — (This car-
rying over is what is called action by dis-
tribution, the theory of which receives
light only at this point.*) — Thus, for ex-
ample, the sun, being only relative indif-
ference, maintains, as far as its sphere of
action reaches, the antithesis, which is the
condition of weight upon the subordinate
world-bodies. \

* That is, distribution exists only, when the
antithesis in a product is not absolutely but
only relatively cancelled.

t Tlie struggle towards indifference attains
the preponderance over the antithesis, at a
greater or less distance from the body which

The indifference is cancelled at every
stop, and at every step it is restored.
Hence, weight nets upon a body at rest as
well as upon one in motion. — The univer-
sal restoration of duality, and its recan-
celling at every step, can [that is] appear
only as a visits against a third (somewhat).
This third (somewhat) is therefore the pure
zero — abstracted from tendency it is noth-
ing [= 0], therefore purely ideal, (marking
only direction)— a point-% Gravity [the
centre of gravity] is in the case of every
total product only one [for the antithesis
is one], and so also the relative indifference-
point is only one. The indifference-point
of the individual body marks only the line
of direction of its tendency towards the
universal indifference-point ; hence this
point may be regarded as the only one at
which gravity acts ; just as that, whereby
bodies alone attain consistence for us, is
simply this tendency outwards.^

Vertical falling towards this point is not
a simple, but a compound motion, and it is
a subject for wonder that this has not been
perceived before. ||

Gravity is not proportional to mass (for

exercises the distribution, (as, for example, at
a certain distance, the action by distribution,
which an electric or magnetic body exercises
upon another body, appears as cancelled ) The
difference in this distance is the ground of the
difference of world-bodies in one and the same
system, inasmuch, namely, as one part of the
matter is subjected to indifference more than
the rest. Since, therefore, the condition of all
product is difference, difference must again
arise at every step as the source of all exist-
ence, but must also be thought as again can-
celled. By tliis continual reproduction and
resuscitation creation takes place anew at every
step.

f It is precisely zero to which Nature con-
tinually strives to revert, and to which it
would revert, if the antithesis were ever can-
celled. Let us suppose the original condition
of Nature- (want of reality). Now zero can
certainly be thought as dividing itself into 1 — 1
(for this = 0) ; but if we posit that this divi-
sion as not infinite (as it is in the infinite series

1 — 1-1-1 — 1 },then Nature will as it were

oscillate continually between zero and unity—
and this is precisely its condition.

$ Baader on the Pythagorean Square. IT
(}{, mark of the original.)

|| Except by the thoughtful author of a r -
view of my work on the world-soul, in the
Wiirzburg Gelehrte A the only review

of that work that has hitherto come under my
notice. ( Remark of tlie original. )

214

Schelling's Philosophy of Nature.

what is this mass but an abstraction of the
specific gravity which you have hyposfca-
tized ?);but, conversely, the mass of a body
is only the expression of the momentum,
with which the antithesis in it cancels it-
self.

(d) By the foregoing, the construction
of matter in general is completed, but not
the construction of specific difference in
matter.

That which all the matter of B, C, &c,
in relation to A has common under it, is
the difference which is not cancelled by A,
and which again cancels itself in part in
B and C — hence, therefore, the gravity me-
diated by that difference.

What distinguishes B and C from A there-
fore, is the difference which is not cancelled
by A, and which becomes the condition of
gravity in the case of B and C. — Similarly,
what distinguishes C from B (if C is a
product subordinate to B), is the difference
which is not cancelled by B, and which is
again carried over to C. Gravity, there-
fore, is not the same thing for the higher
and for the subaltern world-bodies, and
there is as much variety in the central
forces as in the conditions of attraction.

The means whereby, in the products A,
B, C, which, in so far as they are opposed
to each other, represent products absolute-
ly homogeneous [because the antithesis is
the same for the whole product,] another
difference of individual products is possible,
is the possibility of a difference of relation
between the factors in the cancelling, so
that, for example, in X, the positive factor,
and in Y, the negative factor, has the pre-
ponderance, (thus rendering the one body
positively, and the other negatively, elec-
tric). — All difference is difference of elec-
tricity.*

(e) That the identity of matter is not
absolute identity, but only indifference, can
-be proved from the possibility of again
cancelling the identity, and from the ac-
companying phenomena. f We may be al-

* It is here taken for granted that what we
call the quality of bodies, and what we are
wont to regard as something homogeneous,
and the ground of all homogeneity is really
only an expression for a cancelled difference.

t In the M.S. copy the last part of this sen-
tence reads as follows : The construction of

lowed, for brevity's sake, to include this
recancelling, and its resultant phenomena
under the expression dynamical process,
without, of course, affirming decisively
whether anything of the sort is everywhere
actual.

Now there will be exactly as many stages
in the dynamical process as there are stages
of transition from difference to indifference,
(a) The first stage will be marked by
objects in which the reproduction and re-
cancelling of the antithesis at every step is
still itself an object of perception.

The whole product is reproduced anew
at every step.J that is, the antithesis which
cancels itself in it, springs up afresh every
moment; but this reproduction of differ-
ence loses itself immediately in universal
gravity ;§ this reproduction, therefore, can
be perceived only in individual objects,
which seem to gravitate towards each other;
since, if to the one factor of an antithesis
is offered its opposite (in another) both
factors become heavy with reference to each
other, in which case, therefore, the general
gravity is not cancelled, but a special one
occurs within the general. — An instance of
such a mutual relation between two prod-
ucts, is that of the earth and the magnetic
needle, in which is distinguished the con-
tinual recancelling of indifference in grav-
itation towards the poles|| — the continual
sinking back into identity** in gravitation
towards the universal indifference-point.
Here, therefore, it is not the object, but the
being-reproduced of the object that be-
comes object. |t

quality ought necessarily to be capable of ex-
perimental proof, by the recancelling the iden-
tity, and of the phenomena which accompany
it.

t Every body must be thought as repro-
duced at every step — and therefore also every
total product.

§ The universal, however, is never perceived,
for the simple reason that it is universal.

|| Whereby what was said above is con-
firmed, — that falling toward the centre is a
compound motion.

** The reciprocal cancelling of opposite mo-
tions.

tt Or the object is seen in the first stage of
becoming, or of transition from difference to
indifference. The phenomena of magnetism
even serve, so to speak, as an impulse, to
transport us to the standpoint beyond the prod-
uct, which is necessary in order to the con-
struction of the product.

So/telling's Philosophy of Nature.

215

Q3) At the first stage, in the identity of
the product, its duplicity again appears;
at the second, the antithesis will divide up
and distribute itself among different ob-
jects (A and B). From the fact that the
one factor of the antithesis attained a rel-
ative preponderance in A, the other in B,
there will arise, according to the same law
as in «, a gravitation of the factors toward
each other, and so a new difference, which,
when the relative equiponderance is re-
stored in each, results in repulsion* —
(change of attraction and repulsion, second
stage in which matter is seen) — electricity.

(>) At the second stage the one factor of
the product had only a relative preponder-
ance ;| at the third it will attain an abso-
lute one — by the two bodies A and B, the
original antithesis is again completely rep-
resented — matter will revert to the first
stage of becoming.

At the first stage there is still pure dif-
ference, without substrate [for it was only
out of it that a substrate arose] ; at the
second stage it is the simple factors of two
■products that are opposed to each other ; at
the third it is the products themselves that
are opposed ; here is difference in the third
power.

If two products are absolutely opposed
to each other, J then in each of them singly
indifference of gravity (by which alone
each is) must be cancelled, and they must
gravitate to each other.§ (In the second
stage there was only a mutual gravitating

* There will result the opposite effect — a
negative attraction, that is, repulsion. Repul-
sion and attraction stand to each other as posi-
tive and negative magnitudes. Repulsion is
only negative attraction — attraction only nega-
tive repulsion ; as soon, therefore, as the maxi-
mum of attraction is reached, it passes over
into its opposite — into repulsion.

t If we designate the factors as -j- and —
electrieit}', then, in the second stage, -f- elec-
tricity had a relative preponderance over —
electricity.

t If no longer the individual factors of the
two products, but the whole products them-
selves are absolutely opposed to each other.

§ For product is something wherein antithe-
sis cancels itself, but it cancels itself only
through indifference of gravity. When, there-
fore, two products are opposed to each other,
the indifference in each individually must be
absolutely cancelled, and the whole products
must gravitate towards each other.

of the factors to each other— here there is
a gravitating of the products.)|| — This pro-
cess, therefore, first assails the indifferent
(element) of the product— that is, the prod-
ucts themselves dissolve.

Where there is equal difference there is
equal indifference ; difference of products,
therefore, can end only with indifference
of products. — (All hitherto deduced indif-
ference has been only indifference of sub-

strateless, or at least simple factors Now

we come to speak of an indifference of prod-
ucts.) This struggle will not cease till
there exists a common product. The prod-
uct, in forming itself, passes, from both
sides, through all the intermediate links
that lie between the two products [for ex-
ample, through all the intermediate stages
of specific gravity], till it finds the point
at which it succumbs to indifference, and
the product is fixed.

GENERAL REMARK.

By virtue of the first construction, the
product is posited as identity; this identi-
ty, it is true, again resolves itself into an
antithesis, which, however, is no longer an
antithesis cleaving to products, but an an-
tithesis in the productivity itself. — The
product, therefore, as product, is identi-
ty.— But even in the sphere of products,
there again arises a duplicity in the second
stage, and it is only in the third that even
the duplicity of the products again becomes
identity of the products.** — There is there-
fore here also a progress from thesis to an-
tithesis, and thence to synthesis. — The last
synthesis of matter closes in the chemi-
cal process ; if composition is to proceed
yet further in it, then this circle must open
again.

|| In the electric process, the fwhole product
is not active, but only the one fatter of the
product, which has the relative preponder-
ance over the other. In the chemical process
in which the whole product is active, it follows
that the indifference of the whole product must
be cancelled.

** We have therefore the following Bel eme
of the dynamical process :

first "stage : Unity of the product —mag-
netism.

Second stage: Duplicity of the products —
electricity.

Third stage : Unity of the products— chem
ical process.

216

Schelling's Philosophy of JVaiure.

We must leave it to our readers them-
selves to make out the conclusions to which
the principles here stated lead', and the
universal interdependence which is intro-
duced by them into the phenomena of Na-
ture. — Nevertheless, to give one instance :
when in the chemical process the bond of
gravity is loosed, the phenomenon of light
which accompanies the chemical process in
its greatest perfection (in the process of
combustion), is a remarkable phenomenon,
which, when followed out further, confirms
what is stated in the Outlines, page 146: —
u The action of light must stand in secret
interdependence with the action of gravity
which the central bodies exercise." — For,
is not the indifference dissolved at every
step, since gravity, as ever active, presup-
poses a continual cancelling of indiffer-
ence ? — It is thus, therefore, that the sun,
by the distribution exercised on the earth,
causes a universal separation of matter
into the primary antithesis (and hence
gravity). This universal cancelling of in-
difference is what appears to us (who are
endowed with life) as light ; wherever,
therefore, that indifference is dissolved (in
the chemical process), there light must ap-
pear to us. According to the foregoing, it is
one antithesis which, beginning at magnet-
ism, and proceeding through electricity, at
last loses itself in the chemical phenome-
na.* In the chemical process, namely, the

* The conclusions which may be deduced
from this construction of dynamical phe-
nomena are partly anticipated in what goes
before. The following may serve for further
explanation :

The chemical process, for example, in its
highest perfection is a process of combustion.
Now I have already shown on another occa-
sion, that the condition of light in the body
undergoing combustion is nothing else but the
maximum of its positive electrical condition.
For it is always the positively electrical con-
dition that is also the combustible. Might not,
then, this coexistence of the phenomenon of
light with the chemical process in its highest
perfection give us information about the
ground of every phenomenon of light in Na-
ture 1

What happens, then, in the chemical process?
Two M'hole products gravitate towards each
other. The indifference of the individual is
therefore absolutely cancelled. This absolute
cancelling of indifference puts the whole body
into the condition of light, just as the partial in
the electric process puts it into a partial condi-
tion of light. Therefore, also the light — what

whole product -f- E or — E (the positively
electric body, in the case of absolutely un-
burnt bodies, is always the more combusti-
ble ;t whereas the absolutely incombusti-
ble is the cause of all negatively electric
condition ;) and if we may be allowed to
invert the case, what then are bodies them-
selves but condensed (confined) electricity ?
In- the chemical process the whole body
dissolves into -f- E or — E. Light is every-
where the appearing of the positive factor
in the primary antithesis ; hence, wherever
the antithesis is restored, there is light for
us, because generally only the positive fac-
tor is beheld, and the negative one is only
felt. — Is the connection of the diurnal and
annual deviations of the magnetic needle
with light now conceivable — and, if in
every chemical process the antithesis is
dissolved, is it conceivable that Light is
the cause and beginning of all chemical
process ?J

seems to stream to us from the sun — is noth-
ing else but the phenomenon of indifference
cancelled at every step. For as gravity never
ceases to act, its condition — antithesis — must
be regarded as springing up again at every
step. We should thus have in light a con-
tinual, visible appearing of gravitation, and it
would be explained why, in the system of
worlds, it is exactly those bodies which are
the principal seat of gravity that are also the
principal source of light. We should then,
also, have an explanation of the connection in
which the action of light stands to that of
gravitation.

The manifold effects of light on the devia-
tions of the magnetic needle, on atmospheric
electricity, and on organic nature, would be
explained by the very fact that light is the
phenomenon of indifference continually can-
celled — therefore, the phenomenon ot the dy-
namical process continually rekindled. It is,
therefore, one antithesis that prevails in all
dynamical phenomena — in those of magnetism,
electricity and light; for example, the antithe-
sis, which is the condition of the electrical phe-
nomena must already enter into the first con-
struction of matter. For all bodies are cer-
tainly electrical.

t Or rather, conversely, the more combus-
tible is always also the positively electric;
whence it is manifest that the body which
burns has merely reached the maximum of-f-
electricity.

J And indeed it is so. What then is the
absolute incombustible ? Doubtless, simply
that wherewith everything else burns — oxygen.
But it is precisely this absolutely incombustible
oxygen that is the principle of negative elec-
tricity, and thus we have a confirmation of
what I have already stated in the Ideas for a
Philosophy of Nature, viz. that oxygen is a

Schilling's Philosophy of Nature.

217

(/) The dynamical process is nothing
but the second construction of matter, and
however many stages there are in the dy-
namical process, there are the same num-
ber in the original construction of matter.

This axiom is the converse of axiom e.*

principle of a negative kind, and therefore the
representative, as it were, of the power of
attraction ; whereas phlogiston, or, what is the
same thing, positive electricity, is the repre-
sentative of the positive, or of the force of re-
pulsion. There has long been a theory that
the magnetic, electric, chemical, and, finally,
even the organic phenomena, are interwoven
into one great interdependent whole. This
must be established. It is certain that the
connection of electricity with the process of
combustion may be shown by numerous ex-
periments. One of the most recent of these
that has come to my knowledge I will cite.
It occurs in Scherer's Journal of Chemistry. If
a Leyden jar is filled with iron filings, and re-
peatedly charged and discharged, and if, after
the lapse of some time, this iron is taken out
and placed upon an isolator — paper, for ex-
ample—it begins to get hot, becomes incandes-
cent, and changes into an oxide of iron. This
experiment deserves to be frequently repeated
and more closely examined— it might readily
lead to something new.

This great interdependence.which a scientific
system of physics must establish, extends over
the whole of Nature. It must, therefore, once
established, spread a new light over the History
of the whole of Nature. Thus, for example, it
is certain that all geology must start from ter-
restrial magnetism. But terrestrial electricity
must again be determined by magnetism.
The connection of North and South with
magnetism is shown even by the irregu-
lar movements of the magnetic needle. But
again, with universal electricity, which, no
less than gravity and magnetism, has its in-
difference point — the universal process of com-
bustion and all volcanic phenomena stand con-
nected.

Therefore, it is certain that there is one
chain going from universal magnetism down
to the volcanic phenomena. Still these are all
only scattered experiments.

In order to make this interdependence //<%
evident, we need the central phenomenon, or
central experiment, of which Bacon speaks
oracularly — (I mean the experiment wherein
all those functions of matter, magnetism, elec-
tricity, &c, so run together in one phenome-
non that the individual function is distinguish-
able) — proving that the one does not lose itself
immediately in the other, but that each can
be exhibited separately — an experiment which,
when it is discovered, will stand in the same re-
lation to the whole of Nature, as galvanism does
to organic nature. [Compare this with the dis-
course on Faraday's latest discovery, (1832,)
p. 15. Complete Works, 1st Div., last vol.]

* Proof — All dynamical phenomena are phe-
nomena of transition from difference to in-
difference. But it is in this very transition
that matter is primarily constructed.

That which, in the dynamical process is
perceived in the product, takes place out-
side of the product with the simple factors

of all duality.

The first start to original production is
the limitation of productivity through the
primitive antithesis, which, as antithesis
(and as the condition of all construction),
is distinguished only in magnetism ; the
second stage of production is the change
of contraction and expansion, and as such
becomes visible only in electricity ; finally,
the third stage is the transition of this
change into indifference — a change which
is recognized as such only in chemical phe-
nomena.

Magnetism, Electricity and Chemical
Process are the categories of the original
construction of nature [matter] — the latter
escapes us and lies outside of intuition,
the former are what of it remains behind,
what stands firm, what is fixed — the general
schemes for the construction of matter. j"

And — in order to close the circle at
the point where it began — just as in
organic nature, in the scale of sensibil-
bility, irritability, and formative instinct,
the secret of the production of the whole
of organic nature Vies in each individual,
so in the scale of magnetism, electricity,
and chemical process, so far as it (the
scale) can be distinguished in the individ-
ual body, is to be found the secret of the
production of Nature from itself [of the
whole of Nature J].

t In the already mentioned discourse on
Faraday's latest discovery, the author cites
the passage (p. 75, original edition,) as well as
§ 5t> sq. of the General View of the Dynamical
Process (likewise written before the invention
of the voltaic pile,) as a proof of his having
anticipated the discoveries which proved the
unity o£ the electrical and the chemical antithe-
sis, and of the similar connect. mi subsisting
between magnetic and chemical phenomena.
(See also Remark 2, p. 210.)

f Every individual is an expression of the
whole of Nature. As the existence of the
single organic individual rests on thai Bcale, so
does the whole of Nature. Organic nature
maintains the whole wealth and v.uicty of
her products only by continually changing
the relation of those three functions.— In Like
manner inorganic Nature brings forth the
whole wealth of her product, only by chang-
ing the relation of those three functions of
matter ad infinitum; for magnet ism, electricity,
and chemical process are the functions of

218

Schelling's Philosophy of Nature.

We have now approached nearer the
solution of our problem, which was : To
reduce the construction of organic and in-
organic nature to a common expression.

Inorganic nature is the product of the
first power, organic nature of the second *
— (this was demonstrated above; it will
soon appear that the latter is the product
of a still higher power) — hence the latter,
in view of the former, appears contingent;
the former, in view of the latter, neces-
sary. Inorganic nature can take its origin
from simple factors, organic nature only
from products, which again become fac-
tors. Hence an inorganic nature generally
will appear as having been from all eter-
nity, the organic nature as originated.

In the organic nature, indifference can
never be arrived at in the same way in
which it is arrived at in inorganic nature,
because life consists in nothing more than
a continual prevention of the attainment of
indifference [a prevention of the absolute
transition of productivity into product]
whereby manifestly there comes about
only a condition which is, so to speak,
extorted from Nature.

By organization, matter — which has al-
ready been composed for the second time
by the chemical process — is once more
thrown back to the initial point of forma-
tion (the circle above described is again
opened) ; it is no wonder that matter al-
ways thrown back again into formation at
last returns as a perfect product.

The same stages, through which the
production of Nature originally passes,
are also passed through by the production
of the organic product; only that the lat-
ter, even in the first stage, at least begins
with products of the simple power. — Or-
ganic production also begins with limita-
tion, not of the primary productivity, but of

matter generally, and on that ground alone
are they categories for the construction of all
matter. This fact, that those three factors
are not phenomena of special kinds of matter,
hut functions of all matter universally, gives its
real, and its innermost sense to dynamical
physics, which, by this circumstance alone,
rises far above all other kinds of physics.

* That is, the organic product can be
thought only as subsisting under the hostile
pressure of an external nature.

the productivity of a product ; organic
formation also takes place through the
change of expansion and contraction, just
as primary formation does ; but in this
case it is a change taking place, not in
the simple productivity, but in the com-
pound.

But there is all this, too, in the chemical
process, f and yet in the chemical process
indifference is attained. The vital process,
therefore, must again be a higher power of
the chemical; and if the scheme that lies
at the base of the latter is duplicity, the
scheme of the former will of necessity be
triplicity [the former will be a process of
the third power]. But the scheme of tri-
plicity is [in reality] that [the fundamental
scheme] of the galvanic process (Ritter's
Demonstration, &c, p. 172) ; therefore
the galvanic process (or the process of ir-
ritation) stands a power higher than the
chemical, and the third element, which
the latter lacks and the former has, pre-
vents indifference from being arrived at in
the organic product.^

As irritation does not allow indifference
to be arrived at in the individual product,
and as the antithesis is still there (for the
primary antithesis still pursues us),<S there
remains for nature no alternative but sep-
aration of the factors indifferent products. ||
The formation of the individual product,

t The chemical process, too, has not sub-
strateless or simple factors ; it has products for
factors.

J The same deduction is already given in
the Outlines, p. 163. — What the dynamical
action is, which according to the Outlines is
also the cause of irritability, is now surely
clear enough. It is the universal action which
is everywhere conditioned by the cancelment
of indifference, and which at last tends to-
wards intussusception (indifference of prod-
ducts) when it is not continually prevented, as
it is in the process of irritation. ( Remark of
the original.)

§ The abyss of forces, into which we here
look down, opens with the one question :
In the first construction of our earth, what
can have been the ground of the tact that no
genesis of new individuals is possible upon it,
otherwise than under the condition of oppo-
site powers ? Compare an utterance of Kant
on this subject, in his Anthropology. (Remark
of the original.)

|| The two factors can never be one, but
must be separated into different products — in
order that thus the difference may be perma-
nent.

Schelling > 8 Philosophy of Nature.

219

for that very reason, cannot be a completed
formation, anil the product can never
cease to be productive.* The contradic-
tion in Nature is this, that the product
must be productive [i. e. a product of the
third power], and that, notwithstanding,
the product, as a product of the third
power, must pass over into indifference. t

This contradiction Nature tries to solve
by mediating indifference itself through
productivity, but even this does not suc-
ceed — for the act of productivity is only
the kindling spark of a new process of ir-
ritation ; the product of productivity is a
new productivity. Into this as its product
the productivity of the individual now in-
deed passes over; the individual, there-
fore, ceases more rapidly or slowly to be
productive, and Nature reaches the indif-
ference-point with it only after the latter
has got down to a product'of the second
power.J

* In the product, indifference of the first and
second powers is arrived at (for example, by
irritation itself an origin of mass [i. e. indif-
ference of the first order] and even chemical
products \l. e. indifference of the second order]
are reached), but indifference of the third
power can never be reached, because it is a
contradictory idea. (Remark of the original.)

t The product is productive only from the
fact of its being a product of the third power.
But the idea of a productive product is itself
a contradiction. What is productivity is not
product, and what is product is not productiv-
ity. Therefore a product of the third power
is itself a contradictory idea. From this even
is manifest what an extremely artificial con-
dition life is — wrenched, as it were, from Na-
ture — subsisting against her will.

| Nothing shows more clearly the contra"
dictions out of which life arises, and the fact
that it is altogether only a heightened condi-
tion of ordinary natural forces, than the con-
tradiction of Nature in what she tries, but
tries in vain, to reach through the sexes. — Na-
ture hates sex, and where it does arise, it
arises against her will. The diremption into
sexes is an inevitable fate, with which, after
she is once organic, she must put up, and
which she can never overcome. — By this very
hatred of diremption she finds herself in-
volved in a contradiction, inasmuch as what
is odious to her she is compelled to develop in
the most careful manner, and to lead to the
summit of existence, as if she did it on pur-
pose; whereas she is always striving oidy for
a return into the identity of the genus, which,
however, is chained to the f never to be can-
celled) duplicity of the sexes, as to an inev-
itable condition. That she develops the
individual only from compulsion, and for the

And now the result of all this?— The
condition of the inorganic (aa well a
the organic) product, is duality. In any
case, however, organic productive product
is so only from the fact that the difference
mover becomes indifference.

It is [in so far] therefore impossible to
reduce the construction of organic and id'
inorganic product to a common expression,
and the problem is incorrect, and therefore
the solution 'impossible. The problem
presupposes that organic product and
inorganic product are mutually opposed,
whereas the latter is only the higher
power of the former, and is produced
only by the higher power of the forces
through which the latter also is produced.
Sensibility is only the higher power of
magnetism; irritability only the higher
power of electricity ; formative instinct
only the higher power of the chemical pro-
cess. — But sensibility, and irritability, and
formative instinct are all only included in
that one process of irritation. (Galvanism
affects tbem all).<S But if they are only
the higher functions of magnetism, elec-
tricity, &c.j there must again be a higher
synthesis for these in Nature || — and this,
however, it is certain, can be sought for

sake of the genus, is manifest from this, that
wherever in a genus site seems desirous of
maintaining the individual longer (though this
is never really the case), she finds the genus
becoming more uncertain, because she must
hold the sexes farther asunder, and, as it
were, make them flee from each other. In
this region of Nature, the decay of the indi-
vidual is not so visibly rapid as it is where the
sexes are nearer to each other, as in the case
of the rapidly withering flower, in which, from
its very birth, they are enclosed in a calix as
in a bride-bed, but in which, for that very
cause, thu genus is better an tin J.

Nature is the laziest of animals, and curses
diremption, because it imposes upon her the
necessity of activity; she is active only in
order to rid herself of this necessity. The
opposites must for ever shun, in order for e\ er
to seek, each other; and for ever Be< k, in or-
der never to find, each other ; it 18 only in this
contradiction that the ground of all the activity
of Nature lies. ( Rt marl of tin original. )

§ Its effect upon the power of reproduction
(as well as the reaction ol particular < onditions
of the latter power upon galvanic phenomena)
is less studied still than might be needful and
useful.— Vide Outlines, p. 177. — {Remark of
the original.)

|| Compare above Remark, p. 197. [Remark
oj the original.)

220

Analysis of Hegel's JEsthetics.

only in Nature, in so far as, viewed as a than as expansive and attractive (retarding)

whole, it is absolutely organic. force, to which then however, gravitation

And this, moreover, is also the result to must always be added as the tertium quid,

which the genuine Science of Nature must whereby those opposites become what they

lead, viz : that the difference between or- are.

ganic and inorganic nature is only in Na-
ture as object, and that Nature as origi-
nally -productive soars above both.*

There remains only one remark, which
we may make, not so much ota account of
its intrinsic interest, as in order to justify
what we said above in regard to the rela-
tion of our system to the hith-erto so-called
dynamical system. If it were asked, for
instance, in what form our original antith-
esis, cancelled, or rather fixed, in the prod-
uct, would appear from the stand-poiut
of reflection, we cannot better designate
what is found in the product by analysis,

* That it is therefore the same nature, which,
by the same forces, produces organic phe-
nomena, and the universal phenomena of Na-
ture, and that these forces are in a heightened
conditioned in organic nature.

Nevertheless, the designation is valid
only for the stand-point of reflection or of
analysis, and cannot be applied for synthe-
sis at all ; and thus our system leaves off
exactly at the point where the Dynamical
Physics of Kant and his successors begins,
namely, at the antithesis as it presents
itself in the product.

And with this the author delivers over
these Elements of a System of Speculative
Physics to the thinking heads of the age,
begging them to make common cause with
him in this science, which opens up views
of no mean order, and to makeup by their
own powers, acquirements and external
relations, for what, in these respects, he
lacks.

[The notes not marked as "Remarks of the
original " are by the German Editor. — Note of
the Translator. 1

ANALYSIS OF HEGEL'S ESTHETICS

[Translated from the French of M. Ch. Benard, by J. A. Martling.]

II. Sculpture. — Architecture fashions
and disposes of the masses of inert na-
ture according to geometric laws, and it
thus succeeds in presenting only a vague
and incomplete symbol of the thought.
Its [thought's] progress consists in detach-
ing itself from physical existence, and in
expressing spirit in a manner more in con-
formity with its nature. The first step which
art takes in this career does not yet indi-
cate the return of spirit upon itself, which
would render necessary a wholly spiritual
mode of expression, and signs as immate-
rial as thought ; but spirit appears under
a corporeal, organized living form. What
art represents is the animate, living body,
and above all the human body, with which
the soul is completely identified. Such
is the role and the place which belong to
Sculpture.

It still resembles architecture in this,
that it fashions extended and solid mate-

rial; but it

is distinguished from it in

this, that tbis material, in its hands, ceases
to be foreign to spirit. The corporeal
form blends with it, and becomes its liv-
ing image. Compared to poetry, it seems
at first to have the advantage over it of
representing objects under their nat-
ural and visible form, while speech ex-
presses ideas only by sounds; but this
plastic clearness is more than compensated
by the superiority of language as a means
of expression. Speech reveals the inner-
most thoughts with a clearness altogether
different from the lines of the figure, the
countenance, and the attitudes of the
body ; further, it shows man in action —
active in virtue of his ideas and his pas-
sions; it retraces the various phases of a
complete event. Sculpture represents
neither the inmost sentiments of the soul,
nor its definite passions. It presents the
individual character only in general, and

Analysis of Hegel's JEslhetics.

2°1

to such an extent as the body can express
in a given moment, without movement,
without living action, without develop-
ment. It yields also, in this respect, to
painting, which, by the employment of
color and the effects of light, acquires
more of naturalness and truth, and, above
all, a great superiority of expression.
Thus, one might think at first that Sculp-
ture would do well to add to its own
proper means those of painting. This is
a grave error; for that abstract form, de-
prived of color, which the statuary em-
ploys is not an imperfection in it — it is
the limit which this art places upon itself.

Each art represents a degree, a particular
form of the beautiful, a moment of the
development of spirit, and expresses it
excellently. To Sculpture it belongs to
represent the perfection of the bodily
form, plastic beauty, life, soul, spirit ani-
mating a body. If it should desire to
transcend this limit, it would fail entirely;
the use of foreign means would alter the
purity of its works.

It is with art here as with science ; each
science has its object, peculiar, limited,
abstract; its circle, in which it moves, and
where it is free. Geometry studies ex-
tension, and extension only; arithmetic,
number; jurisprudence, the right ; &c. Al-
low any one to encroach upon the others,
and to aim at universality; you introduce
into its domain confusion, obscurity, real
imperfection. They develop differently
different objects; clearness, perfection,
and even liberty, are to be purchased only
at this price.

Art, too, has many phases ; to each a
distinct art corresponds. Sculpture stops
at form, which it fashions according to its
peculiar laws ; to add color thereto is to
alter, to disfigure its object. Thereby it
preserves its character, its functions, its
independence; it represents the mate-
rial, corporeal side, of which archi-
tecture gives only a vague and imper-
fect symbol. It is given to painting,
to substitute for this real form, a simple points, and to limit ourselves to general
visible appearance, which then admits ideas.

color, by joining to it the effects of per- 1. To seize fully the principle of Sculp-

spective, of light and shade. But Sculp- ture and the essence of this art, it is nec-

ture ought to respect its proper limits, to
confine itself to representing the corpo-
real form as an expression of the individ-
ual spirit, of the soul, divested of passion
and definite sentiment. In so doing, it
can so much the better content itself with
the human form in itself, in which the
soul is, as it were, spread over all points.

Such is also the reason why Sculpture
does not represent spirit in action, in a
succession of taovements, having a determ-
ined end, nor engaged in those enter-
prises and actions which manifest a char-
acter. It prefers to present it in a calm
attitude, or when the movement and the
grouping indicate only the commencement
of action. Through this very thin^, that
it presents to our eyes spirit absorbed
in the corporeal form, designed to mani-
fest it in its entirety, there is lacking the
essential point where the expression of
the soul centres itself, the glance of the
eye. Neither has it any need of the
magic of colors, which, by the fineness
and variety of their shadings, are fitted
to express all the richness of particular
traits of character, and to manifest the
soul, with all the emotions which agitate
it. Sculpture ought not to admit mate-
rials of which it has no need at the step
where it stops. The image fashioned by
it, is of a single color; it employs primi-
tive matter, the most simple, uniform,
unicolored: marble, ivory, gold, brass,
the metals. It is this which the Greeks
had the ability perfectly to seize and hold.

After these considerations upon the
general character of Sculpture, and its
connections with other arts. Hegel ap-
proaches the more special study and the
theory of this art. He considers it -
1st, in its principle; 2d, in its ideal; 3d,
in .he materials which it employs, as well
as in its various modes of representation
and the principal epochs of its historic
development.

We are compelled to discard a crowd of
interesting details upon each of these

222

Analysis of HegeVs JEsthetics.

essary to examine, in the first place, what
constitutes the content of its representa-
tions, then the corporeal form which
should express it ; last, to see how, from
the perfect accord of the idea and the
form, results the ideal of Sculpture as it
has been realized in Greek art.

The essential content of the representa-
tions of Sculpture is, as has been said,
spirit incarnate in a corporeal form. Now,
not every situation of the -soul is fitted to
be thus manifested. Action, movement,
determined passion, cannot be represented
under a material form ; that ought to show
to us the soul diffused through the entire
body, through all its members. Thus,
what Sculpture represents is the individual
spirit, or, according to the formula of the
author, the spiritual individuality in its
■ essence, with its general, universal, eter-
nal character; spirit elevated above the
inclinations, the caprices, the transient
impressions which flow in upon the soul,
without profoundly penetrating it. This
entire phase of the personal principle
ought to be excluded from the representa-
tions of Sculpture. The content of its
works is the essence, the substantial, true,
invariable part of character, in opposition
to what is accidental and transient.

Now, this state of spirit, not yet partic-
ularized, unalterable, self-centered, calm,
is the divine in opposition to finite exist-
ence, which is developed in the midst of
accidents and contingencies, the exhibition
of which this world of change and diver-
sity presents us.

According to this, Sculpture should re-
present the divine in itself, in its infinite
calm, and its eternal, immovable sublimity,
without the discord of action and situation.
If, afterward, affecting a more determinate
mode, it represents something human in
form and character, it ought still to thrust
back all Avhich is accidental and transient ;
to admit only the fixed, invariable side,
the ground of character. This fixed ele-
ment is what Sculpture should express as
alone constituting the true individuality;
it represents its personages as beings com-
plete and perfect in themselves, in an ab-
solute repose freed from all foreign influ-

ence. The eternal in gods and men is
what it is called upon to offer to our con-
templation in perfect and unalterable clear-
ness.

Such is the idea which constitutes the
essential content of the works of Sculpture.
What is the form under which this idea
should appear ? We have seen, it is the
body, the corporeal form. But the only
form worthy to represent the spirit, is the
human form. This form, in its turn, ought
to be represented, not in that wherein it
approximates the animal form, but in its
ideal beauty ; that is to say, free, harmoni-
ous, reflecting the spirit in the features
which characterize it, in all its proportions,
its purity, the regularity of its lines, by
its mien, its postures, etc. It should ex-
press spirit in its calmness, its serenity —
both soul and life, but above all, spirit.

These principles serve to determine the
ideal of beauty under the physical form.

We must take care, in the works of Sculp-
ture, not to confound this manner of look-
ing at the perfect correspondence of the
soul and bodily forms, with the study of
the lineaments of the countenance, etc.
The science of Gall, or of Lavater, which
studies the correspondence of characters
with certain lineaments of face or forms of
head, has nothing in common with the ar-
tistic studies of the works of the statuary.
These seem, it is true, to invite us to this
study ; but its point of view is wholly dif-
ferent ; it is that of the harmonious and
necessary accord of forms, from which
beauty results. The ground of Sculpture
excludes, moreover, precisely all the pecu-
liarities of individual character to which
the physiognomist attaches himself. The
ideal form manifests only the fixed, regu-
lar, invariable, although living and indi-
vidual type. It is then forbidden to the
artist, as far as regards the physiognomy,
to represent the most expressive and de-
terminate lineaments of the countenance;
for, beside looks, properly so-called, the
expression of the physiognomy includes
many things which are reflected transiently
upon the face, in the countenance or the
carriage, the smile and the glance. Sculp-
ture should interdict to itself things so

Analysis of Hegel's JEstheiics.

■is.;

transient, and confine itself to the perma-
nent traits of the expression of the spirit;
in a word, it should incarnate in the hu-
man form the spiritual principle in its na-
ture, at once general and individual, but
not yet particularized. To maintain these
two terms in just harmony, is the problem
which falls to statuary, and which the
Greeks have resolved.

The consequences to be deduced from
these principles are the following :

In the first place, Sculpture is, more than
the other arts, suited to the ideal, and this
because of the perfect adaptation of the
form to the idea; in the second place, it
constitutes the centre of classic art, which
represents this perfect accord of the idea
and the sensuous form. It alone, in fact,
offers to us those ideal figures, pure from
all admixture — the perfect expression of
physical beauty. It realizes, before our
eyes, the union of the human and divine,
under the corporeal form. The sense of
plastic beauty was given above all to the
Greeks, and this trait appears everywhere,
not only in Greek art and Greek mythology,
but in the real world, in historic person-
ages : Pericles, Phidias, Socrates, Plato,
Xenophon, Sophocles, Thucydides, those
artistic natures, artists of themselves —
characters grand and free, supported upon
the basis of a strong individuality, worthy
of being placed beside the immortal gods
which Greek Sculpture represents.

2. After having determined the principle
of Sculpture, Hegel applies it to the study
of the beau ideal, as the master-pieces of
Greek art have realized it. He examines
successively and in detail the character
and conditions of the ideal form in the dif-
ferent parts of the human body, the face,
the looks, the bearing, the dress. Upon all
these points he faithfully follows Winck-
elmann, recapitulates him, and constantly
cites him. The philosopher meanwhile pre-
serves his originality ; it consists in the
manner in which he systematizes that
which is simply described in the History
of Art, and in giving throughout, the rea-
son of that which the great critic, with his
exquisite and profound sense, has so ad-
mirably seized and undeniably proved, but

without being able to unfold the theory of
it. The subject gathers, henceforth, new
interest from this explication. \\',. may-
cite, in particular, the description of I
Greek profile, which, in the hands of the
philosopher, takes the character of a geo-
metric theorem. It is at the same time an
example which demonstrates unanswerably
the absolute character of physical beauty.
The beauty of these lines has nothing ar-
bitrary ; they indicate the superiority of
spirit, and the pre-eminence of the forms
which express it above those which are
suited to the functions of the animal na-
ture. What he afterwards says of the
looks, of the bearing, of the postures, of
the antique*drcss compared with the mod-
ern dress, and of its ideal character, pre-
sents no less interest. But all these details,
where the author shows much of discrimin-
ation, of genius even, and spirit, escape in
the analysis. The article where he de-
scribes the particular attributes and the
accessories which distinguish the person-
ages of Greek Sculpture, although in great
part borrowed also from Winckelmann,
shows a spirit familiarized with the knowl-
edge of the works of antiquity.

3. The chapter devoted to the different
modes of representation of the materials
of Sculpture, and of its historic develop-
ment, is equally full of just and delicate
observations. All this is not alone from a
theorist, but from a connoisseur and an
enlightened judge. The appreciation of
the materials of Sculpture, and the com-
parison of their aesthetic value, furnish
also to the author some very ingenious re-
marks upon a subject which seem- scarcely
susceptible of interest. Finally, in a rapid
sketch, Hegel retraces the historic develop-
ment of Sculpture, Egyptian Statuary,
Et-uscan art, the school of iEgina, are
characterized in strokes, remarkable for
precision.

Arrived at Christian Sculpture, without
disputing the richness and the abi
which it has displayed in its works in wood,
in stone, etc., ami its excellence in respect
to expression, Ilejrol maintains with rea-
son, that the Christian prinoiple h little fa-
vorable to Sculpture,- and that in wishing

224

A Dialogue on Music.

to express the Christian sentiment in its
profundity and its vivacity, it passes its
proper limits. " The self-inspection of the
soul, the moral suffering, the torments of
body and of spirit, martyrdom and peni-
tence, death and resurrection, the mystic
depth, the love and out-gushing of the
heart, are wholly unsuited to be repre-
sented by Sculpture, which requires calm-
ness, serenity of spirit, and in expression,
harmony of forms." Thus, Sculpture here
remains rather an ornament of architect-

ure ; it sculptures saints, bas reliefs upon
the niches and porches of churches, turrets,
etc. From another side, through ara-
besques and bas reliefs, it approximates
the principle of painting, by giving too
much expression to its figures, or by ma-
king portraits in marble and in stone.
Sculpture comes back to its true principle,
at the epoch of the renaissance, by taking
for models the beautiful forms of Greek
art.

A DIALOGUE ON MUSIC

By Edward Sobolewski.

Q. Tell me what is good music ?

A. Concerning tastes — all fine natures —
not the "fair sex" only, possess, as Bos-
suet says, an instinct for harmony of forms,
colors, style and tones, especially for the
latter, because the nerves of the ear being
more exposed, are consequently more sen-
sitive.

Discords massed together without sys-
tem, produce a more disagreeable effect
than ill-assorted colors ; and on the other
hand, the etherial beauty of tone-poetry
excites the soul more powerfully than the
splendor of a Titian or Correggio.

Q. This "instinct" and "taste," are
they one and the same ?

A. To a certain degree only — though
many amateurs, critics, musicians, and
even composers, have had no other guide
than a fine instinct.

Q. You speak as Pistocchi to the celebra-
ted Farinelli : "A singer needs a hundred
things, but a good voice is ninety-nine of
them — the hundredth is the cultivation of
the voice."

A. The instinct of a delicate, sensitive
organization, may go far, but I think the
hundredth thing is also, necessary ; there-
fore, one possessed of the finest voice, but
uncultivated, will sing sometimes badly,
sometimes pretty well, but never quite per-
fectly for a real judge.

So it is with taste. Depending on nat-

ural gifts alone, without cultivation — you
will be sometimes right — as often wrong.
In short, your taste is good, if you find
pleasure in those works only which are
composed according to the principles of
art ; on the contrary, your taste is bad,
false, corrupt, if you find pleasure in mu-
sic full of faults and defects.

Q. Therefore, to be correct in taste, I
must know the principles of the art ; I
must know the rules of " Harmony, Rhythm
and Form," and perhaps much more.
Why, G. Weber has written three large
volumes on "Harmony" alone. No, it is
too difficult and takes too much time.

A. Yet it is not so difficult as it seems.
To understand music rightly, nothing is
necessary but the knowledge of two keys —
major and minor ; two kinds of time —
common and triple — one simple chord and
two cadences.

Q. But Rhythm, Form ?

A. Form is Rhythm, and Rhythm is time.

Q. Let us begin then with the keys, you
speak of two only — major and minor — but
I have heard something of Ambroseanic,
Gregoryanic, Glareanic and Greek keys,
wherein are composed the beautiful and
sublime compositions of Palestrina, Alle-
gri, Lotti, that are performed annually
during Passion-week in the church of St.
Peter, at Rome.

A. Well, if you like to go so far back,

A Dialogue on Alusic.

■j -J."-

we will speak about Ambrose, Gregory,
Glareanus, but there are no such things as
" Greek. " keys.

The knowledge we have of the music of
the Greeks, is too slight and imperfect to
enable us to assert positively anything con-
cerning it; and as nothing important or
necessary to modern art is involved, we
may be content to let the music of the an-
cients rest in the obscurity which surrounds
it.

With the first Christians, who hated ev-
erything which came from the temples of
the heathens, arose our music.

Their religious songs were a production
of the new soul which came into them with
Jesus Christ, and are the foundation of
our great edifice of art, as it now exists.
In the year 385, Saint Ambrose introduced
four keys, D, E, F, G ; Pope Gregory, in
•597, added four others to these, and named
the four of Ambrose, "authentic moods,"
and his four, which began on every fifth of
the first four, "plagalic." In these eight
keys, without sharps or flats, are composed
the liturgic songs of the Roman church,
called "Gregorian chants.' 5 They are
written in notes of equal value, without
Rhythm or Metre, and are sung in unison
with loud voice. Glareanus added to those
eight keys, two more, A and C, with their
plagal moods. To distinguish more clear-
ly, some one called the key beginning with
«D," Doric, "E," Phrygic, "F," Lydic,
" G," Mixolydie; "A," Mo\ie, and "B,"
Tonic. These names are all we have bor-
rowed from Greece.

Palestrina, the preserver of our art,
wrote his compositions in these keys, and
for the highest purity of harmony, rhythmi-
cal beauty, sublime simplicity, and deep
religious feeling, his works are still unri-
valled.

Q. Why don't you compose in the old
keys and in Palestrina's style?

A. They are used sometimes by Handel
in his Oratorios, by Sebastian Bach in his
fugues for organ and piano. Later, Bee-
thoven has written an Andante in the Lydic
mood in his string-quartette (A minor). I
myself have composed the first chorus of
Vinvela, in the Mixolydic mood, and in Co-
mala, the song to the moon, in the Doric
15

mood; but Handel, Bach, Beethoven, and

myself, have written in our own style, and
never imitated Palestrina's. Men in simi-
lar situations, only, have similar ideas.
All older works of music utter a Language
which we yet understand, but cannot speak.
We feel its deep innermost accents, but
we cannot tune the chords of our soul to
that pitch which harmonizes in every re-
spect with that feeling. Palestrina's mu-
sic sounds like that of another world; it
is all quite simple; mostly common chords,
here and there only a chord of the sixth ;
and always an irresistible charm.

This riddle is partially explained, if we
observe how Palestrina selected the tones
for the different parts in his choruses. Let
us take the third, c — e ; e. g. let the 80-
prano and the alto sing this third, and you
will have the same harmonic sound that
the piano or organ gives. But let the tenor
sing one of these tones, and soprano or alto
the other, and the effect will be very differ-
ent, although the tones are the same. Pal-
estrina knew not only the particular sound
of every tone in every voice, but also the
effect which such or such combinations
would produce.

This mystery is taught neither by a sing-
ing school, nor by a theory of composition,
and few composers of to-day know it.
How great and beautiful is Beethoven's
solemn mass in D ! What an effect would
it make, had Beethoven possessed the same
knowledge of voices that he had of instru-
ments? Now, unfortunately, one often
overpowers the others, and the enjoyment
of this composition will be always greater
for the eye than the ear.

We will now go back to the old keys.
These are taken from the music produced
at that time, as our two keys, major and
minor, are taken from the melodies of later
times.

This seems very simple to us. but not to
our great theorists. Gottfried Weber takes
two keys, major e, d, e, f, g, a, b, 0, and
minor a, b, c, d, e, f, g sharp, the same
rising and falling equally.

Hauptmann, the first teacher of harmony
in the Conservatory of Music at Leipsic,
says in his book, The Nature of Harmo-
ny and Metre, page 30—'"' The key is form-

226

A Dialogue on Music.

ed, when the common chord (c, e, g), af-
ter having gone through the subdominant-
chord (f, a, c), and dominant-chord (g, b,
d), has come in opposition with itself ; this
opposition coupled together, becomes unity
and the key." He finds in our music three
keys, and names them, the major, the mi-
nor, and the minor major.

R. Wagner recognizes no key at all ; for
him exists a chromatic scale only. He
says : " The scale is the most closely
united, the most intimately related family
among tones." He does not like to stay
long in one key, and takes the continuous
change of keys for a quality of the music
of the future; therefore, he finds in Bee-
thoven's last symphony, in the melody to
Schiller's poem, a going bach, because it
has scarcely any modulation.

We will not be so lavish with keys as
Hauptmann, nor so economical as R. Wag-
ner, neither are we of Weber's opinion.
We find in C major the old Glareanic key,
called also " Ionic ;" in our A minor of this
day, a " mixtum composition" of several
old keys ; it begins as the "iEolic" a, b,
c, d, e, f, takes then its seventh tone, g
sharp, from the Lydic, transposed a third
higher ; uses sometimes also the sixth of the
last,accepts lastly the character of the Phry-
gic, transposed a fourth higher, and brings
thus the tone bflat into its scale, which has
been already the subject of much discus-
sion, although that has never succeeded in
throwing this tone out of many melodies
in A minor. We have melodies which are
the pure A minor from the beginning to the
and, wherein we find f sharp and f natu-
ral, g and g sharp, b and hjlat, and the last
oftener than f sharp ; therefore, we must
build the scale of A minor, and its harmony,
according to those different tones; it will
be a, , b, c, d, e, ( f, ( g sharp, a,

( bflat, ( f sharp, I g natural.

Let us proceed. The two kinds of time
are common and triple. The rhythm of the
first is — ^,, that of the second — ww «
The accentuation of subdivisions is gov-
erned by the same law. It makes no dif-
ference whether a piece of music is written
in I or 2, or even I time ; but good compo-
sers of music, writing in \ time, intend the

same to be of lighter rendition than those
composed in \ time, etc.

Concerning harmony, there is one chord
only — all other harmonies are passing
notes, inversions, prolongations, suspen-
sions or retardations of chord-tones, or
from sharped and diminished intervals.
Harmony is a connection of different melo-
dies. Before chords were known, they
descanted, that is, they tried to sing to a
melody, commonly a sacred hymn, called
cantus firmus, different harmonical tones,
and named this part, Descant ; Italian,
soprano ; French, Le dessus. Later there was
added to the tenor (which performed the
cantus fir mus) a higher part, named alto,
and lastly, a lower part was added called
bass. These four parts, though each melo-
dious and independent in itself, harmon-
ized closely with each other, all striving
for the same aim.

Even to-day we must necessarily call such
music good, wherein every voice acts inde-
pendently of all others, and still in harmo-
ny with the same, in order to express the
reigning feeling, and sustain the various
shades in contrast to non-acting and life-
less trabants, which may be strikingly seen
in many compositions, particularly in four-
part songs for male voices, by Abt,Gumbert,
Kiicken, etc., wherein three voices (Brumm-
stimmen) accompany the fourth with a
growling sound escaping their closed lips.

The two cadences or musical phrases are
the cadence on the tonic and the cadence
on the dominant. The cadence on the
tonic, consisting of the chord in the domi-
nant, followed by that of the tonic, con-
cludes the sense of the musical phrase, and
is called " perfect" when the tonic is in the
highest and lowest part. It corresponds to
a period in language. The cadence on the
dominant consists of the tonic, or the chord
of the second or fourth going to the domi-
nant. The cadence of the dominant sus-
pends the sense of the musical phrase with-
out concluding it. This is likewise the
case with the cadence on the tonic, if the
tonic is not in the highest and lowest part.

Q. You say nothing of the great mistake
wherein two fifths or octaves follow each
other ?

A Dialogue on Music.

227

A. Of course, the true nature of the
proper arrangement of parts excludes all
direct fifths.

It is considered hy the new school "an ex-
ploded idea." Mozart himself made use of
fifths in the first finale of Don Giovanni.

Q. I have heard something of these fifths,
but was told it was "irony," being con-
tained in the minuet which Mozart compo-
sed for "country musicians"?

A. You also find octaves in S. Bach's
" Matthew Passion," p. 25, "On the cross,"
where surely no ironical meaning was in-
tended.

Q. Do you not say anything in regard
to form ?

A. Form is an "exploded idea" also.
The composers of the new school construct
their vocal music so as to let the poem gov-
ern the music in relation to metre and
form ; in their instrumental compositions,
the form is governed by phantasy.

Q. But what do you understand by a
symphony, sonata or overture?

A. I must again go back, in order to ex-
plain this properly.

Revolutions often beat the path for new
ideas. Palestrina towers great and unat-
tainable in his compositions of sacred mu-
sic, which breathe and express the purest
Catholicism.

But a Luther, Zwingli, and others came,
followed soon by Handel and Bach, who,
about the middle of the eighteenth centu-
ry, created a music full of freshness, prini-
itiveness and transporting power, which
lived and died with the reformers.

The three grand-masters, Palestrina,
Handel and Bach, equal, but do not rival
each other. We cannot judge them for the
different sentiments they indulged in. The
philosophers may settle which is the best
religion, for to the necessity of one they
all agree, but music cannot be chained by
dogmas. Heaven is an orb, whose cen-
tre is everywhere. Palestrina's music is
the language of the south, Handel's and
Bach's that of the north. Though one sun
illumes both lands — though one ether spans
both, yet in the south the sun is milder,
the ether purer. Flowers which there grow
in wild abundance, the north must obtain
bv culture.

We must think at our work.
This necessity of thought is apparent in
religion, language and art, ami can he
seen most clearly in the greatest works of
the German grand-masters, in Bach's
" Matthew Passion," and Handel's "Is-
rael."

Sebastian Bach's astonishing dexterity
in thematical works is the reason tbat
even unto this day we do not find a sym-
phony or overture appropriate for a con-
cert, of which the single motive forming the
principal thought of the movement is not
worked up on the basis which he con-
structed with such deep knowledge and
skill.

To him we must retrace our steps, in
order to perceive the true nature of our
instrumental music, for we are as little
masters of the course of our ideas, as of
the circulation of the blood in our veins.
Centuries have passed, and although the
first great instrumental-piece — the over-
ture — was a French production, (Lulli was
the first master] in this genre of art,) yet
Bach and Handel impressed the first de-
cided stamp upon it.

Later, the overture was supplanted by
the symphony, for the reason that it was of
easier composition and execution than the
former. The overture consisted of a grave,
followed by s, fugue. The symphony was
composed somewhat in the style of afugue
and that of the lively dances of that time.
Shortly after this period, the dance-
music was thought no longer fashionable,
and was succeeded by two Allegros, with an
Andante or Largo placed between them.

Father Hayden felt hurt at the complete
abandonment of dance-music, and again
adopted the minuet. Mozart also preferred
the grave and majestic dancing-step of bis
ancestors, the minuet. But Beethoven's
impetuous and passionate nature BCoffi d
at the slow and gracious movements of the
minuet, and revelled instead in the wild
Scherzo, or in the capricious demonical
leaps of the old Passepicd. Dark and
mighty forms rose before the gloomy vision
of his inner-man, noting powerfully upon
the phantasy, and wherever they met this
volcanic fire, always leaving a deep im-
pression.

228

A Dialogue, on .Music.

Two comets ushered in the existence of
our century ; the one revolutionized the
exterior — the other, the interior world.
Especially were the young generation
touched by the electric sparks of their
rays.

Napoleon's battles were repeated a thou-
sand times in the nurseries with lead and
paper soldiers. Beethoven's melodies agi-
tated the souls of the young generation in
their working and dreaming hours. When
the shoes of the child became too small
they were thrown aside; the lead and
paper soldiers shared the same fate ; but
the melodious tones grew with the soul to
more and more powerful chords. Beeth-
oven's star shone brighter, while Napo-
leon's was already fading. Then we
heard that Beethoven intended to destroy
his great symphony called " Eroica." Na-
poleon, the consul, to whom Beethoven de-
signed to dedicate this great work, had
sunk to Napoleon the Emperor, and Bee-
thoven felt ashamed.

Majesty of rank is often devoid of the
grace and majesty of the soul. The chord
e b , g, b b wherewith the bass solemnly intro-
duced the third symphony (Eroica), and
his inversions in the Scherzo \> b , e b , g b b ,
and in the last movement e, b 5 b, e, this
echo of the Marseillaise suited no longer
and should perish with it. Only then,
when fate, in the icy deserts of Kussia,
clasped the grand General in its iron grip,
and never loosened its hold until it had
crushed him, did the composer of the Eroica
comprehend that in the marcia J'unebre
contained in this symphony, he had spoken
in prophetic voice. The prophecy con-
tained in the last movement was destined
to be fulfilled in the latter half of this
century.

As Beethoven poured out his soul in a
prophetic epopee, so did- Mozart embody
his genius in his Don Giovanni. But as
the sublime always acts more powerfully
upon youth than knowledge and beauty, so
likewise was the success of Beethoven
greater than that of Mozart in this cen-
turv. Altogether Mozart is generally ap-
preciated better in riper years. li La deli-
catesse du gout est une premiere nuance de
a sati0te~. ,,

Mendelssohn, whose compositions ever
flowed smoothly and quietly, understood
well how to tune his harmonica to Mozart's
tuning-fork.

Q. You represent Beethoven as grave
and solemn, and yet it appears he was not
a great despiser of dances. Take, for in-
stance, his A major symphony. Lively to
overflowing, almost mad with frantic joy,
is the first movement. Equal to a double
quick-step, the last, about as the peasants
of Saxony perform their dances, the Scher-
zo gay; and in the Andante, he even calls
upon a lot of old bachelors and maiden-
ladies, with their hoop accompaniment, to
fall in and execute their tours ?

A. What opposite views are often taken
of the same thing by different minds ! In
the andante, in which you find so much
humor, Marx observes the sober view of
life, at first the peaceful and untroubled
step, but growing ever more and more
painful, and suffering, fighting the battle
of life ; yet, be this as it may, such
music is ever successful, even in spite of
the biting criticism of Maria v. Weber,
and the ferocious attacks of Oulibischeff.

Q. A good dance is always successful, I
believe?

A. Mendelssohn knew this, as he also
understood Beethoven and the public, when
he wrote his dance overture, "A Sum-
mer-night's Dream." Auber, Herold and
others wrote dance overtures en ?nasse, and
we often find more piquant themes in them
than Beethoven's A major symphony, or
Mendelssohn's Summer-night's Dream can
boast of, yet we do not prefer them for the
concert.

All compositions for an orchestra, be
they overture or symphony, must first
contain a theme, which expresses the char-
acter of the principal composition. Se-
cond, the expansions of compositions in
the style of a symphony, must, according
to my opinion, originate from one theme,
germinate from one seed, growing larger
and stronger all the time, until the swell-
ing bud bursts into a beautiful blossom ;
yet there must not be orange-blessoms on
an oak-tree; all must fit harmoniously.

The theme, sujet, or motive, must be a
fixed idea, such as " love ;'' it must be ever

A Dialogue on Music.

present — the first at day-break, the last at
night — no other impression must-be strong
enough to erase it.

If, by the blossom, you understand the
creation of a second thought, often called
the second theme, even this second theme
ought to be governed by the first, even
this blossom ought to glow in the same
colors. It must be so twined around the
heart of the composer, that nothing foreign
could possibly enter it. Merely thematical
productions are exercises for the pupil ;
compositions which merely contain parts
composed by rule, are merely a musical
exercise. Lobe certainly is wrong, if he
thus teaches the art of composing.

True, it is easy to point out how one
part belongs here, the other there, yet the
composition must be a free expression of
the soul.

Third — The finishing of the same.
This must also be governed in its main
parts by the predominating feeling, and
only minor thoughts and impressions must
be used by the composer to fill up or cast
away.

Let us now turn, for illustration, to the
theme of Wagner's overture to Faustus.
In the introduction we first see it in the
eighth measure, very moderate, in the
dominant d minor, commencing with the
notes a a | b b b b . a | g sharp, and headed
"very expressive," concerning which Von
Bulow observes, that it truly expresses the
feeling and character of the last lines of
the motto which Wagner chose at the
heading :

" Thus life to me a dire burden is ;
Existence I despise, for death I wish."

If we designate the above-mentioned
theme by figure I. we must name the
figure which already makes its appearance
in the second measure, and which is of the
utmost importance, to wit, d sharp, e, f, f,
e, e, b, b, figure II., the first theme having
been expressed by the violin, the second
figure reappears again in the tenth meas-
ure, executed by the viola, growling like a
furiously racked demon, while the wind in-
struments, flute, oboe and clarionet, " very
expressive," and yet full of sympathizing
sorrrow, intervene at the last quarter of
the tenth measure with the motive, which

we will call figure III. Figure II. con-
tinues rumbling in the quartette, re-
lieved by another figure (IV.) descending
from above, which is introduced by the
second violin in the fourteenth measure.
Figure IV. now extends itself further al
a chromatic bass, until in the ninetei nth
measure, in d major, a clear and distinct
new motive, gentle' and forgiving in char-
acter (V.) makes its appearance.

These five motives which the compos r
so exquisitely leads before us, in his very
moderate introduction, now receive the
finishing-touch in the allegro. Thus spi
Von Bulow.

Truly, as Goethe says : "If you perform
a piece, be sure to perform the same in
pieces."

I will pass over the introduction, though
I have as little taste for such "theme
pieces" succeeding each other, as for
Opera-overtures, such as that of Tann-
hauser, where pilgrim-songs, the love-sick
murmurings of the voluptuous Venus,
and the tedious Count's drawling sorrow
for his only daughter and heir, form a
hash, which in the details, and in the
heterogeneous compilation of the same, is
unpalatable enough, but which is made un-
bearable by the soul-killing figures — no !
not figures, but by the up and down stri
of monotonous bases, which continue Eot
about sixty measures. Setting aside i
all this, we may justly expect in the alle-
gro the expansion of the principle themi I .
yet we have no such thing; in place of the
'•idea" he produces after the first five mi -
ures a worthless figure, fit for accompani-
ment only, which is supported on its totter-
ing basis by the twenty-seven times repeated
downstroke of the conductor only.

Q. Excuse me; but the tone-picture,
which Von Bulow, R. Wagner's friend
admirer, calls the forgiving voice (III), re-
appears twice in wind-instrument musi

A. According to Lobe's system. Bor-
row a measure or two from a theme, I
a motive, which you may construct from
this or that orathird figure, and you have.

be ides the required unity, the grand

variation.

Do you know, my young friend, what Q
composer understands by an e-.

230

A Dialogue on Music.

idea? The technical! All who study the
art of composing, as Lobe teaches it, may
learn to become compilers but not com-
posers; or they must drink elder-tea, till
their visions appear black and blue to
them, in order to evaporate the schooling
they enjoyed. After twenty-seven meas-
ures of earthly smoke, there appears a
solitary star, theme I., continuing for four
whole measures, followed by a little more
mist.

Q. No; I think Bulow says the mist is
parted by a firm and punctuated motive.

A. If it is not firm, it is at least Jortis-
simo. Enough, we again hear thirteen
measures of unimportant music, concluded
by d minor, followed by a new melody for
a hautboy, which, as it repeats the two
first notes of the first theme, may claim to
be considered as belonging there, leading
to a third in f major, in company with a
tremulando, a la Samiel, crescendo and
diminuendo. We have now arrived at the
point where we may look for the second
theme, " the blossom," as we before said,
but alas, in vain your tortured soul waits, no
blossoms ! The thermometer sinks again !
With the cadence we again hear theme I.,
after four measures we find ourselves once
more in d flat major — no, in a minor, b
flat major or bflat minor, org minor, it is
difficult to say which, for this part may
be said to belong in the "most insepara-
bly combined, the closest related family
of all keys." Enough, we find ourselves
after twenty-six measures exactly at the
very place we started from, before the per-
formance of twenty-six measures, namely,
in f major.

This movement of twenty-six measures
might be wholly thrown out, without one
being any wiser — a possibility which, in
every good composition, must be looked
upon as a great fault, as all parts must be
so closely united as to enforce the presence
and support of each other.

We will now look at the second theme.
In it no critic can find a fault. It unravels
itself smoothly, and, after forty-nine
measures, conducts us again to motive V.
in the introduction, as likewise to figure
II., which here does not frown quite so
much.

Figure V. first appears in f, after twenty-
two measures in gjlat major, after fourteen
more in A minor, after thirty-four in d
minor, and after another thirty-nine
measures we at last hear theme I. again,
in the dominant of the bass, a Faustus
with lantern jaws, sunken temples, sparse
hair, but with a very, very magnificent
bread-basket.

The blossom is larger than the whole
tree. If it is not a miracle, it is a won-
derful abortion. Are you now curious as
to the second part ? Oh ! it almost ap-
peal's like a fugue, the bass dies away, a
fifth higher the cello commences, another
fifth higher the viola in unison with the
second violin; but as the composer has
strayed already from d minor to b minor, he
does not think it safe to stray further ; the
wind instruments continue by themselves
in figure II.

Q. Bulow says the cello and viola uni-
ted, once more introduce the principal
theme.

A. Just so. After the bassoon has tried
twice to begin the same, after about thirty
measures of worldly ether, more devoid
of stars than the South Pole, it is head-
ed "wild!" The leading theme once
more begins in the principal tonic (d
minor), etc., afterwards enlarged, the
first two notes converted, caught up by
the cello and the trumpet, wherein the
bass-trombone is expected to perform the
high A, and after twenty-eight measures of
"hated existence" the second theme in d
major, together with the finale, appears
like a short bright ray of the glorious sun
on a misty winter day.

" He, who reigns above my powers,
Cannot shake the outer towers " —

is Wagner's motto, which he has justly
chosen for the heading of his overture,
and I attempt no alteration only at the
conclusion, and close with —

" In such music existence a burden is,
The iuture I hate, for the End I wish."

Q. Bulow would also answer as Goethe :

•' To understand and write of living things,
Try first to drive away the soul,
The parts will then remain within your hand!"

A. I have never found fault with these

A Dialogue on Music.

231

parts, excepting, perhaps, that I said the
working out of the second theme is, in
proportion to the first theme, too exten-
sive; in fact, there is nothing of the fu-
ture contained in the overture.

Q. No future?

A. I mean to say, no music of the future
— not even a chromatic scale for the funda-
mental key — it moves entirely in the com-
mon form:

Principal theme — d minor;
Second theme — f major;
Return to fundamental key ;
Second theme — d major, and conclusion
in this key.

The finish and working up is neat and
careful, and many pretty and uncommon
effects occur therein ; still I do not think
the same in its proper place for a concert.

It inherits nothing of the Bach ; the piece
is well constructed, yet the small pieces
cannot escape criticism. Even Beethoven,
in the first movements of his Eroica makes
us acquainted with all the parts he intends
to work up, and in his c minor symphony
he says plainly : Now observe ; the notes g
g g e flat compose the whole, nothing
more. But after that it is a rushing flow,
an unbroken ring and song, pressing
breathlessly onward, which captivates and
carries us along with its force. To express
myself plainly, I may say that we can per-
ceive the work was done before it began.

It is true, and I will not deny that even
he applied the file to heighten its polish,
yet the whole structure stood finished to
his vision before even these first four
notes were penned.

No doubt R. Wagner also imagined a
picture before he painted it, but surely no
musical one; the poetry was there— the
music had to be manufactured. It is full
of genius, and not untrue; but he does
not allow sufficient freedom to the differ-

ent instruments, and is, consequently, not
sufficiently " obligato."

The parts succeed, instead of going in
company or against each other.

Although now one, then another instru-
ment catches up a thought, yet the whole
appears more like a Quartette of Pleyel
than one of Beethoven's — the overture is
not thought out polyphonically. Many,
however, do not know what Polyphonism
is ; it has been written about in many cu-
rious ways. The pupil will best learn to
write music in a polyphonic manner, if, at
the commencement, he invents at once a
double-voiced movement, but in such a
manner that one voice is not the subordi-
nate of the other ; both are equally neces-
sary to represent the meaning of the
thought he wishes to express.

In this manner he may or must continue
in regard to the three or four-voiced move-
ments likewise.

The addition of voices to a melody sat-
isfactory in itself, be they ever so well
flourished, cannot properly be called poly-
phonism.

Polyphonism, however, should be the
ruling principle in all orchestral concert
compositions, although in some points, for
instance, in the second theme, homophony
may take its plaoe.

A well composed symphony or overture
must not entertain the audience only, but
every performing musician must feel that
he is not an instrument or a machine, but a
living and intelligent being.

The overture to Faustus so entirely ig-
nores Polyphony, that it seems a virtual
denial of its effectiveness and importance
in orchestral composition.

Richard Wagner will never become a
composer of instrumental music, but in
his coeras he has opened a new avenue,
and his creations therein are soiii<'tl:ing
grand and sublime,

232

Schopenhauer' 1 's Docirim of the Will.

SCHOPENHAUER'S DOCTRINE OF THE WILL.

Translated from the German, by C. L. Bsrnats.

[We print below a condensed statement of the central doctrine of Arthur Schopenhauer. It
is translated from his work entitled " Ueber dm Willen in der Ndtur," 2d ed., 1854, Frankfort —
pp. 19 — 23, and 63. To those familiar with the kernel of speculative truth, it is unnecessary
to remark that the basis of the system herewith presented is thoroughly speculative, and re-
sembles in some respects that of Leibnitz in the Monadologj', printed in our last number. It
is only an attempt to solve all problems through self-determination, and this in its immediate
form as the will. Of course the inimediateness (i. e. lack of development or realization ) of the
principle employed here, leads into difficulty, and renders it impossible for him to see the close re-
lation he stands in to other great thinkers. Hence he uses very severe language when speaking
of other philosophers. If the Will is taken for the " Radical of the Soul," then other forms of
self-determination, e. g. the grades of knowing, will not be recognized as possessing substantial-
ity, and hence the theoretical mind will be subordinated to the practical; — a result, again, which
is the outcome of the Philosophy of Fichte. But Leibnitz seizes a more general aperai, and iden-
tifies self-determination with cognition in its various stages ; and hence he rises to the great
principle of Recognition as the form under which all fiuitude is cancelled — all multiplicity pre-
served in the unity of the Absolute. — Editor.]

The idea of a soul as a metaphysical be-
ing, in whose absolute simplicity will and
intellect were an indissoluble unity, was a
great and permanent impediment to all
deeper insight into natural phenomena.
The cardinal merit of my doctrine, and
that which puts it in opposition to all the
former philosophies, is the perfect separa-
tion of the will from the intellect. All
former philosophers thought wilfcto be in-
separable from the intellect ; the will was
declared to be conditioned upon the intel-
lect, or even to be a mere function of it,
whilst the intellect was regarded as the
fundamental principle of our spiritual ex-
istence. I am well aware that to the fu-
ture alone belongs the recognition of this
doctrine, but to the future philosophy the
separation, or rather the decomposition of
the soul into two heterogeneous elements,
will have the same significance as the de-
composition of water had to chemistry.
Not the soul is the eternal and indestructi-
ble or the very principle of life in men,
but what I might call the Radical of the
soul, and that is the Will. The so-called
soul is already a compound ; it is the com-
bination of will and the vovg, intellect.
The intellect is the secondary, the post erius
in any organism, and, as a mere function of
the brain, dependent upon the organism.
The will, on the contrary, is primary, the
prius of the organism, and the organism
consequently is conditioned by it. For the
will is the very " thing in itself," which in
conception (that is, in the peculiar func-

tion of the brain) exhibits itself as an or-
ganic body. Only by virtue of the forms
of cognition, that is, by virtue of that
function of the brain — hence only in con-
ception — one's body is something extended
and organic, not outside of it, or imme-
diately in self-consciousness. Just as the
various single acts of the body are nothing
but the various acts of the will portrayed
in the represented world, just so is the
shape of this body as a totality the image
of its will as a whole. In all organic func-
tions of the body, therefore, just as in its
external actions, the will is the " agens."
True physiology, on its height, shows the
intellect to be the product of the physical
organization, but true metaphysics show,
that physical existence itself is the product,
or rather the appearance, of a spiritual
agens, to-wit, the will ; nay, that matter
itself is conditioned through conception,
in which alone it exists. Perception and
thought may well be explained by the na-
ture of the organism ; the will never can
be ; the contrary is true, namely, that ev-
ery organism originates by and from the
will. This I show as follows :

I therefore posit the will as the "thing
in itself" — as something absolutely primi-
tive ; secondly, the simple visibility of the
will, its objectivation as our body ; and
thirdly, the intellect as a mere function of
a certain part of that body. That part
(the brain) is the objectivated desire
(or will) to know, which became repre-
sented ; for the will, to reach its ends,

Schopenhauer's Doctrine of the Will.

•j:;:;

needs the intellect. This function again
pre-supposes the whole world as rep-
resentation ; it therefore pre-supposes also
the body as an object, and even matter it-
self, so far as existing only in representa-
tion, for an objective world without a sub-
ject in whose intellect it stands, is, well
considered, something altogether unthink-
able. Hence intellect and matter (subject
and object) only relatively exist for each
other, and in that way constitute the appa-
rent world.

Whenever the will acts on external mat-
ter, or whenever it is directed towards a
known object, thus passing through the
medium of knowledge, then all recognize
that the agens, which here is in action, is
the will, and they call it by that name.
Yet, that is will not less which acts in the
inner process that precedes those external
actions as their condition, which create and
preserve the organic life and its substrate ;
and secretion, digestion, and the circula-
tion of the blood, are its work also. But
just because the will was recognized only
while leaving the individual from which it
started, and directing itself to the external
world, which precisely for that purpose
now appears as perception, the intellect
was regarded as its essential condition, as
its sole element, and as the very substance
out of which it was made, and thereby the
very worst hysteron proteron was commit-
ted that ever happened.

Before all, one should know how to dis-
criminate between will and arbitrariness
( Wille unci Willktihr), and one should un-
derstand that the first can exist without
the second. Will is' called arbitrariness
where it is lighted by intellect, and when-
ever motives or conceptions are its moving
causes ; or, objectively speaking, whenever
external causes which produce an act are
mediated by a brain. The motive may be
defined as an external irritation, by whose
influence an image is formed in the brain,
and under the mediation of which the will
accomplishes its effect, that is, an external
act of the body. With the human specie
the place of that image may be occupied
by a concept, which being formed from im-
ages of a similar kind, by omitting the
differences, is no longer intuitive, but only

marked and fixed by words. Benoe us the
action of motives is altogether independ-
ent of any contact, they therefore can
measure their respective forces upon the
will, on each other, and thereby permit a
certain choice. With the animals, that
choice is confined to the narrow horizon of
what is visibly projected before them ;
among men it has the wide range of the
thinkable, or of its concepts, as its sphere.
Those movements, therefore, which result
from motives, and not from causes, as in
the inorganic world, nor from mere irrita-
tion, as with the plants, are called arbi-
trary movements. These motives pre-sup-
pose knowledge, the medium of the mo-
tives, through which in this case causality
is effected, irrespective of their absolute
necessity in any other respect. Phys-
iologically, the difference between irrita-
tion and motive may bo described thus :
Irritation excites a reaction immediately,
the reaction issuing from the same part
upon which the irritation had acted : whilst
a motive is an irritation, which must make
a circuit through the brain, where first an
image is formed, and that image then orig-
inates the ensuing reaction, which now is
called an act of the free will. Hence the
difference between free and unfrec move-
ments does not concern the essential and
primary, which in both is the will, but only
the secondary, that is, the way in which
the will is aroused ; to-wit, whether it
shows itself in consequence of some real
cause, or of an irritation, or of a motive,
that is, of a cause that had to pass through
the organ of the intellect.

Free will or arbitrariness is only possible
in the consciousness of men. It differs
from the consciousness of animals in this,
that it contains not only present ami tan-
gible representations, but abstract con-
cepts, which, independent of the differen-
ces of time, act simultaneously and side by
side, permitting thereby conviction <>r a
conflict of motives ; this, in the strictest
sense of the word, is called free will. Yet
this very free will or cl insists only

in the victory of the stronger motive over
a weaker in a given individual character,
by which the ensuing action was determin-
ed, just as one impulse is overpowered by

234

Schopenhauer's Doctrine of the Will.

a stronger counter impulse, -whereby the ef-
fect nevertheless appears with the same ne-
cessity as the movement of a stone that
has received an impulse. The great think-
ers of all times agree in this decidedly ;
while, on the contrary, the vulgar will
little understand the great truth, that the
mark of our liberty is not to be found in
our single acts, but in our existence itself,
and in its very essence. Whenever one has
succeeded to discriminate will from free
will, or the arbitrary, and to consider the
latter as a peculiar species of the former,
then there is no more room for any diffi-
culty in discovering the will also in oc-
currences wherein intelligence cannot be
traced. * * * *

The will is the original. It has created
the world, but not through the medium of
an intellect either outside or inside of
the world, for we know of the intellect only
through the mediation of the animal world,
the very last in creation. The will itself,
the unintentional will which is discovered
in everything, is the creator of the world.
The animals, therefore, are organized in
accordance with their mode of living,
and their mode of living is not shaped in
conformity with their organs ; the struct-
ure of any animal is the result of its will
to be what it is. Nature, which never lies,
tells us the same in its naive way ; it lets
any being just kindle the first spark of its
life on one of his equals, and then lets it
finish itself before our eyes. The form and
the movement it takes from its own self,
the substance from outside. This is called
growth and development. Thus even em-
pirically do all beings stand before us as
their own work ; but the language of na-
ture is too simple, and therefore but few
understand it.

Cognition, since all motives are depend-
ent on it, is the essential characteristic of
the animal kingdom. When animal life
ceases, cognition ceases also ; and arrived
at that point, we can comprehend the me-
dium by which the influences from the ex-
ternal world on the movements of other
beings are effected only by analogy, whilst
the will, which we have recognized as the
basis and as the very kernel of all beings,
always and everywhere remains the same.

On the low stage of the vegetable world,
and of the vegetative life in the animal
organizations, it is irritation, and in the
inorganic world it is the mechanical rela-
tion in general which appears as the sub-
stitute or as the analogue of the intellect.
We cannot say that the plants perceive the
light and the sun, but we see that they are
differently affected by the presence or ab-
sence of the sun, and that they turn them-
selves towards it ; and though in fact that
movement mostly coincides with their
growth, like the rotation of the moon with
its revolution, that movement nevertheless
exists, and the direction of the growth of
a plant is just in the same way determined
and systematically modified as an action is
by a motive. Inasmuch, therefore, as a
plant has its wants, though not of the kind
which require a sensorium or an intellect,
something analogous must take their place
to enable the will to seize at least a supply
offered to it, if not to go in quest of it.
This is the susceptibility for irritation,
which differs from the intellect, in that
the motive and subsequent act of vo-
lition are clearly separated from each oth-
er, and the clearer, the more perfect the in-
tellect is; whilst at the mere susceptibility
for an irritation, the feeling of the irrita-
tion and the resulting volition can no
longer be discriminated. In the inorgan-
ic world, finally, even the susceptibility
for irritation, whose analogy with the in-
tellect cannot be mistaken, ceases, and
there remains nothing but the varied reac-
tion of the bodies against the various in-
fluences. This reaction is the substitute
for the intellect. Whenever the reaction
of a body differs from another, the influ-
ence also must be different, creating a dif-
ferent affection, which even in its dullness
yet shows a remote analogy with the intel-
lect. If, for instance, the water in an em-
bankment finds an issue and eagerly pre-
cipitates itself through it, it certainly does
not perceive the break, just as the acid
does not perceive the alkali, for which it
leaves the metal ; yet we must confess
that what in all these bodies has ef-
fected such sudden changes, has a certain
resemblance with that which moves our-
selves whenever we act in consequence of

Schopenhauer's Doctrine of the Will.

-:;:.

an unexpe3ted motive. We therefore see
that the intellect appears as the medium of
our motives, that is, as the medium of
causality in regard to intellectual beings,
as that which receives the change from the
external world, and which must be followed
by a change in ourselves, as the mediator
between both. On this narrow line, bal-
ances the whole world as representation,
i. e. that whole extensive world in space
and time, which as such cannot be any-
where else but in our brain, just as dreams ;
for the periods of their duration stand on
the very same basis. Whatever to the ani-
mals and to man is given by his intellect as
a medium of the motives, the same is given
to the plants by their susceptibility for ir-
ritation, and to inorganic bodies by their
reaction on the various causes, which in
fact only differ in respect to the degree of
volition ; for, just in consequence of the
fact, that in proportion to their wants the
susceptibility for external impressions was
raised to such a degree in the animals that
a brain and a system of nerves had to de-
velop itself, did consciousness, more-
over, originate as a function of this
brain, and in this consciousness the whole
objective world, whose forms (time,
space and causality) are the rules for the
exercise of this function. We therefore
discover that the intellect is calculated
only for the subjective, merely to be a ser-
vant of the will, appearing only "per acci-
dens" as a condition of animal life, where
motives take the place of irritation. The
picture of the external world, which at this
stage enters into the forms of time and
space, is but the background on which mo-
tives represent themselves as ends ; it is
also the condition of the connection of the
external objects in regard to space and
causality, but yet is nothing else but
the mediation and the tie between the mo-
tive and the will. What a leap would it
be to take this picture to be the true,
ultimate essence of things, — this image of
the world, which originates accidentally in
the intellect as a function of animal brains,
whereby the means to their ends are shown
them, and their ways on this planet cleared
up ! What a temerity to take this image
and the connection of its parts to be the

absolute rule of the world, the relations of
the things in themselves — and to suppose
that all that could just as well exist in-
dependently of our brain ! And yet this
supposition is the very ground on which
all the dogmatical systems previous to Kant
were based, for it is the implicit pre-sup-
position of their Ontology, Cosmology,
Theology, and of all their Eternal Verities.

By this realistic examination we have
gained very unexpectedly the objective
point of view of Kant's immortal discov-
ery, arriving by our empirical, physiologi-
cal way to the same point whence Kant
started with his transcendental criticism.
Kant made the subjective his basis, posit-
ing consciousness ; but from its a priori
nature he comes to the result, that all that
happens in it can be nothing else but repre-
sentation. We, on the contrary, starting
from the objective, have discovered what
are the ends and the origin of the intellect,
and to what class of phenomena it belongs.
We discover in our way, that the intellect
is limited to mere representations, and that
what is exhibited in it is conditioned by
the subject, that is, a mundane phenome-
non, and that just in the same way the or-
der and the connection of all external
things is conditioned by the subject, and
is never a knowledge of what they are in
themselves, and how they may be connect-
ed with each other. We, in our way, like
Kant in his, have discovered that the world
as representation, balances on that narrow
line between the external cause (motive)
and the produced effect (act of will) of in-
telligent (animal) beings, where the clear
discrimination of the two commences. Ita
res accendent lumina rebus.

Our objective stand-point is realistic, and
therefore conditioned, inasmuch as start-
ing fr ^m natural beings as posited, we have
abstracted from the circumstance that their
objective existence pre-supposes an intel-
lect, in which they find themselves as rep-
resentations ; but Kant's subjective and
idealistic stand-point is equally condition-
ed, inasmuch as it starts from the in-
tellect, which itself is conditioned by na-
ture, in consequence of whose develop-
ment up to the animal world it only comes
into existence. Holding fast to this, our

236

Introduction to Philosophy.

realistic- objective stand-point, Kant's doc-
trine may be characterized thus : after
Locke had abstracted the role of the senses,
under the name of " secondary properties,"
for the purpose of distinguishing things in
themselves from things as they appear,
Kant, with far greater profundity, abstract-
ed the role of the brain functions [concep-
tions of the understanding] — a less consid-
erable role than that of the senses — and
thus abstracted as belonging to the sub-

jective all that Locke had included under
the head of primary properties. I, on the
other hand, have merely shown why all
stands thus in relation, by exhibiting the
position which the intellect assumes in the
System of Nature when we start realisti-
cally from the objective as a datum, and
take the Will, of which alone we are im-
mediately conscious, as the true tcov ctCj of
all metaphysics — as the essence of which
all else is only the phenomenon.

INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY.

CHAPTER VII.

COMPREHENSION AND IDEA.
I.

Everything, to be known, must be thought
as belonging to a system. This result was
the conclusion of Chapter VI. To illus-
trate : acid is that which hungers for a
base ; its sharp taste is the hunger itself ;
it exists only in a tension. Hence to think
an acid we must think a base ; the base is
ideally in the acid, and is the cause of its
sharpness. The union of the acid and
base gives us a salt, and in the salt we can-
not taste the acid nor the base distinctly,
for each is thoroughly modified by the
other, each is cancelled. We separate the
acid and base again and there exist two
contradictions — acid and base — each call-
ing for the other, each asserting its com-
plement to be itself. For the properties of
a somewhat are its wants, i. e. what it lacks
of the total.

Such elements of a total as we are here
considering, have been called (f moments "
by Hegel. The total is the " negative uni-
ty." (See Chap. IV.)

In the illustration we have salt as the
negative unity of the moments, acid and
base. The unity is called negative be-
cause its existence destroys each of the
moments by adding the other to it. After
the negative unity exists, each of the mo-
ments is no longer in a tension, but has be-
come thoroughly modified by the other.
The negative unity is ideal when the mo-

ments are held asunder — it is then poten-
tial, and through it each moment has its
own peculiar properties.

More generally : every somewhat is de-
termined by another ; its characteristic,
therefore, is the manifestation of its other
or of the complement which makes with it
the total or negative unity.

The complete thought of any somewhat
includes the phases or moments, as such,
and their negative unity. This may prop-
erly be called the comprehension. To
comprehend [Begreifen] we must seize
the object in its totality; com-prehend
= to seize together, just as con-ceive=
to take together; but conception is gener-
ally used in English to signify a picture of
the object more or less general. Not the
totality, but only some of its character-
istics, are grasped together in a concep-
tion. Hence conceptions are subjective,
i. e. they do not correspond to the true
object in its entirety; but comprehension
is objective in the sense that everything in
its true existence is a comprehension.
With this distinction between conception
and comprehension most people would
deny, at once, the possibility of the latter
as an act of human intelligence. Sensu-
ous knowing — for the reason that it attrib-
utes validity to isolated objects — does not
comprehend. Reflective knowing seizes
the reciprocal relations, but not in the
negative unity. Comprehension — whether
one ever can arrive at it or not — should be
the thought in its totality, wherein n>ega-

Introduction to Philosophy.

237

tive unity and moments are thought to-
gether. Thus a true comprehension is the
thought of the self-determined, and wc
have not thoroughly comprehended any
thing till we have traced it hack through
its various presuppositions to self-determ-
ination -which must always he the form of
the total. (See chapters IV. & V.)

ii.

The name "Idea" is reserved for the
deepest thought of Philosophy.* In co?n-
prehension we think a system of depend-
ent moments in a negative unity. Thus in
the comprehension the multiplicity of ele-
ments, thought in the moments, is destroyed
in its negative unity, and there is, conse-
quently, only one independent being or
totality. Let, once, each of these moments
develop to a totality, so that we have in
each a repetition of the whole, and we
shall have a comprehension of comprehen-
sions — a system of totalities — and this is
what Hegel means by "/dee," or Idea.
Plato arrives at this, but does not- consist-
ently develop it. He deals chiefly with
the standpoint of comprehension, and
hence has much that is dialectical. (The
Dialectic is the process which arises when
the abstract and incomplete is put under
the form of the true, or the apodeictic. To
refute a category of limited application,
make it universal and it will contradict
itself. Thus the "Irony" of Socrates con-
sists in generously (!) assuming of any
category all that his interlocutor wishes,

* The word "Idea" does not have the sense
here given it, except in Hegel, and in a very
few translations of liirn. For the most part the
word is used, (e. g. in Schelling's Philosophy
of Nature in this number,) as a translation for
the German " Bcgriff," which we call "compre-
hension," adopting the term in this sense from
the author of the "Letters on Faust." It will
do no harm to use so expressive a word as
comprehension in an objective sense as well
as in a subjective one. The thought itself is
bizarre, and not merely the word ; it is useless
to expect to find words that are ust d com-
monly in a speculative sense. One must seek
a word that has several meanings, and grasp
these meanings all together in one, to have
the speculative use of a word. Spirit has
formed words for speculative ideas by the
deepest of instincts, and these words have been
unavoidably split up into different meanings
by the sensuous thinking, which always loses
the connecting links.

and then letting it refute its,. If while h
applies it in this and that particular in
stance with the air of one who sinoerely
believes in it. Humor is of this nature;
the author assumes the validity of the
character he is portraying in regard to his
weak points, and then places him in posi-
tions wherein these weaknesses prove their
true nature.) Aristotle, on the other hand,
writes from the standpoint of the Idea
constantly, and therefore treats his sub-
jects as systematic totalities independent
of each other; this gives the appearance
of empiricism to his writings. The fol-
lowing illustration of the relation of com-
prehension to idea may be of assistance
here :

Let any totality=T be compose,! ,,f , .
ments,phase8 or moments = a + b-\- c-f- d,
&c. Each of these moments, a, b, c, &c,
differs from the others and from the total ;
they are in a negative unity just as acid
and base are, in a salt. The assertion of
the negative unity cancels each of the mo-
ments. The negative unity adds to a the
b, c, and d, which it lacks of the total ; for
a=T — b — c — &c. ; and so too b=T — a — c
— d— &c.j and c=T — a— b— <ko. Each de-
mands all the rest to make its existence
possible, just as the acid cannot exist
if its tension is not balanced by a base.
So far we have the Comprehension.
If, now, we consider these moments as
being able to develop, like the Monads of
Leibnitz, we shall have the following re-
sult : a will absorb b-\-c+d+ #c.,and thus
become a totality and a negative unity for
itself; b may do likewise, and thus the
others. Under this supposition we have,
instead of the first series of moments (a -j-
b-f-c-f- d -f- &c. ) a new series wherein
each moment has developed to a total by
supplying its deficiencies thus ■ abed
&c, •+- b a c d &c, + c a b d &c, -+-
d a b c &c. In the new series, each
term is a negative unity and a totality,
and hence no longer exists in a tension,
and no longer can be can