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diff --git a/old/65097-0.txt b/old/65097-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 2a840fb..0000000 --- a/old/65097-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,19349 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Journal of Speculative Philosophy, Vol. -I, Nos. 1-4, 1867, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Journal of Speculative Philosophy, Vol. I, Nos. 1-4, 1867 - -Author: Various - -Editor: Wm. T. Harris - -Release Date: April 17, 2021 [eBook #65097] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: deaurider, David King, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was - produced from images generously made available by JSTOR - www.jstor.org.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE -PHILOSOPHY, VOL. I, NOS. 1-4, 1867 *** - - - - - The Journal of Speculative Philosophy, Vol. I. - - - - - THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY. - - - VOL. I. - - - EDITED BY WM. T. HARRIS. - - - ST. LOUIS, MO.: - GEORGE KNAPP & CO., PRINTERS AND BINDERS. - 1867. - - KRAUS REPRINT CO. - - New York - - 1968 - - - - - - KRAUS REPRINT CO. - A U.S. Division of Kraus-Thomson Organization Limited - - - Printed in Germany - Lessingdruckerei in Wiesbaden - - - - - PREFACE. - - -In concluding the first volume of this Journal, the editor wishes to say -a few things regarding its contents, even at the risk of repeating, in -some cases, what has already been said. He hopes that his judgment in -the selection of articles will be, in the main, approved. In so novel an -undertaking it is not to be expected that the proper elevation and range -will be found at once. But the editor thinks that he has acquired some -valuable experience 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 recommend -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 hopes to print in -the next volume detailed 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, -regarding the nature of attraction, centrifugal and centripetal forces, -light, heat, electricity, chemical elements, &c., demand the -investigation of the speculative thinker. The 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 expressed at -the lack of original articles. Considerably 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 contents 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, Magazines and books -of a thoughtful character. If this 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 may have to boast of! For after -all it is not “American _thought_” so much as American _thinkers_ that -we want. To _think_, in the highest sense, is to transcend all _natural -limits_—such, for example, as national peculiarities, defects in -culture, distinctions in Race, 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 German 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 potency 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 study of the greatest thinkers of all -ages and all times. May this Journal aid such a consummation! - -In conclusion, the editor would heartily thank all who have assisted him -in this enterprise, by money and cheering words; he hopes that they will -not withdraw in the future their indispensable aid. To others he 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. Brackett, whose skill in proof-reading, and -subtle appreciation of philosophic thought have rendered her editorial -assistance invaluable. - -ST. LOUIS, _December, 1867_. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - Alchemists, The _Editor._ 126 - - Bénard’s Essay on Hegel’s _Jas. A. 36, - Æsthetics (translation). Martling._ 91, - 169, - 221 - - Dialogue on Music. _E. 224 - Sobolowski._ - - Editorials. _Editor._ 127 - - Fichte’s Introduction to the _A. E. 23 - Science of Knowledge Kroeger._ - (translation). - - Criticism of Philosophical _A. E. 79, - Systems (translation). Kroeger._ 137 - - Genesis. _A. Bronson 165 - Alcott._ - - Goethe’s Theory of Colors. _Editor._ 63 - - Essay on Da Vinci’s “Last _D. J. 242 - Supper” (translation). Snider & T. - Davidson._ - - Herbert Spencer. _Editor._ 6 - - Introduction to Philosophy. _Editor._ 57, - 114, - 187, - 236 - - In the Quarry. _Anna C. 192 - Brackett._ - - Leibnitz’s Monadology _F. H. 129 - (translation). Hedge._ - - Letters on Faust. _H. C. 178 - Brockmeyer._ - - Metaphysics of Materialism. _D. G. 176 - Brinton._ - - Music as a Form of Art. _Editor._ 120 - - Notes on Milton’s Lycidas. _Anna C. 87 - Brackett._ - - Paul Janet and Hegel. _Editor._ 250 - - Philosophy of Baader _A. 190 - (translation from Dr. Strothotte._ - Hoffmann). - - Raphael’s Transfiguration. _Editor._ 53 - - Schelling’s Introduction to _Tom 159 - Idealism (translation). Davidson._ - - “ ” “ the _Tom 193 - Philosophy of Nature Davidson._ - (transl’n). - - Schopenhauer’s Dialogue on _C. L. 61 - Immortality (translation). Bernays._ - - ” Doctrine of the _C. L. 232 - Will (translation). Bernays._ - - Seed Life. _Anna C. 60 - Brackett._ - - Second Part of Goethe’s Faust _D. J. 65 - (translation). Snider._ - - “The Speculative.” _Editor._ 2 - - Thought on Shakespeare, A _Anna C. 240 - Brackett._ - - To the Reader. _Editor._ 1 - - - - - THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY. - Vol. I. 1867. No. 1. - - - - - 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 reasonably be expected from the Editors upon the scope -and design of the present undertaking. - -There is no need, it is presumed, to speak of the immense religious -movements now going 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 widely 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 Renan, 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 deepening it to speculative -insight. - -Likewise it will be acknowledged that the national consciousness has -moved forward 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 -demands 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 “Correlation of forces” there has arisen -a stage of reflection that deepens rapidly into the purely speculative. -For the further 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. - - - “We need what Genius is unconsciously seeking, and, by some daring - generalization of the universe, shall assuredly discover, a - spiritual calculus, a _Novum Organon_, 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 deific 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 speculative grade of knowing characterized as “that in which -the soul, setting out from an hypothesis, proceeds to an unhypothetical -principle, and makes its way without the aid of [sensuous] images, but -solely through ideas themselves.” The mathematical procedure which -begins by hypothecating definitions, axioms, postulates, and the like, -which it never examines nor attempts to deduce or prove, is the example -given by Plato of the method of the Understanding, while he makes the -speculative Reason “to posit hypotheses by the Dialectic, _not as fixed -principles_, but only as starting points, in order that, by removing -them, it may arrive at the unhypothetical—the principle of the -universe.” - -This most admirable description is fully endorsed by Aristotle, and -firmly established 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 distinguishes psychologically the -“active intellect” 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 infinite. He identifies this with the -Speculative 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 intuitiva_,” as the thinking of things under the form of -eternity, (_De natura rationis est res sub quadam specie æternitatis -percipere._) - -Though great diversity is found in respect 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 Speculative culture, he will at every step be delighted -and confirmed at the agreement of what, to the ordinary reader, seem -irreconcilable 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 allegorically typified in a historical form, so -that it acts upon the mind partly through fantasy and partly through the -understanding. Thus Religion presents the same content as Art and -Philosophy, but stands between them, and forms a kind of middle ground -upon which the purification takes place. “It is the purgatory between -the Inferno of Sense and the Paradise of Reason.” Its function is -mediation; a continual degrading of the sensuous and external, and an -elevation to 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 universe, they essay to communicate their insights. -But the form of Science is not yet attained by them. They express -themselves, not in those universal categories that the Spirit of the -Race has formed in language for its utterance, but they have recourse to -symbols more or less inadequate because ambiguous, and of insufficient -universality to stand for the archetypes themselves. Thus “Becoming” is -the most pure germinal archetype, and belongs 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 -regeneration. The Eleusinian and other mysteries do the like. - -While it is one of the most inspiring things connected with Speculative -Philosophy to discover that the “Open Secret of the Universe” has been -read by so many, and to see, under various expressions, the same -meaning; yet it is the highest problem of Speculative Philosophy to -seize a method that is adequate to the expression of the “Secret;” for -its (the content’s) own method of genetic development 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 -Religion, as well as to Philosophy, in such a manner as to allow its -free evolution; to have as little in the method that is merely formal, -or extraneous to the idea itself. The rigid formalism of Spinoza—though -manipulated by a dear speculative spirit—is inadequate to the unfolding -of its content; for how could the mathematical method, which is that of -quantity or external 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. Although he has not given us complete examples, 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 mathematics and such -sciences do), he asserts that the first starting points must be removed -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 absolutely 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 continued by -its other. - -From this peculiarity results the difficulty of Speculative Philosophy. -The unused mind, accepting with naïveté the first proposition 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 unsophisticated might say, and do say: “See how illogical is -Socrates, for he sets out to establish something, and arrives rather at -the destruction of it.” The _reductio ad absurdum_ is a faint imitation -of the same method. It is not sufficient 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 continually -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 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 annihilated.)” - -The soul of this method lies in the comprehension of the negative. In -that wonderful exposé of the importance of the negative, which Plato -gives in the Parmenides and Sophist, we see how justly he appreciated -its true place in Philosophic Method. Spinoza’s “_omnis determinatio est -negatio_” is the most famous of modern statements respecting the -negative, and has been very fruitful in results. - -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 they are two independent somewhats -over against each other, having equal validity, then all unity of system -is absolutely impossible—we can have only the Persian Ahriman and -Ormuzd; nay, not even these—for unless there is a primal unity, a -“_Zeruane-Akerene_”—the uncreated one, these are impossible as -opposites, for there can be no tension from which the strife should -proceed. - -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 validity in and for itself, and to be wholly positive -and real. The negative is the mere absence of the real thing; and it -utterly ignores it in its scientific activity. - -But the second stage traces relations, and finds that things do not -exist in immediate independence, but that each is related 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 things, and it learns -that these properties, 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 negation. 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 dependence and -finitude, 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 as 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 difficulty. All positive forms, all forms of -immediateness 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 identity and distinction likewise. This is the -speculative stand-point in its completeness. It not only possesses -speculative content, but is able to evolve a speculative 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. Doubtless far clearer -expositions can be made of this than those found in Plato or Proclus, 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 “regeneration of the heart,” and is at bottom the same -thing, as the mystics teach us. - -But this great difference is obvious superficially: In religious -regeneration it seems the yielding up of the self to an alien, though -beneficent, power, while in philosophy it seems the complete -identification 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 despair, 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 Speculative, may be closed with a few -illustrations 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 determining 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 above general and abstract -form, but its penetration is more specific. Everything has distinctions -from others in general, but also from _its_ other. _Sweet_ is opposed -not only to other properties in general, as _white_, _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 _positive_ thing to a -_negative_ thing. In this kind of relative, 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 appearances of the negative in nature. The -element _fire_ is a negative which destroys the form of the combustible. -It reduces organic 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 devourer, 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 essential 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 of negation, we see the negative -acting against itself, and this constitutes a process. 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 negation is made, and this is -again negated. 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 negative processes. In -conscious Spirit both are united in one-movement. The generic here -enters the individual as pure _ego_—the undetermined possibility of all -determinations. Since it is undetermined, it is negative to all special -determinations. But this _ego_ not only exists as subject, but also as -object—a process of self-determination or self-negation. And this -negation or particularization continually 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. This is -the _aperçu_ of Immortality. - - - - - HERBERT SPENCER. - - - CHAPTER I. - THE CRISIS IN NATURAL SCIENCE. - - -During the past twenty years a revolution has been working in physical -science. Within the last ten it has come to the surface, 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—Carpenter, Grove, Mayer, Faraday, -Thompson, Tyndall and Helmholtz; Herbert Spencer, Stuart Mill, Buckle, -Draper, Lewes, Lecky, Max Müller, 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 remarked that there are observable in -modern 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 -between 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, -Clark, 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; religious sentiment, to get rid of forms. -This reaction against the former stage, which has been called by Hegel -the metaphysical, finds a kind of climax in the intellectual movement -just preceding the French revolution. Thought no longer is contented to -say “Cogito, ergo sum,” abstractly, but applies the doctrine in all -directions, “I think; in that deed, I am.” “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 institutions—“clothes of spirit,” as -Herr Teufelsdroeck calls them. “What are you doing here, you sniveling -priest?” says Voltaire: “you are imposing delusions upon society for -your own aggrandizement. _I_ 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 second period, and the third -phase begins. Its characteristic is to be constructive, not to accept -the heritage of the past with passivity, 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 general, (see -D’Holbach’s “Système de la Nature”): “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 mediated -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 results from the perception of the -contradiction 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 -cannot 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 categories—Inherence and Causality—as objectively valid. In -all universal and necessary 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 phenomena; the true object in itself we do not know.” - -This doctrine of phenomenal knowing was outgrown in Germany at the -commencement 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 legitimate -results of the doctrine. Schelling and Hegel completed the work of -transforming what Kant had left in a negative state, into an affirmative -system of truth. The following is an outline of the refutation of -Kantian scepticism: - -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 philosophers, it follows that the -subjective swallows up all and becomes itself the universal (subject and -object of itself), and hence Reason is the true substance of the -universe. Spinoza’s _substance_ is thus seen to become _subject_. We -partake of God as intellectually seeing, and we see only God as object, -which Malebranche and Berkeley held with other Platonists. - -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, that 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 -objective can have existence. - -3. Hence, since one category has no preference over another, and we -cannot 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 -themselves, _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 beyond 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 Wm. -Hamilton have made the negative results very 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 -purposes, the Comtian. The physicist wishing to give his undivided -attention to empirical observation, desires an excuse for neglecting -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 -conceals 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 collection has been made, and the -laws are sought for in the chaotic mass of observations, 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 -observations, but a Kepler was required to discern 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 _absolute -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 -developes inequalities; tests one through another, and discovers -dependencies everywhere; since it learns that the first phase of objects -is phenomenal, and depends upon somewhat lying beyond it; since it -denies 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 reason (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 reflection 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. - -The first stage of the development closes with attempts on all hands to -put the results in an encyclopædiacal form. Humboldt’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 “correlation of forces” absorbs all attention. - -Force is an arrogant category and will not be co-ordinated with matter; -if admitted, 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 “occasion,” or soliciting force to call it into activity. - -II. But it cannot be confined except by force; its occasion must be a -force likewise. - -III. Thus, since its confinement and “occasion” 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 cannot -act or exist except in unity with other forces which likewise have the -same dependence upon it that it has upon them. _Hence a force has no -independent subsistence, 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 -phenomena, but as a true unity underlying phenomenal multiplicity). - -From the nature of the category of force we see that whoever adopts it -as the ultimate, embarks on an ocean of dualism, and instead of “seeing -everywhere the one and all” as did Xenophanes, he will see everywhere -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 activity, -(though in the stage of mere reflection,) 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 consciousness concerning his abstract categories, -which, as Hegel says, “drive him around in their whirling circle.” - -Now that the body of scientific men are turned in this direction, we -behold a vast upheaval towards philosophic thought; and this is entirely -unlike the isolated phenomenon (hitherto observed in history) of a -single group of men lifted above the surrounding darkness of their age -into clearness. We do not have such a phenomenon in our time; it is the -spirit of the nineteenth century to move by masses. - - - CHAPTER II. - THE “FIRST PRINCIPLES” OF THE “UNKNOWABLE.” - - -The _British Quarterly_ speaking of Spencer, says: “These ‘First -Principles’ are merely the foundation of a system of Philosophy, bolder, -more elaborate and comprehensive, perhaps, than any other which has been -hitherto designed in England.” - -The persistence and sincerity, so generally prevailing among these -correlationists, we have occasion to admire in Herbert Spencer. He seems -to be always ready to sacrifice his individual interest for truth, and -is bold and fearless in uttering, what he believes it to be. - -For critical consideration no better division can be found than that -adopted in the “First Principles” by Mr. Spencer himself, to wit: 1st, -the unknowable, 2nd, the knowable. Accordingly, let us examine first his -theory of - - - THE UNKNOWABLE. - - -When Mr. Spencer announces the content of the “unknowable” to be -“ultimate religious and scientific ideas,” we are reminded at once of -the old adage in jurisprudence—“_Omnis definitio 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 unknowables, we must regard these words -as corresponding 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 -naïveté 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 Spencer 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 applied in general to any subjective scepticism. The -following is a general scheme that will apply to all particular -instances: - -I. “We cannot know things in themselves; 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 -existence_ must. - -In this we discover that the mistake on the part of the sceptic consists -in 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 conditioned” so much boasted of by that -philosopher 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 cannot be imagined. If, however, it should be found -possible to compass it by imagination, it must be conceded that there -really is a contradiction in the intelligence. That the result of such -an attempt coincides with our anticipations we have Hamilton’s -testimony—“imagination sinks exhausted.” - -Therefore, instead of this result contradicting the first, as Hamilton -supposes, it really confirms it. - -In fact if the mind is disciplined to separate pure thinking from mere -imagining, the infinite is not difficult to think. Spinoza saw and -expressed this by making a distinction between “infinitum actu (or -rationis),” and “infinitum imaginationis,” and his first and second -axioms are the immediate results of thought elevated to this clearness. -This distinction and his “_omnis determinatio est negatio_,” together -with the development of the third stage of thinking (according to -reason), “_sub quadam specie æternitatis_,”—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 betrays unconsciousness of this -distinction, but employs it in far grosser and self-destructive -applications. On page 25, (“First Principles,”) he says: “When on the -sea shore we note how the hulls of distant 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 imagination 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 conceive in its real form and magnitude even that small segment -of our globe which extends 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 completeness; 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 -consciousness together; and so we can form what we call a conception of -the rock, but to do the like with the earth we find impossible.” “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 mentally represented, or we must make our predications by means of -extremely inadequate 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; microscope magnifying two and a half millions of diameters -would make its apparent magnitude 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 correspond to it. - -The legitimate conclusion is that all our conceptions are symbolic, and -if that property invalidates their reliability, it follows 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 concede that we do not know the shape -of the earth, its size, and many other inconceivable 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 realizable in thought. We can bisect and rebisect a -body, and continually repeating 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 bisected (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 indifferent to the -nature of extension (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 imagination to verify it; and this very -truth must be evident to him who says that the progress 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 certain process. (For example, divisibility as a process -in space does not affect the continuity 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 endeavors to apprehend a relation of -this nature, it seizes one side of the dualism and is hurled to the -other. (It bisects space, and then finds itself before two objects -identical in nature with the first; it has effected nothing; it repeats -the process, and, by and by getting exhausted, wonders whether it could -meet a different 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 “progress” is nothing -but a return to itself, the same monotonous round. It would be a similar -attempt to seek the end of a circle by travelling round it, and one -might make the profound remark: “If my powers were equal to the task, I -should doubtless 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 Simplicius, -treating of this paradox. - -The “Infinite Progress” is the most stubborn fortress of Scepticism. By -it our negative writers establish the impotency of Reason for various -ulterior purposes. Some wish to use it as a lubricating fluid upon -certain religious dogmas that cannot otherwise be swallowed. Others 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 Menschen allerhöchste Kraft! - Und hätt’er sich auch nicht dem Teufel übergeben, - Er müsste doch zu Grunde gehen.” - -Only prove that there is a large field of the unknowable and one has at -once the _vade mecum_ for stupidity. Crude reflection can pour in its -distinctions into a subject, and save itself from the consequences by -pronouncing the basis incomprehensible. It also removes _all_ -possibility of Theology, or of the Piety of the Intellect, and leaves a -very narrow margin for religious sentiment, or the Piety of the Heart. - -The stage of Science represented by the French Encyclopædists was -immediately hostile to each and every form of religion. This second -stage, however, has a choice. It can, like Hamilton or Mansel, let -religious 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, “determinations from a religion,” by which -it is distinguished from other religions, and show their truth to -consist in a common doctrine held by all, to-wit: “The truth of things -is unknowable.” - -Thus the scientific man can baffle all attacks from the religious -standpoint; nay, he can even elicit the most unbounded approval, while -he saps the entire structure of Christianity. - -Says Spencer (p. 46): “Science and Religion agree in this, that the -power which the Universe manifests to us is utterly inscrutable.” 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 religions agree in -professing to _reveal_ the solution of the Mystery of the Universe to -man; and they agree, moreover, that man, as simply a being of sense and -reflection, cannot comprehend the revelation; but that he must first -pass through a profound mediation—be _regenerated_, not merely in his -heart, but in _intellect_ also. The misty limitations (“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-created,” -“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 regarded 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 -identified; and this Mr. Mansel rightly holds to be the annihilation -of both.” He considers 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 conceal to the higher.” (P. 66,) “Objective and subjective -things are alike inscrutable in their substance and genesis.” -“Ultimate 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 posited in this form: “Everything -immediate is _phenomenal_, a manifestation of the hidden and inscrutable -essence.” This essence is the unknown and unknowable; yet it _manifests_ -itself in the immediate or phenomenal. - -The first stage of thought was unconscious that it dealt all the time -with a mediated result (a dualism) while it assumed 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_ difficulty, 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 essence is -_not_ manifested by the phenomenon, then we have the so-called -phenomenon as a self-existent, and therefore independent of the -so-called essence, which stands coördinated to it as another existent, -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 philosopher. - -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 unaffected by “otherness” (or limitation) and entirely -undetermined; and this would be pure nothing, for it cannot distinguish -itself or be distinguished from pure nothing. - -_b._ As relating to itself, and hence making itself a duality—becoming -its own other; in this case the “other” is a vanishing one, for it is at -the same time identical and non-identical—a process in which the essence -may be said to appear or become _phenomenal_. The entire process is the -absolute or self-related (and hence independent). It is determined, but -by itself, and hence not in a finite manner. - -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-nugatory; and -this non-abiding character gives it the name of phenomenon (or that -which merely _appears_, but is no permanent essence). - -_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 negated, or as returned from the otherness. - -_c._ This self-nugatoriness is seen to arise from the contradiction -involved in its being 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-nugatoriness the -phenomenon simply exhibits or “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 -somewhat. It is dependent upon other or essence. _b._ Whatever it -posesses belongs to that upon which it depends, i. e. belongs to -essence. _c._ In the self-nugatoriness 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 impossible 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 somewhat or an -immediate, and, _b._ The cancelling of the same. In this duality of -beginning and ceasing, this self-relation completes its circle, and is -thus, _c._ the entire movement. - -All categories of the understanding (cause and effect, matter and form, -possibility, etc.) are found to contain this movement when dissolved. -And hence they have self-determination for their presupposition and -explanation. It is unnecessary 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 Republic, ch. xxi., and in the seventh book, -ch. xiii., one may see how clearly this matter was understood two -thousand, and more, 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 unknowable. - -Mr. Spencer goes on; no hypothesis of the universe is -possible—creation not conceivable, for that would be something out of -nothing—self-existence not conceivable, for that involves unlimited -past time. - -He holds that “all knowledge is _relative_,” for all explanation is the -reducing of a cognition to a more general. He says, (p. 69,) “Of -necessity, therefore, explanation 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 subsume it under a more general. - -(_b._) The “_summum genus_” cannot be subsumed, and - -(_c._) Hence is inexplicable. - -II. But those who conclude from this that we base our knowledge -ultimately upon faith (from the supposed fact than we cannot prove our -premises) forget that— - -(_a._) If the subsuming process ends in an unknown, then all the -subsuming has resulted in nothing; for to subsume something under an -unknown does not explain it. (Plato’s Republic, Book VII, chap. xiii.) - -(_b._) 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 pure simple is the absolutely clear. - -(_c._) At the “_summum genus_” subsumption 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 subsumption that -makes something 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 knowing—“a is a,” or “a subject is a predicate”—(a is b). The pure -“is” is the empty form of mental affirmation, the pure copula; 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 -subsumption becomes identity—(being = _ego_, or “_cogito, 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 “KNOWABLE.” - - -As might be expected from Spencer’s treatment of the _unknowable_, the -_knowable_ will prove a confused affair; especially since to the -above-mentioned “inscrutability” of the absolute, he adds the doctrine -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; -whatever does not present each of them does not admit of cognition. And -hence we may say that the unconditioned as presenting 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-contradiction thus developed, and turn -to the positions 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 “conceivability” 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 velocity, 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 magnitude to -another all intermediate degrees must be passed through. Or in the case -before us, a body 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 incompressible 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 velocity 4 strikes another at rest, the striking unit must -have its velocity 4 instantaneously reduced to velocity 2; must pass -from velocity 4 to velocity 2 without any 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 -acknowledges 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 become 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 synthesis 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 unthinkable for the same -reason that the creation of matter is unthinkable.” (P. 54): “Matter in -its ultimate nature is as absolutely incomprehensible as space and -time.” The nature of matter is unthinkable, its creation 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-existence will apply here. (P. 31): -“Self-existence necessarily means existence without 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 conceive -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; indestructibility 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 requires, the ever-convenient argument of -“inconceivability” enters. It reminds one of Sir Wm. 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 motion, 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 statement of it. - -This abstract, supposed law has necessitated much scaffolding in Natural -Philosophy that is otherwise entirely unnecessary; 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 momentum. - -II. Momentum is the product of weight by velocity, and weight is the -attraction of the body in question to another body external to it. If -all bodies external to the moving body were entirely removed, 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 momentum 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 doctrine 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): “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 suppress consciousness itself.” (P. -258): “Whoever alleges that the inability to conceive a beginning or end -of the universe is a _negative_ result of our mental structure, cannot -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 persistence 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 something 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 endeavoring to solve the First -Antinomy of Kant, and that his argument in this place differs from -Kant’s proof of the “Antithesis” in this, that while Kant proves that -“The world [or universe] has no beginning,” 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 apagogically by showing the -absurdity of an “infinite 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 beginning,” -and “to conceive existence through infinite past time, implies the -conception of infinite past time, which is an impossibility.” 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 knowable. - -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 unknowable, 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 -indirectly 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 aërial -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. 284): “Each -manifestation of force can be interpreted only as the effect of some -antecedent force; no matter whether it be an inorganic action, 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 certain energies expended in their -production, and to certain other energies they initiate; or else nothing -must become something and something, nothing. Since persistence of -force, being a _datum_ of consciousness, 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 it is entirely -determined from without, 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 impossible phantom. - -5. That there is self-determination in self-consciousness—that it is -“self-created”—is to Mr. Spencer the absurd alternative 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 -materialistic. Let none persist in these misconceptions.” (P. 502): -“Their implications 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 “Antithesis,” viz: -“There is no freedom, but everything in the world happens according to -the laws of nature.” The “Thesis,” viz: “That a causality of freedom is -necessary to account fully for the phenomena of the world,” he has not -anywhere supported. We find, in fact, only those thinkers 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 condition cannot be a permanent (or have been always in -existence); for, if so, its consequence, 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, (_b_) 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; -each 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 experience 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 (Metaphysics, xi. 6-7, and ix. 8) exhibits -this ultimate as the “self-active,” and the Scholastics 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 at all. - -II. Antithesis: If there is self-determination, “the unity of experience -(which leads us to look for a cause) is destroyed, and hence no such -case could arise in experience.” - -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 continuity in the sequence of time, and thus exhibits itself as the -second stage of thought, which leans on the staff of fancy, i. e. mere -_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 -“_representative_” stage of thinking finds itself unable to shake off -the sensuous picture, and think “_sub quadam specie æternitatis_.” To -the mind disciplined to the third stage of thought, these are no -antinomies; Spinoza, Leibnitz, Plato and Aristotle are not confused 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 infinite -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 be a “self-determined.” - -On page 282 we learn that, “The solar heat is the final source of the -force manifested by society.” “It (the force of society) 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 question, 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 combustion of -coal. The late George Stephenson appears to have been wrongly credited -with this last idea.” - -In order to add to the thorough discussion of this important question, -we wish to suggest the claims of Thomas Carlyle, who, as far back as -1830, wrote the following 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, O 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 from thy wet hand, rests not where it falls, but to-morrow thou -findest it swept away; already, on the wings of the north wind, it is -nearing the tropic of Cancer. How it came to evaporate and not lie -motionless? Thinkest thou there is aught motionless, without force, and -dead? - -“As I rode through the Schwartzwald, I said to myself: That little fire -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 detached, separated speck, cut off 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 correlation theory in connection with -equilibrium. - -I. Motion results from destroyed equilibrium. The whole totality does -not correspond to itself, its ideal and real contradict each other. The -movement is the restoring of the equilibrium, or the bringing into unity -of the ideal and real. To illustrate: 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 assume 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 example, ideally takes up a more extended space than it -has really; it expands to fill it. Or (_b_) contractive forces: the -multiplicity ideally exists within; e. g. attraction 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 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 unrestorable equilibrium; in moving -to restore one equilibrium, it must destroy another—its equivalent. - -III. But this contradicts the above developed 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 “persistence of force” rests on the -category of causality; its thin disguise consists in the substitution of -other words for the metaphysical expression, “Every effect must be equal -to its cause.” And this, when tortured in the crucible, confesses that -the only efficient cause is “_causi sui_;” hence the effect is equal to -its cause, because 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 assumed, is also evident. Taking all counter-hypotheses -and generalizing them, we have this analysis: - -I. Any and every being is determined from without through another. (This -theorem 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 without 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 results -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). - -_Remark._—A chain of dependent beings collapses into one dependent -being. Dependence is not converted into independence by simple -multiplication. All dependence is thus an element of an independent -whole. - -IV. What is the _character_ of this independent whole, this _negative -unity_? “Character” means determination, and we are prepared to say that -its determination cannot be through another, for then it would be a -dependent, and we should be referred again to the whole, including it. -Its determination by which the multiplicity of elements arises is hence -its own self-determination. Thus all finitude and dependence presupposes -as its condition, self-determination. - -V. Self-determination more closely examined exhibits some remarkable -results, (which will throw light on the discussion of “Essence and -Phenomena” above): - -(1.) It is “_causa sui_;” active and passive; existing dually as -determining and determined; this self-diremption produces a distinction -in itself which is again cancelled. - -(2.) As determiner (or active, or cause), it is the pure universal—the -_possibility of any_ determinations. But as _determined_ (passive or -effect) it is the special, the particular, 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 -negativity), it at once becomes its own object. - -(_b._) Its activity (limiting or determining)—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 negative unity are more properly -subject and object, and since they are identical (_causa sui_) we may -name the result “self-consciousness.” - -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, unconditioned 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. 6 & 7) carries this whole question of motion -back to its presupposition in a mode of treatment, “_sub quadam specie -æternitatis_.” He concludes thus: “The thinking, however, of that which -is purely for itself, is a thinking of that which is most excellent in -and for itself. - -“The thinking thinks itself, however, through participation in that -which is thought by it; it becomes this object in its own activity, in -such a 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 excellent employment; if, then, -God is always 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 itself, 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 -“conceivables,” and arrives at the “unpicturable notions of -intelligence,” he will find it easy to reduce the vexed antinomies of -force, matter, motion, time, space and causality; arriving 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 present activity of Reflection when it shall have -arrived at a perception of its method. - -_Resumé._—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 that subject and object are one, -is impossible. 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 category is unsubsumed, and -hence inexplicable. - -(4.) Our intellectual faculties may be improved to a certain extent, and -beyond this, no amount of training can avail anything. (Biology, vol. I, -p. 188.) - -(5.) The “substance of consciousness” is the basis of our ideas of -persistence of Force, Matter, etc. - -(6.) All knowing is relative; our knowledge 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 “manifested,” 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, we 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 “mental structure,” although we cannot conceive -either destructibility or indestructibility. - -(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 unknowable; unrevealed and -unrevealable, either naturally or supernaturally; for to reveal, -requires that some one shall comprehend what is revealed. The sole -doctrine of Religion of great value is the doctrine that God transcends -the human intellect. When Religion professes to reveal Him to man and -declare His attributes, then it is irreligious. Though God is the -unknown, yet personality, reason, consciousness, etc., are degrading -when applied to Him. The “Thirty-nine Articles” 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 manifestation of the unknowable.” - - - COSMOLOGY. - - -“Evolution is a change from an indefinite, incoherent homogeneity, to a -definite, coherent heterogeneity; through continuous differentiations -and integrations.” This is the law of the Universe. All progresses to an -equilibration—to a moving equilibrium. - - - - - 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 publication 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, quæ agitur, petimus, ut homines, eam non opinionem, sed opus - esse, cogitent ac pro certo habeant, non sectæ nos alicujus, aut - placiti, sed utilitatis et amplitudinis humanæ fundamenta moliri. - Deinde, ut, suis commodis æqui, in commune consulant, et ipsi in - partem veniant.—_Baco de Verulamio._ - -The author of the Science of Knowledge was soon convinced, through a -slight acquaintance 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 -successors appeared to understand what he had really spoken of. The -author believed that he had understood the latter; he resolved to devote -his life to a representation—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 hearers, with whom it was in my power to explain myself in words -until I was understood. - -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 elsewhere, -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 opposed 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 comprehensible, 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. I shall continue -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 explanations: 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 independent of -Kant’s mode of representation. 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 years. Kant is as yet a sealed -book, and what he has been understood to teach, is exactly what he -intended to eradicate. - -My writings are neither to explain Kant, nor to be 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 they 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: “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 insignificant 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—altogether new to the age. - -Censure without argument tells me simply that my doctrine does not -please; and this confession is again very unimportant; 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 conviction, 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 seek truth for himself; who see -nothing in science but a comfortable mode of subsistence; who are -horrified at every proposition to enlarge its boundaries involving as a -new labor, and who consider no means disgraceful by which they can hope -to suppress 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 realized; 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 imposed 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, -because 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 system of those representations which are accompanied by the -feeling of necessity and of that feeling of necessity itself? To answer -this question is the object of philosophy; and, in my opinion, nothing -is philosophy but the Science which solves this problem. The system of -those representations, which are accompanied by the feeling of -necessity, is also called _Experience_—internal as well as external -experience. 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 feeling 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 knowledge, -or be altogether differently constructed 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 irremovable ignorance -concerning it, and must remain so. To enter into argument with such a -person is altogether superfluous. 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 -designation, and assert: “Philosophy is something 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 signifies 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 up the name of Philosophy, -and have called the Science which has the solution of this 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 otherwise, though it was not -determined by freedom, can we ask for its ground; and by this very -asking for its ground does it become accidental to the questioner. To -find the ground of anything accidental means, to find something else, -from the determinedness 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—beyond -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 -consciousness, i. e. of inner experience. - -No objection can be raised to this paragraph; for the premise of our -conclusion is a mere analysis of the above-stated conception of -Philosophy, and from the premise the conclusion is drawn. If somebody -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 understood, the possibility of Philosophy, as we have -described it, must be altogether denied, 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 impossible -that he can elevate himself beyond experience. - -But he can abstract; i. e. he can separate by the freedom of thinking -what in experience is united. In Experience, _the Thing_—that which is -to be determined in itself independent of our freedom, and in accordance -with which our knowledge is to shape itself—and the Intelligence—which -is to obtain a knowledge of it—are inseparably 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 experience; if he abstract from the latter, he retains the -Thing _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 explanatory 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 necessity, are -productions of the Intelligence, which must be presupposed in their -explanation; according to the latter system they are the productions of -a thing in itself which must be presupposed 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 mentioned. - -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 abstraction; -but it will at the same time be shown that the consciousness of it is -conditioned by an abstraction, which, however, 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 undertaken; 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)—between the -object of _Idealism_ and that of _Dogmatism_ there is a remarkable -distinction in regard to their relation to consciousness generally. All -whereof I am conscious is called object of consciousness. There are -three ways in which the object 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-determination. Hence I am myself my own -object, the determinateness of which, under certain 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 actually 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 _“I” in itself_; not as an -object of Experience—for it is not determined, but is exclusively -determinable through my freedom, and without this determination it would -be nothing, and is really not at all—but as something beyond all -Experience. - -The object of Dogmatism, on the contrary, 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 system 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. True, the dogmatist wants to obtain reality -for it through the necessity of thinking it as ground of all experience, -and would succeed, if he could prove that experience 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 explanatory 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 but 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 system. 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 particular manner within -consciousness. - -If anybody should not be able to convince himself of the truth of what -we have just said, this would not make his conviction of the truth of -the whole system an impossibility, 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 immediate self-consciousness in a free act of the -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 abstract 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 consciousness 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 invention, an -objection could only be raised, because it were misunderstood. - -V. Neither of these two systems can directly 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 -may agree on the words of a sentence, they will surely 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 systems of Kant and of the Science -of Knowledge are _idealistic_—not in the general indefinite, but in the -just described definite sense of the word; but the modern philosophers -are all of them dogmatists, and are firmly resolved to remain so. Kant -was merely tolerated, because it was possible 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 misunderstood—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 imagination, and -it does little honor to its defenders 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 shallow Empiricism.) - -First. Idealism cannot refute Dogmatism. True, the former system has the -advantage, as we have already said, of being enabled to point out its -explanatory ground of all experience—the free acting intelligence—as a -fact of consciousness. This fact the dogmatist must also admit, for -otherwise he would render himself incapable of maintaining the argument -with his opponent; but he at the same time, by a correct conclusion from -his principle, changes this explanatory ground into a deception and -appearance, and thus renders it incapable of being the explanatory -ground of anything else, since it cannot maintain its own existence in -its own philosophy. According to the Dogmatist, all phenomena of our -consciousness are productions of a _Thing in itself_, even our pretended -determinations 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 -denies the independence of the _Ego_, which is the basis of the -Idealist, _in toto_, makes it merely a production of the Thing, an -accidence 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 Idealist. - -The principle of the former, the Thing in itself, is nothing, and has no -reality, as its defenders themselves must admit, except that which it is -to receive from the fact that experience can only be explained by it. -But this proof the Idealist annihilates 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 further -reason why it should be assumed; and with it the whole edifice of -dogmatism tumbles down. - -From what we have just stated, is moreover evident the complete -irreconcilability of both systems; since the _results_ of the one -destroy those of the other. Wherever their union has been attempted the -members 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 present, 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 question: -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 philosopher, and -which, in the progress of Thinking, 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 determined things -outside of him. But it is impossible for man to stop at this thought; -the thought of a representation is but a half-thought, a broken off -fragment of a thought; something must be thought and added to it, as -corresponding with the representation independent of it. 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 thinking it is, which forces one from that point of view to -the question: What is the ground of the representations? or, which is -exactly the same, What is that which corresponds with them? - -Now the _representation_ of the independence of the _Ego_ and that of -the Thing can very well exist together; but not the independence -_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 -connected—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 another, but the commencement of the first -link, which as an absolute first act is altogether conditional upon the -freedom of Thinking. Hence the decision is arbitrary; and since this -arbitrariness is nevertheless to have a cause, the decision is dependent -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 Philosopher. Not to -lose his Self in his argumentation, 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 absolute independence, who are merely -conscious 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 independence -of those things, since they exist only together with these things. -Whatever they are they have become through the outer World. Whosoever 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 become by making something -of themselves, through their own Self, independently of all outward -things—needs no longer the Things as supports of his Self, and cannot -use them, because they annihilate his independence and turn it into an -empty appearance. The _Ego_ which he possesses, and which interests him, -destroys that Faith in the Things; he believes in his independence, from -inclination, and seizes it with affection. His Faith in himself is -_immediate_. - -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 refrain -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 useless. The dogmatist gets angry, misconstrues, and would -persecute, if he had the power; the idealist is cold and in danger of -ridiculing his antagonist. - -Hence, what philosophy a man chooses depends entirely upon what kind of -man he is; for a philosophical system is not a piece of dead household -furniture, which you may use or not use, but is animated by the soul of -the man who has it. Men of a naturally weak-minded character, or who -have become weak-minded and crooked through intellectual slavery, -scholarly luxury and vanity, will never elevate themselves to idealism. - -You can show the dogmatist the insufficiency 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 calmness what he cannot tolerate. If -Idealism should prove to be the only real Philosophy, 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 Science expects few -proselytes from men who have already formed their character; if our -Philosophy 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-mindedness of the age. - -VI. But dogmatism is totally incapable of explaining what it should -explain, and this is decisive in regard to its insufficiency. 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 -consciousness 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 contemplation, 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 himself, must -long since have discovered. - -The Intelligence, as such, _sees itself_, and this seeing of its self is -immediately connected with all that appertains to the Intelligence; and -in this immediate uniting of _Being_ and _Seeing_ the nature of the -Intelligence consists. Whatever is in the Intelligence, 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 invention; but -if the objects are real and exist without my invention, I simply -contemplate, 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 -figuratively, a twofold—Being and Seeing, the Real and the Ideal; and in -the inseparability of this twofold the nature of the Intelligence -consists, while the Thing is simply a unit—the Real. Hence Intelligence -and Thing 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 endeavors to explain by the principle of Causality; the -Intelligence is to be a production, 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 Being, and nothing further; 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 transfer 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 reacts 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 thinking as the -primary and absolute, the connection of which, with this your -_independent_ 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 Representation; but this you do not, nor can you do -it; for your principle contains merely the ground of a Being, and not of -a Representation, 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. Rigorously—and this is the course of consistent -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 Things, and by 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 harmony resulting from sounds -of different instruments, make its irrationality only more apparent. For -the harmony is not in the instruments, but 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, would thereby be made the -category of cause and effect 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, Dogmatism has, indeed, attempted to presuppose -Thing or the Soul, or both, in such a manner, that the effect of the -Thing was to produce a representation. The Thing, as influencing the -Soul, is to be such, as to make its influences representations; GOD, for -instance, in Berkley’s system, was such a thing. (His system is -dogmatic, not idealistic.) But this does not better matters; we -understand only mechanical effects, and it is impossible for us to -understand any other kind of effects. Hence, that presupposition -contains merely words, but there is no sense in it. Or the soul is to 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 -assume. 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, -anything. For whenever one attempts to think the manner in which is -accomplished what Dogmatism asserts to be accomplished, the whole idea -vanishes into empty foam. Hence Dogmatism can only repeat its principle, -and repeat it in different forms; can only assert and re-assert the same -thing; but it cannot proceed from what it asserts to what is to be -explained, nor 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 produce 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 intelligence, which we have -described, and upon which our whole refutation of Dogmatism 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 cannot convince the Dogmatist by the proof just stated, -however clear it may be, for you cannot bring the proof to his -knowledge, since he lacks the power to comprehend it. - -Moreover, the manner in which Dogmatism is treated here, is opposed to -the mild way of thinking which characterizes our age, and which, though -it has been extensively 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 but 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 imagination, never investigating further of what they may -consist. If, for instance, an Alexander Von Ioch tells them: “All things -are determined by natural necessity; now our representations depend upon -the condition of Things, and our will depends upon our representations: -hence all our will is determined by natural necessity, and our opinion -of a free will is mere deception!”—then these people think it mightily -comprehensible and clear, although there is no sense in it; and they go -away convinced and satisfied at the stringency 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 Science does not pretend to have established anything. - -VII. Idealism, as we have said above, explains the determinations of -consciousness from the activity of the Intelligence, which, in its view, -is only active and absolute, not passive; since it is postulated as the -first and highest, preceded by nothing, which might explain its -passivity. From the same reason actual _Existence_ cannot well be -ascribed to the Intelligence, since such Existence is the result of -reciprocal causality, but there is nothing wherewith 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 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, existing without any work of -our own—are to be deduced from the action of the Intelligence; but you -cannot deduce anything determined from an undetermined; the form of all -deductions, the category of ground and sequence, is not applicable here. -Hence the action of the Intelligence, which is made the ground, must be -a _determined_ action, and since the action of the Intelligence itself -is the highest ground of explanation, that action must be so determined -_by the Intelligence itself_, and not by anything foreign to it. Hence -the presupposition 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 considered 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 Intelligence experiences -in those cases, not an impression from without, but feels in its action -the limits of its own Essence. In so far as Idealism makes this only -reasonable and really explanatory presupposition of necessary laws of -the Intelligence, it is called _Critical_ or _Transcendental Idealism_. -A transcendent Idealism would be a system 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 is not applicable in that case. - -The laws of action of the Intelligence, 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 -particular manner under this particular condition _is_ explainable, and -explainable because 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 Intelligence 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 proceed in a twofold manner. Either it -deduces this system of necessary modes of action, and together with it -the objective representations arising therefrom, really from the -fundamental laws of the Intelligence, and thus causes gradually to arise -under the very eyes of the reader or hearer the whole extent of our -representations; or it gathers these laws—perhaps as they are already -immediately applied to objects; hence, in a lower condition, and then -they are called categories—gathers these laws somewhere, and now -asserts, that the objects are determined and regulated by them. - -I ask the critic who follows the last-mentioned method, and who does not -deduce the assumed laws of the Intelligence from the Essence of the -Intelligence, where he gets the material knowledge of these laws, the -knowledge that they are just these very same laws; 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 he 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 qualities 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 -proceeding, indeed, furnishes no understanding that and why the -Intelligence should act just in this particular manner. To produce such -an understanding, it would be necessary to premise something which can -only appertain to the Intelligence, and from those premises to deduce -before our eyes the laws of Thinking. - -By such a course of proceeding it is above all incomprehensible how the -object 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 it is, for instance, in -space, manifested in time, with accidences which must be referred to a -substance, &c.) But whence that which has these relations and qualities? -whence then the substance which is clothed in these forms? 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 relations -together are the Thing. The Object is the original Synthesis of all -these conceptions. Form and Substance are not separates; the whole -formness is the substance, and only in the analysis do we arrive at -separate forms. - -But this the critic, who follows the above method, can only assert, 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 -Dogmatism it has no other weapon than the assertion that it is in the -right; and against the more perfected criticism no other weapon than -impotent anger, and the assurance that you can go no further than itself -goes. - -Finally a system of this character puts forth only those laws, according -to which the objects of external experience are determined. But these -constitute by far the smallest portion of the laws of the Intelligence. -Hence, on the field of Practical Reason 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 compelled to repeat what I -have said, and to recall to mind that everything depends upon the -correct understanding thereof. - -This Idealism proceeds from a single fundamental Law of Reason, which is -immediately shown as contained in consciousness. This is done in the -following manner: The teacher of that Science requests his reader or -hearer to think freely a certain conception. If he does so, he will find -himself forced to proceed in a particular manner. Two things are to be -distinguished here: the act of Thinking, which is required—the -realization of which depends upon each individual’s freedom,—and unless -he realizes it thus, he will not understand 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 together with a free action; it is something -_discovered_, but the discovery of which depends upon an act of freedom. - -So far as this goes, the teacher of Idealism 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 system 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 fundamental law which was discovered in immediate 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 possibility_. The teacher’s method is a continual -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 correct, and if no errors have been -made in the deduction, the last result, as containing all the conditions -of the first act, must contain the system of all necessary -representations, or the total experience;—a comparison, however, which -is not instituted in Philosophy itself, but only after that science has -finished its work. - -For Idealism has not kept this experience in sight, as the preknown -object and result, which it should arrive at; in its course of -proceeding it knows nothing at all of experience, and does not look upon -it; it proceeds from its starting point according 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 to 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 discovered, 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 as -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 experience, 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 anticipates the whole experience, _thinks_ it only -as necessary; and, in so far, Philosophy is, in comparison with real -experience, _a priori_. The number is _a posteriori_, if regarded as -given; the same number is _a priori_, if regarded as product of the -factors. Whosoever says otherwise knows not what he talks about. - -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 -intelligence. In that case, either the presupposition of transcendental -Idealism is altogether incorrect, or it has merely been incorrectly -treated in the particular representation 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 impossible; and -since, moreover, there are only two ways of solving it, the dogmatic -system (which, as we have shown, cannot accomplish what it promises) and -the Idealistic 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 attempts to represent it should -deter men from attempting it again until finally it must succeed. The -course of this Idealism proceeds, as we have seen, from a fact of -consciousness—but which is only obtained by a free act of Thinking—to -the total experience. Its peculiar ground is between these two. It is -not a fact of consciousness 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 proceeding according to laws. This will be at once -clear, if we look a little closer at the fundamental assertion of -Idealism. It proves that the Postulated is not possible without a -second, this not without a third, &c., &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 by 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 abstraction; -because in free Thinking you can certainly take hold of each single -condition. For consciousness contains not only necessity of -Representations, but also freedom thereof; and this freedom again may -proceed according to rules. The Whole is given to you from the point of -view of necessary 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 undertakes this act of freedom, becomes -conscious of freedom, and thus establishes, as it were, a new field -within his consciousness; whosoever does not undertake it, for him this -new field, dependent thereupon, does not exist. The chemist composes a -body, a metal for instance, from its elements. The common beholder sees -the metal well known to him; the chemist beholds, 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 ordinary 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 cannot 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 -necessary Thinking, on the condition that you desire to think of the -ground of Experience. 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 reality 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 impossibility of a thing which is -already realized, is ridiculous. - -Objections, to be 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 ÆSTHETICS OF HEGEL. - [Translated from the French of M. Ch. Bénard by J. A. Martling.] - - - ANALYSIS. - - -Having undertaken to translate into our language the Æsthetics 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 connection 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 exposition; 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_. - - - PART I. - OF THE BEAUTIFUL IN ART. - - -In an extended introduction, Hegel lays the foundations of the science -of the Beautiful: he defines its object, demonstrates its legitimacy, -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 necessary, explain it. - -Æsthetics _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 classification. 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 -simply as an auxiliary of morals and religion. Although it often serves -as interpreter of moral and religious ideas, it preserves 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 passions of man, and the motives of his volition. -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 certain -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 -simultaneous employment. To a positive acquaintance with works of art, -to the discrimination and delicacy of taste necessary to appreciate -them, there should be joined philosophic reflection, and the capacity 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 connection 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 human activity, a creation of -the mind. What distinguishes it from science is this, that it is the -fruit of inspiration, not of reflection. On this account it can not 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 becomes, 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 works 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, fundamental 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 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 sensibility, nevertheless its direct -aim is not to excite sensation, and to give birth to pleasure. Sensation -is changeful, varied, contradictory. 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 abstraction 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, occupies 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 contemplate 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 concrete form and its individuality; it discards the -individual side in order to abstract and disengage from it the law, the -universal, the essence. Reason 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 sensuous 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 stirring the soul in its profoundest depths, of -causing it to experience the pure delight springing from the sight and -contemplation 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 philosopher 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 coexist in thought, and cannot be separated. Thus the -imagination is itself a gift of nature. Scientific genius is rather a -general capacity than an innate and special 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 musician. - -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 reproduce 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 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 imitate 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. -Rival 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 -internal and living principle, 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 -expression solely—if expression is its essential 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, impious, the artist will have fulfilled his obligation 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 living 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 contradictory. 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 -reflection; it elevates his thought and sentiments, 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 instruction for minds -incapable of comprehending truth otherwise than under the veil of a -symbol, and by images that address themselves 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 confusion 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 without which it has no inspiration—that thereby it be not -prevented from producing 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, essentially diverse forms of -truth, and, while preserving entire the bonds which unite them, they -claim a complete independence. Art has its peculiar laws, methods and -jurisdiction; though it ought not to wound the moral sense, yet it is -the sense of the Beautiful to which it is addressed. When its works are -pure, its effect on the soul is salutary, but 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 -furnishes 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 controls it to such a degree, that it has no -longer even a choice of subjects. The severe 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 -realization 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 the destiny of beings who by their development 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 distinct. Duty -consists in an incessant striving. Thus, in one respect, morals and art -have the same principle and the same aim; the harmony of rectitude, and -happiness 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 consequence 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 -necessary to elevate one’s self to a superior point of view, which is -not that of morals. In empirical science equally, the law appears -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 beings and their -manifestation, of essence and form, of rectitude and happiness. The -beautiful is essence realized, activity 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, edification, are accessories or consequences. The effect -of the contemplation of the Beautiful is to produce in us a calm and -pure joy, incompatible 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 the three ideas of the Good, the -Beautiful, and the Divine. - -Such are the principal ideas which this remarkable introduction -contains. The remainder, devoted to the examination of works which have -marked the development of æsthetic science in Germany since Kant, is -scarcely susceptible of analysis, and does not so much deserve our -attention. - -_The first part_ of the science of æsthetics, which might be called the -Metaphysics of the Beautiful, contains, together with the analysis of -the idea of the Beautiful, the general principles common to all the -arts. Thus Hegel here treats: _First, of the abstract 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 artist. But before entering upon these questions, he -thought it necessary to point out the place of art in human life, and -especially _its connections with religion and philosophy_. - -The destination of 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 being; 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 progressive -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 removing the -limits, in effacing all contradiction, 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 satisfaction 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 his being, and one of the -fundamental inclinations of his moral 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 obtain the perfect realization of his ideas, nor -attain the ideal which his spirit conceives and toward which it aspires. -He then feels the necessity of elevating himself to a higher sphere -where all contradictions are cancelled; where the idea of the good and -of happiness in their perfect accord and their enduring harmony is -realized. This profound want of the soul is satisfied in three ways: in -_art_, in _religion_, and in _philosophy_. 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 harmony of two -principles of existence, of the idea and the form, of the infinite and -the finite. This is the principle and the hidden 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 cancelled. Such is the aim of art: to represent the -divine, the infinite, under sensuous forms. This is its mission; it has -no other and this it alone can fulfil. 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 -distinguished by the form under which they become revealed to the spirit -and consciousness of man. Art is addressed to sensuous perception and to -the imagination; religion is addressed to the soul, to the conscience, -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 sensuous forms, does not, however, -respond to the profoundest needs of the soul. The spirit is possessed of -the desire of entering into itself, of contemplating the truth in the -inner recesses of consciousness. Above the domain of art, then, religion -is placed, which reveals the infinite, and by meditation 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 comprehend, by the intellect alone, under an abstract -form, that which is given as sentiment or as sensuous representation. - -I. _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 foregoing: the Beautiful is the -true, that is to say, the essence, the inmost substance of things; the -true, not such as the mind conceives it in its abstract and pure nature, -but as manifested to the senses under visible forms. It is the sensuous -_manifestation 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 beautiful? 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 limiting -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 harmoniously. 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 consciousness of his infinite nature. He tastes a pure pleasure, -resulting from the felt accord of the powers of his being; a celestial -and divine joy, which has nothing in common 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 craving; it is -self-sufficing, and is not accompanied by any return of the me upon -itself. It suffers the object to preserve its independence for its own -sake. The soul experiences something analogous 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 describe the beauties of nature, it -ought, nevertheless, to study, in a general manner, 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 -chapter, with the following title: _Of the Beautiful 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 -results 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 manifestation of the Idea. The -successive degrees of beauty correspond to the development 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 which resides in them, and which reveals -itself in this unity. The solar system offers us a more perfect unity -and a higher beauty. The bodies in that system, while preserving entire -their individual existence, co-ordinate themselves into a whole, the -parts of which are independent, although attached to a common centre, -the sun. Beauty of this order strikes us by the regularity of the -movements of the celestial bodies. A unity more real and true is that -which is manifested in organized and living beings. The unity here -consists in a relation of reciprocity 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. - -Life is beautiful in nature: for it is essence, force, the idea realized -under its first form. Nevertheless, beauty in nature is still wholly -external; it has no consciousness of itself; it is beautiful solely for -an intelligence which sees and contemplates 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 -movements; it is the internal harmony which reveals itself in this -secret accord of members, 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 science does. The unity -exhibits itself merely 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 accord, 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 -internal and free force. A similar activity is developed in a more -perfect manner in the living organism, its outlines, the disposition of -its members, the movements, and the expression of sensibility. - -Such is beauty in individual beings. It is otherwise with it when we -consider nature in its totality, the beauty of a landscape, 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 -multiplicity of objects which form a whole, mountains, trees, rivers, -etc. In this diversity there appears an external unity which interests -us by its agreeable or imposing character. To this aspect there is added -that property of the objects of nature 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 symbols of the sentiments of -the soul which they excite. It is thus we attribute to animals the -qualities which belong only to man, courage, fortitude, cunning. -Physical 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 bosom 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. - -Hegel then devotes a special examination to the external side, or to -beauty of form in natural objects. Physical beauty, considered -externally, presents itself successively under the aspects of -_regularity_ and _symmetry_, of _conformity_ to law and of _harmony_; -lastly, of _purity_ and simplicity of matter. - -1. _Regularity_, which is only the repetition 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 constitute mathematical beauty; they -are found in organic and inorganic bodies, minerals and crystals. In -plants are presented less regular, and freer forms. In the organization -of animals, this regular and symmetrical disposition becomes more and -more subordinated in proportion as we ascend to higher degrees of the -animal scale. - -2. _Conformity to a law_ marks a degree still more elevated, and serves -as a transition 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 -principal rôle; we discover a relation of quality between different -terms. A law rules the whole, but it cannot be calculated; it remains a -hidden bond, which reveals itself to the spectator. Such is the oval -line, and above all, the undulating line, 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 essentially -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 -_prononcé_, precisely because the differences and the oppositions are -more marked. Harmony, however, is not as yet true unity, spiritual -unity, that of the soul, although the latter possesses within it a -principle 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 simple 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 _imperfections_ 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, -remains concealed from us. We see only the outlines of the external -form, covered with hairs, scales, feathers, skin; secondly, the human -body, it is true, exhibits more beautiful proportions, and a more -perfect form, because in it, life and sensibility are everywhere -manifested—in the color, the flesh, the freer movements, nobler -attitudes, &c. Yet here, besides the imperfections in details, the -sensibility 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 influence of the -elements, are under the dominion of necessity and want. Under the -continual action of these causes, physical 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 -development. 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 diversity, and opposition of tendencies -and interests. The individual, in the plenitude of his life and beauty, -cannot preserve the appearance of a free force. Each individual being is -limited and particularized in his excellence. His life flows in a narrow -circle of space and time; he belongs to a determinate species; his type -is given, his form defined, and the conditions of his development fixed. -The human 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 imperfectly. 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 elevated, 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 representation of the ideal. Now what is -the _ideal_? It is beauty in a degree of perfection superior to real -beauty. It is force, life, spirit, the essence of things, developing -themselves 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 perfectly -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 life in its inferior -degrees—blind, undeveloped force—but the soul arrived at the -consciousness of itself, free, and in the full enjoyment of its -faculties; it is life, but spiritual life—in a word, spirit. The -representation 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 abstraction, a frigid generality; -it is the spiritual principle under the form of the living individual, -freed from the bonds of the finite, and developing itself in its perfect -harmony with its inmost nature and essence. - -We see, thus, what are the characteristics of the ideal. It is evident -that in all its degrees it is calmness, serenity, felicity, happy -existence, freed from the miseries and wants of life. This serenity does -not exclude earnestness; for the ideal appears in the midst of the -conflicts of life; but even in the roughest experiences, in the midst of -intense suffering, the soul preserves an evident calmness as a -fundamental 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 constitutes the ideal, in this inferior degree, is the fact -that this reality, imitated by art, is a creation of spirit, and becomes -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 object. In fixing that which is mobile and transient, in -eternizing that which is momentary and fugitive—a flower, a smile—art -surpasses nature and idealizes it. - -But it does not stop here. Instead of simply reproducing these objects, -while 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 -universal in the individual, and render visible the idea which they -represent, their eternal and fixed type. It allows this character of -generality to penetrate everywhere, without reducing it to an -abstraction. Thus the artist does not slavishly reproduce all the -features of the object, and its accidents, 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 represent 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 elements 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 -opposed 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, glorified 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 painting -particularly. It occupies, nevertheless, an inferior rank, and cannot -make pretensions 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 development 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, expression -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 insignificant, nothing that is not alive with expression -itself. Where shall he find in the real world, this just measure, this -animation, and this exact correspondence of all the parts and of all the -details conspiring to the same end, to the same effect? To say that he -will succeed in conceiving and realizing the ideal, by making a -felicitous selection of ideas and forms, is to ignore the secret of -artistic composition; it is to misconceive the entirely spontaneous -method of genius,—inspiration which creates at a single effort,—to -replace it by a 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 various and diverse -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 animated -by diverse passions. How, and under what conditions, is each art in -particular called upon to represent thus the ideal? This will be the -object of the theory of the arts. In the general exposition of the -principles of art, we may, nevertheless, attempt to define the degrees -of this development, to study the principal aspects under which it -manifests itself. Such is the object of those considerations, 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 -connection. - -The gradation which the author establishes between the progressively -determined forms 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 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 essential -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 soul, is the moral and divine -principle which is manifested 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 between principles and persons, divided as to -interests, ideas, passions, and characters. It is this especially that -is represented by poetry—the art _par excellence_, the only art which -can reproduce an action in its successive phases, with its -complications, its sudden turns of fortune, its catastrophe 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 -development 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 action, in order to -afford a high interest, should revolve upon ideas of an elevated order, -which inspire and sustain the personages, ennobling their passions, and -forming 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 dramatic poetry. - -1. The state of society most favorable to the ideal is that which allows -the characters 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. Nor 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. -Now the state intermediate between the barbarous state and an advanced -civilization, is the _heroic age_, that in which the epic poets locate -their action, and from which the tragic poets themselves have often -borrowed their subjects and their personages. That which characterizes -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 assumes not only the responsibility of his acts and their -consequences, but the results 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 recounting 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 particularly, because of -the perfect independence of will and action which characterizes them. In -this respect, our actual society, with its civil and political -organization, its manners, administration, police, etc., is prosaic. The -sphere of activity of the individual is too restricted; he encounters -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 to escape these conditions; and -when they have desired to represent personages nearer to us, as Charles -Moor, or Wallenstein, 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 they 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 determinate, 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, particularly, 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 collisions 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 movements of the soul, -and of the characters which appear and are revealed in the development -of the representation. - -3. In _action_, properly so-called, three things are to be considered -which constitute its ideal object: 1. The general interests, the ideas, -the universal principles, whose opposition forms the very foundation 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 others are, without doubt, added; -the powers of evil; but they ought not to be represented as forming the -real foundation and end of the action. “If the idea, the end and aim, be -something false in itself, 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 endured 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 personæ_. -Perversity, envy, cowardice, baseness, are only repulsive. - -“Evil, in itself, is stripped of real interest, because nothing but the -false can spring from what is false; it produces only misfortune, while -art should present to us order and harmony. The great artists, the great -poets of antiquity, never give us the spectacle of pure wickedness and -perversity.” - -We cite this passage because it exhibits the 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 superior to -man, by certain divinities like those which figure in 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 of so 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 passive instrument of the will of -the gods; fatality weighs upon all his acts. The true solution consists -in maintaining the identity of the two terms, in spite of their -difference; 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 personæ_ 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, Æschylus, and Sophocles. - -The general principles, those grand motives 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, capricious, irregular movement of the soul; it is a -noble principle, which blends itself with a great idea, with one of the -eternal verities 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 constitutes the centre and true domain -of art; it is the principle of emotion, the source of true pathos. - -Now, this moral verity, this eternal principle 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 personæ_, 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 artist or of the poet is displayed. - -Three principal elements must be united to form the ideal character, -_richness_, _vitality_, 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 being developed in diverse situations and under -varying aspects. Such a multiplicity alone can give vitality to the -character. This is not sufficient, however; it is necessary 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, simplicity and completeness of -detail, these are presented to us in the characters of Sophocles, -Shakspeare, and others. - -Lastly, what constitutes essentially the ideal in character is -consistency and stability. An inconsistent, undecided, irresolute -character, is the utter want of character. Contradictions, without -doubt, exist in human nature, but unity should be maintained in spite of -these fluctuations. Something identical ought to be found throughout, as -a fundamental trait. To be self-determining, 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 opposite of -the ideal character. - -Hegel on this subject strongly protests against the characters which -figure in modern pieces and romances, and of which Werther is the type. - -These pretended characters, says he, represent 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 decision, -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 -developed 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 passions 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 conceived 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, however, elevate him above -the conditions of human existence, and suppress these connections. - -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 represent the ideas and sentiments of the human soul, that -this is the true ground of its works. Hence all these minute -descriptions, this external care given to the picturesque element or to -the local color, to furniture, to costumes, to all those artificial -means employed to disguise the emptiness and insignificance of the -subject, the absence of ideas, the falsity of the situations, the -feebleness of the characters, and the improbability of the action. - -Nevertheless, this side has its place in art, and should not be -neglected. It gives 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 represent nature with perfect -truthfulness. Homer is an example of this. Without forgetting the -content for the form, picture 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, -enriches with these objects the content of its pictures. Among the -varieties of poetry, the epic is more circumstantial in its descriptions -than the drama or lyric poetry. But this external fidelity should not, -in any art, extend to the representation of insignificant details, to -the making of them an object of predilection, and to subordinating 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 -domain 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 ambrosia. The garment is an ornament designed to heighten -the glory of the features, to give nobleness to the countenance, to -facilitate 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 concur to produce the effect 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 -freedom. 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 barbarous 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 society, 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 person, 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 interest -in fabulous and imaginary or even historic persons. But then there is a -liability to distort history and tradition. - -Ought he, on the other hand, to reproduce with scrupulous exactness the -manners and customs of another time, to give 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 Romans are conceived in the likeness of Frenchmen. Since -then, by a natural reaction, the contrary tendency has prevailed. Today -the poet must have the knowledge of an archeologist, and possess his -scrupulous 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 these of the public, -to have a proper regard 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 addressed. 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 -humanity. The particularities of an epoch are not of true and enduring -interest to us. - -If, then, the subject is borrowed from remote 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 sympathize -with an epoch and with manners that are no more. Hence the two essential -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 addressed to the entire nation. Its works should be comprehended -and relished of themselves, and not after a course of difficult -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. Nevertheless, in the -measure that relations are multiplied between peoples, art can borrow -its subjects from all latitudes and from all epochs. It should, indeed, -as to the principal features, preserve, to the traditions, events, and -personages, to manners and institutions, their historic or traditional -character; but the duty of the artist, 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 excuse 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, and sentiments of another -epoch. Respect 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 reality, is a -necessary anachronism in art. Finally, 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 moderns. Some great poets have ventured -upon this intentionally; few have been successful 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 remains -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 examination of the qualities necessary -to an artist, such as imagination, genius, inspiration, 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 -æsthetical treatises; we shall find them again under another form in the -theory of the arts. - -[The next number will continue this translation through the treatment of -the Symbolic, Classic, and Romantic forms of art.] - - - - - NOTES ON RAPHAEL’S “TRANSFIGURATION.” - - -[Read before the St. Louis Art Society in November, 1866.] - - - 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 Encyclopædia, 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 finished from another drawing, was -very inadequate when compared with the original. - -Upon comparison with engravings by other artists, it seems to me that -this engraving has not received all the praise it deserves; I refer -especially 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 engraver 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 an engraving by a less fortunate artist; e.g.: one by Pavoni, -of recent origin. - - - II. HISTORICAL. - - -It is currently reported that Raphael painted the “Transfiguration” at -the instance 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 masterpiece, the -“Transfiguration,” and Sebastian, with the help of Michael Angelo, -painted the “Raising of Lazarus.” In 1520, before the picture was quite -finished, Raphael died. His favorite disciple, Giulio 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 varying from the one in the New -Testament, 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 legend the circumstance that two sympathetic -strangers, 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 suppose the scene to be Mount Tabor, -southeast 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, they 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 the individualities are more strongly marked 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. - -On 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 buries 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, concluded to follow him and test his -might which had been “noised abroad” in that region. It is easy to see -the relationship of the whole group. First the boy, actually -“possessed,” or a maniac; then his father—a man evidently predisposed to -insanity—supporting and restraining him. Kneeling at the right of the -boy is his mother, whose fair 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 foreground 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 -predisposed 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 Testament may succeed in identifying the -different 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 between Thomas and Bartholomew, is indicating 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 one. 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 attraction and hence divide the work into two different works. It -should be so constituted 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 make a -chaos only. - -(_b_) This central idea, however, cannot be represented in a work of art -without contrasts, and hence there must be antitheses present. - -(_c_) And these antitheses must be again reduced to unity by the -manifest dependence of each side upon the central idea. - -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. - -(_b_) The grandest antithesis is that between 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 -rapturously to the invisible source of light, and below them, the three -disciples swooning beneath the power of the celestial vision. (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 sympathy, and feeling keenly their -impotence during the absence of their Lord. - -Again even, there appear other antitheses. So completely does the idea -penetrate 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. Everywhere the subject is exhaustively treated; the family -in its different members, the disciples with the different shades of -sympathy and concern. (The maniac boy is a perfect picture of a being, -torn asunder by violent internal contradiction.) - -(_c_) The unity is no less remarkable. 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 has 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. Below, 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 supplications -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 interest) is the maniac boy, and yet he convulsively 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 antagonism, -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 suggested 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, 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 distinguished from any other work _not_ a work of art. Between -the Reason and the Senses there lies a broad realm, called the -“Understanding” by modern speculative writers. It was formerly called -the “discursive intellect.” The Understanding applies the criterion -“_use_.” It does not know _beauty_, or, indeed, anything which is _for -itself_; it knows only what is good for something 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 imaginative products. It wants imitation of nature -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 sensuous harmony, nor fail to have the -deeper unity of the Idea. It is evident that the sensuous side is always -cared for by Raphael. - -Here are some of the effects in the picture that are purely sensuous and -yet of such a kind that they immediately call up the idea. The source of -light in the picture is Christ’s form; _below_, it is reflected in the -garments of the conspicuous figure in the foreground. Above, is Christ; -opposite 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 understanding 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 mountain top as could be done by a full -length painting of it. Hence the criticism rests upon a misunderstanding -of the fact Raphael has portrayed. - - - VII. ROMANTIC _vs._ CLASSIC. - - -Finally, we must recur to those distinctions so much talked of, in order -to introduce the consideration of the grandest strokes of genius which -Raphael has displayed in this work. - -The distinction of Classic and Romantic Art, of Greek Art from -Christian: the former is characterized by a complete repose, 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, Romantic 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 upward and seems to derive its -support from above (i. e. the Spiritual, light). All Romantic Art points -to a _beyond_. The Madonnas 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 expressed 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 internal one, and his upraised gaze towards the 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 subjects. 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 in there! “Alas!” say his critics, “what a -fatal mistake! 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 message to Christ that there was need of him below. -But what is the effect of that upon the work as a piece of Romantic Art? -It would destroy that characteristic, if permitted in certain forms. -Raphael, however, 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 anything 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 illume the -mystery of existence! Even if you are 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 clearness in his exposition of the truth, that they saw -Moses and Elias, as it were, combined 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 Judgment—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 impotence. - -Whether we are to consider Raphael or Michael Angelo as the higher -artist, must be decided by an investigation of the merits 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. -signifying that which holds fast to the ordinary 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 step. For this purpose the method of definitions and axioms, with -deductions therefrom, as employed by Spinoza, is more appropriate at -first, and afterwards a gradual approach to the _Dialectic_, or true -philosophic method. In the mathematical method (that of Spinoza just -alluded to) the content may be speculative, but its form, never. Hence -the student of philosophy needs only to turn his attention 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 complete 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 who employ speculative _methods_ in treating -speculative _content_—a study of these without previous acquaintance -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 I shall here present will embody my own experience, to a -great extent, in the chronological order of its development. Each lesson -will endeavor to present an _aperçu_ derived from some great -philosopher. Those coming later will presuppose the earlier ones, and -frequently throw new light upon them. - -As one who undertakes the manufacture of an elegant piece of furniture -needs carefully 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 except his teeth and finger nails. -What complicated 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 required to enable the commonest mind -to manipulate the highest subjects of investigation. 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 method) -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.” Speculative philosophy—it cannot be too early inculcated—does -_not_ “conceal under cumbrous terminology views which men ordinarily -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 PRIORI AND A POSTERIORI. - - -_A priori_, as applied to knowledge, signifies 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 expressed has universal and -necessary validity it must be _a priori_, for it could not have been -derived from experience. Of empirical knowledge we can only say: “It is -true so far as experience has extended.” Of _a priori_ 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.” - - - II.—ANALYTICAL AND SYNTHETICAL. - - -A judgment which, in the predicate, adds nothing new to the subject, is -said to be _analytical_, as e. g. “Horse is an animal;”—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 investigate the _a priori_ in order to learn something 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 confine ourselves, as -Kant does, to _a priori synthetical_ knowledge. The axioms of -mathematics are of this character. They are universal and necessary in -their application, 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 posteriori_ judgment, e. g. -“All bodies are heavy,” and we see at once that it implies 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 _apodeictic_ and _contingent_ judgments must pause here until he -can do so. - - - IV. SPACE AND TIME. - - -In order to give a more exhaustive application to our technique, let us -seek the universal conditions of experience. The mathematical truths -that we quoted relate 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 possible. -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 sensation -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 universally continuous. But no such conception -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 constitution of Reason 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 -mistaken about it. It is so in all triangles, present, past, future, -actual, or possible. If 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 I 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 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 -exists. Time and Space are the logical conditions 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 -universal 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 answer to his objections here, -for his objections 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 which the -philosophic traveller 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 -satisfactory 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 muffled 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? - - - - - A DIALOGUE ON IMMORTALITY. - BY ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER. - (Translated from the 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 solution to the problem you give me -a contradiction; that is an old trick. - -_Phil._—To answer transcendental questions in language that is only made -for immanent perceptions, may in fact lead us into contradictions. - -_Thras._—What do you mean by “transcendental” and “immanent” -perceptions? - -_Phil._—Well! _Transcendental_ perception is rather the knowledge, -which, by exceeding any 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 experience. 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, established in the form of time, thereby having a beginning -and an end. That which is essential in you, knows neither of beginning -nor ending, nor of Time itself; it knows no limits such as belong to a -given individuality, 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 -contains a contradiction; for your life is in Time, while your -immortality is in Eternity. - -_Thras._—Without the continuation of my individuality, I would not give -a farthing 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 unconscious slumber of death for three months should -precede its resuscitation. - -_Thras._—Well, I accept the condition. - -_Phil._—Now, in an absolutely unconscious 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 become so habitual to you that your misfortune could hardly be -very great. Certain it is, any way, that you would know nothing of it; -nay, you would even console yourself very easily, if you were aware that -the secret mechanism which now keeps your actual appearance in motion, -had not ceased during all the ten thousand years for a single moment to -establish and to move other beings of the same kind. - -_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 bargained for the -continuation of my individuality, and none of your motives can console -me for the loss of that; I have it at heart, and I never will abandon -it. - -_Phil._—It seems that you hold individuality to be so noble, so perfect, -so incomparable, that there can be nothing superior to it; you therefore -would not like to exchange it for another one, though in that, you could -live with greater ease and perfection. - -_Thras._—Let my individuality be as it may, it is always myself. It is -I—I myself—who want to be. That is the individuality 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, I myself, wish to -exist”—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 essential to anybody who lives, nay, it is that through which it -is at all; it seems to belong only to the individual because it can -become conscious only in the individual. What cries in us so loud for -existence, does so only through the mediation 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 follows that individuality is no -perfection, but rather a restriction or imperfection; to get rid of it -is not a loss but a gain. Hence, if you would not appear at once -childish and ridiculous, you should abandon 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 philosophers 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 positions 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 immediate 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 individuality and universality coincide in -self-consciousness, 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 a product of the -will; for if the will is the essential that he holds it to be, and the -product of its activity is individuality, of course individuality -belongs eternally to it. At the close of his _Philosophy of Nature_, -(Encyclopædia, 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 cannot, like finite -things, encounter dissolution through external ones.—ED.] - - - - - GOETHE’S THEORY OF COLORS. - From an exposition given before the St. Louis Philosophical Society, - Nov. 2nd, 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 different degrees of yellow; if the medium is dark or dense, -the color is orange, or approaches red. Examples: the sun seen in the -morning through a slightly hazy atmosphere 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 -illuminated, 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. Examples: 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 charcoal 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 derived from supposed actual verifications -with this instrument. The Goethean explanation is by far the simplest, -and, in the end, it propounds a question which the Newtonian theory -cannot answer without admitting the truth of Goethe’s theory. - -II.—The phenomenon of refraction is produced by interposing different -transparent 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 -displacement 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 degrees of displacement, so that they together -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 spectrum, and -hence a mingling of the edges of the image with the outlying dark -surface 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. - -(_b_) The bright over the dark produces the blue in different degrees. -The side nearest the dark being the deepest or violet, 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 “decompose 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 colored. - -(_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. - -(_f_) If the refraction is still stronger, the edges of the opposite -colors lap still more, and the green vanishes. The Newtonian theory -cannot explain this, but it is to be expected according to Goethe’s -theory. - -(_g_) 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 colors 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 experiment may be so conducted that the -current doctrine that violet is refracted the most, and red the least, -shall be refuted. - -(_h_) This constitutes the _experimentum crucis_. If the prism be a -large water prism, and a black strip be pasted across the middle of it, -parallel with its axis, so that in the midst of the image a dark shadow -intervenes, 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 refrangible 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 experiments is not the one that Newton -employed—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 interesting subject the English reader -is referred to Eastlake’s translation of Goethe’s Philosophy of Colors, -published in London.] - - - - - THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY. - Vol. I. 1867. No. 2. - - - SECOND PART OF GOETHE’S FAUST. - [Translated from Rosenkrantz’s “Deutsche Literatur,” by D. J. Snider.] - - -Goethe began nothing if the whole of the work did not hover before his -mind. By this determinateness of plan he preserved 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 -constituted his inmost being. He could put off their execution for -years, and still be certain that his love for them would return, that -his interest in them would animate 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 conceptions -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 relations whose spirit he longs to seize -and appropriate; such is Wilhelm Meister. The other is the picture of an -absolutely independent personality that has cultivated its lordly power -in solitary loftiness, 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 second, by the Second Part of the Tragedy. Up to this point, both in -Wilhelm Meister and in Faust, subjective conditions prevail, which -gradually purify themselves 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 society and its manifold activity, with the earnest endeavor to -comprehend all its elements, to acquire, preserve, and beautify -property, and to assist in illuminating and ennobling 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 subjective conditions, a closer connection of the character and a -passionate pathos are necessary, there appears, on the contrary, in the -Travels and Second part of the Tragedy a thoughtfulness which moderates -everything—a cool designingness; the particular elements are sharply -characterized, but the personages seem rather as supporters of universal -aims, in the accomplishment of which their own personality is submerged; -the Universal and its language is their pathos, and the interest 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, really -mystic. This view was considered as genial, particularly because it left -to every one free play—in fact, invited every one in his imagination to -fill up the outlines; for it could not be defended from a philosophic -nor from an artistic standpoint. Knowing seeks not half knowledge, Art -aims not at halfness of execution. If Dante in his Divine Comedy had -neglected any element of nature or of history, if he had not wrought out -all with equal perseverance in corresponding proportion, could it be -said that his poem would stand higher without this completion? 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, -and 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 nature of this Titanic character; the -teeth-gnashing defiance, the insatiate restlessness, the crushing doubt, -the heaven-deriding 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 intercession of the Virgin Mary first appeared—as the _Volksbuch_ -simply but strikingly narrates it, as the Englishman, Marlowe, has -dramatized it so excellently in his Doctor Faustus. But all this was not -applicable to the Faust of Goethe, for the poet had in his mind an -alteration 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 -blasphemous irony on Divine Providence. This assertion of the necessity -of Faust’s reconciliation found much favor in a time, like ours, which -has renounced not indeed the consciousness and recognition of Evil, but -the belief in a separate extra-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 atonement 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 Hinrichs, that since Faust’s despair -resulted originally from science, which did not furnish to him that -which it had at first promised, and since his childish faith had been -destroyed by scepticism, he must be saved through the scientific -comprehension 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 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 standpoint he himself would take, remained 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 -cursorily 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 -particulars 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 interest should result from microscopic -explanations and fine unravelling of concealed allusions—if enthusiasm -should not arise from the poetry as well as from the learning and -acuteness of the poet. Such particulars, which are hard to understand, -almost every great poem will furnish; latterly, the explanatory -observations on epic poems have become even stereotyped; it must be -possible to disregard 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 investigation 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 enjoyment surrounded him, Love -enchained him, Desire drove him to sudden, to bad deeds; in the mad -_Walpurgisnach_ he reached the summit of waste worldliness. But deeper -than the Devil supposed, 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 _Walpurgisnacht_, and several contemplative scenes, -could be left out, and there still would remain a theatrical Whole of -remarkable effect. - -The relation to Margaret—her death—had elevated Faust above everything -subjective. 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 everything objective, -universal, was seized from the point of subjective interest; in the -Second Part the Universal, the Objective, stands out prominently; -subjective interests appear only under the presupposition of the -Objective; the form becomes allegorical. - -A story, an action which rounds itself off to completion, is wanting, -and therefore 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 situations, 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 -immovable coldness, who bitterly mocks Faust’s striving, but he appears -rather as a powerful companion who skillfully procures the material -means for the aims of Faust, and, in all his activity, only awaits the -moment when Faust shall finally acknowledge 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 Freedom -itself, the presentiment of the happiness of standing with a free people -upon a free soil wrung from the sea, thrills the old man with a -momentary satisfaction—and he dies. Upon pictures and woodcuts of the -middle ages representations 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. -Mephistopheles, with his horde of devils, struggles 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 lying 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 Essence of Spirit -in the Individual; but it could not be said of it in any other sense -than of every poem; Allegory in its stricter 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 inclination; -the _Xenien_, the _Trilogie der Leidenschaft_, the _Lieder zur Loge_, -the _Maskenzüge_, _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 determinations, 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. Many will be repelled by the mythological -learning of the second and third acts; and the more so, as they do not -see themselves recompensed by the dialectic of an action; however, we -would unhesitatingly defend the poet against this reproach; a poem which -has to compass the immeasurable 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 an 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. Indeed, such -fault-finders would here forget what the first acknowledged Part of -Faust has compelled them to learn. With this difference of plan, the -style must also change. Instead of dramatic pathos, because action is -wanting, description, explanation, indication, have become necessary; -and instead of the lively exchange of dialogue, the lyrical portion has -become more prominent, in order to embody with simplicity the elements -of the powerful world-life. The descriptions 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 -complete exposition we would point out the places in which the power of -the particular developments centers; in these outlines 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, -particularly in the lyrical portions, would seem to us as superfluous as -the effort to prove the existence of a divine Providence by anecdotes of -strange coincidences. - -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, pervades the -confused tumult. In a delightful 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 unfortunate 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 impossible. The mind has the power to free itself -from the past, and throw it behind itself, and treat it as if it had -never been. The secret of renewing ourselves perpetually consists in -this, that we can destroy ourselves within ourselves, and, as a -veritable Phœnix, be resurrected from the ashes of self-immolation. -Still, this negative action suffices not for our freedom; 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 slumber. 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 richly colored rainbow, which is always -quietly glistening, but is forever shifting: it is Life. After this -solitary encouragement to new venture and endeavor, the court of the -Emperor receives us, where a merry masquerade is about to take place. -But first, from all sides, the prosaic complaints of the Chancellor, the -Steward, the Commander-in-Chief, the Treasurer, fall upon the ear of the -Emperor; money, the cement of all relations, is wanting to the State; -for commerce, 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 murmur of suspicion, the -Astrologer discusses the possibility—and the proposition 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 manner. No one _is_ what he _seems_ to be; -each has thrown over himself a concealing 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 -wishes her daughter to make the conquest of a husband; the fishermen and -bird-catchers are trying their skill; the wood-chopper, buffoons, and -parasites, are endeavoring, 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 social life. First, the Graces appear, for the -first demand of society is to behave with decency; more earnest are the -Parcæ, the continuous change of duration—still, they work only -mechanically; but the Furies, although they come as beautiful maids, -work dynamically through the excitement of the passions. Here the aim is -to conquer. _Victoria_ is throned high upon a sure-footed elephant, -which Wisdom guides with skilful wand, while Fear and Hope go along on -each side; between these the Deed wavers until it has reached the proud -repose of victory. But as soon as this happens, the quarrelsome, hateful -Thersites breaks forth, to soil the glory with his biting sneer. But his -derision effects nothing. The Herald, as the regulating Understanding, -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. Gradually the company returns -to its external foundation; the feeling of _Wealth_ must secure to it -inexhaustible pleasure. But Wealth is two-fold: the earthly, money—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 acknowledged 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 Plutus, lean Avarice, is merrily ridiculed by the women; -Poetry, warned by the fatherly love of Plutus, withdraws from the tumult -which arises for the possession 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 dignity 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 in -revivifying the company by fresh sums of money, obtained in conformity -with his nature, not by unearthing buried treasures from the heart of -the mountains by means of the wishing-rod, but by making paper-money! It -is not, indeed, real coin, but the effect is the same, for in society -everything rests upon the caprice of acceptance; its own life and -preservation 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 wanting, nor stores of eatables and drinkables, but a form was -needed to set the accumulated materials in motion, and to weave them -into the changes of circulation. With delight, the Chancellor, Steward, -Commander-in-Chief, Treasurer, report the flourishing condition 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 everybody can unhesitatingly look about him -for new means of pleasure. Because the company has its essence in the -production of the notes, its internal must strive for the artistic; -every one feels best when he, though known, remains unrecognized, and -thus a theatrical tendency developes 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 theatre collects the idle -multitude, and it has nothing to do but to see, to hear, to compare, and -to judge. Theatrical enjoyment surpasses all other kinds in comfort, 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 conversation with Faust, that the -latter himself must create the shapes, and therefore must go to the -Mothers. Faust shudders at their names. Mephistopheles gives him 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 the Heathen have their own Hell, with which he, the -Christian and romantic Devil, has nothing 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 names of the Mothers? Who are these women who are spoken -of so mysteriously? If it were said, the Imagination, _Mothers_ 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 already 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—we need only remember the Idea-world of Plato in order to -comprehend 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? Mephistopheles has the -key; for the Understanding, which is negative Determination, is -necessary in order not to perish in the infinite universality of -Thought; it is itself, however, only the Negative, and therefore cannot -bring the actual Idea, Beauty, 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 himself among the phantoms, and -he is curious 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 spirit, the retirement into the -invisible, yet almighty Thought, the sinking into the eternal Idea is -demanded of him. Whoever has had the boldness of this Thought—whoever -has ventured to penetrate into the magic circle of the Logical, and its -world-subduing Dialectic, into this most simple element of infinite -formation and transformation, has overcome all, and has nothing more to -fear, as the Homunculus afterwards expresses it, because he has beheld -the naked essence, 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 which the Idea in Art is brought out of its universality -to the determinate existence of concrete Appearance. 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 affairs. After this delicate point is settled, -no superstition is too excessive, no sympathetic cure too strange—as, -for example, 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 humorously taken -possession of the prompter’s box, and so the entertainment goes on in -parlor fashion, till Faust actually appears, and Paris and Helen, in the -name of the all-powerful Mothers, are 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 ridicule 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 for her wonderful beauty, falls -upon the stage and destroys his own work. The phantoms vanish; still the -purpose remains to obtain 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 secrets. 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 unfold -themselves from natural existence, which are not yet actual humanity. -Indeed, 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 succession; the -rocks upon which the earnest Sphinxes 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: according 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 cob-webs, dried-up ink, tarnished paper, -and dust, that many years have passed since Faust went out into the -world. Mephistopheles, from the old coat in which he 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 father of all vermin. Faust 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 producible representation of generation. -While Mephistopheles in a humorous, and as well as the Devil can, even -in an idyllic manner, amuses himself, while he inquires sympathetically -after Wagner of the present Famulus, a pupil who, in the meanwhile, has -become a Baccalaureate, comes storming in, in order to see what the -master is doing who formerly inculcated such wise doctrines, and in -order to show what a prodigiously reasonable man he has himself become. -A persiflage of many expressions of the modern German Natural Philosophy -seems recognizable 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, listens 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, humane, 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 Homunculus, begins to -stir. But alas! the Artificial requires enclosed space. The poor fellow -can live only in the glass retort, the outer world is too rough for him, -and still he has the greatest desire to be actually born. A longing, -universal feeling for natural life sparkles from him with clear -brilliancy, and cousin Mephistopheles takes him along to the classic -_Walpurgisnacht_, where Homunculus hopes to find a favorable moment. -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 _Walpurgisnacht_. 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 Thessaly 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 beginning sent from place to place to learn her -residence, 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 Philologist, tells him of the Argonauts, of the most -beautiful man, of Hercules, until he stops his wild course at the -dwelling of the prophetic Manto, who promises to lead Faust to Helen on -Olympus. Mephistopheles wanders in the meanwhile among Sphinxes, -Griffons, Sirens, etc. To him, the Devil of the Christian and Germanic -world, this classic ground is not at all pleasing; he longs for the -excellent Blocksberg of the North, and its ghostly visages; with the -Lamiæ 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 Beauty. In the Christian world the Devil is also represented as -fundamentally ugly and repulsive; but he can also, under all forms, -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 Ridiculous, of vexation -and whimsicality, of the Enigmatical and the Perspicuous, so that no -better contradictions could be wished for a _Walpurgisnacht_. The -Homunculus on his part is ceaselessly striving to come to birth, and -betakes himself to Thales and Anaxagoras, who dispute whether the world -arose in a dry or wet way. Thales leads the little man to Nereus, who, -however, refuses to aid the seeker, partly because he has become angry -with men, who, like Paris and Ulysses, have always acted against his -advice, and partly because he is about to celebrate a great feast. -Afterwards they go to Proteus, who at first is also reticent, but soon -takes an interest in Homunculus, as he beholds his shining brilliancy, -for he feels that he is related to the changing 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 festive train of the Telchines points to the hoary -Cabiri; bewitchingly resound the songs of the Sirens; Hippocamps, -Tritons, Nereids, Pselli and Marsi arise from the green, pearl-decked -ground; the throne of Nereus and Galatea arches over the crystalline -depths; at their feet the eager Homunculus falls to pieces, and -all-moving Eros in darting flames streams forth. Ravishing songs float -aloft, celebrating the holy elements, which the ever-creating 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 Fire and Water. - -The difference between this _Walpurgisnacht_ and the one in the First -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 is, what is -the position of man towards God; therefore there appear forms which are -self-contradictory, lacerated spiritually, torn in pieces by the curse -of condemnation to all torture. Classic Life has for its basis the -relation to Nature; the mysterious Cabiri were only the master-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 -contradictions 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, Tritons, -Nymphs, Dorids, etc. For the fair bodies of the latter still share the -moist luxuriance of their element. Thus Nature expands itself in -innumerable creations 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 Homunculus, with his -fiery trembling eagerness 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 ancient 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 employment of this -feature was very difficult; and still, even in our days, a poet, L. -Bechstein, in his Faust, 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 copperplates is also costumed completely in -the antique manner, is a German countess of real flesh and blood, who -has been substituted by the Devil; an undeceiving which ought to excite -the deepest sympathy. Goethe has finely idealized this legend; he has -expressed therein the union of the romantic and classic arts. The third -act, this Phantasmagory, is perhaps the most perfect of all, and -executed in the liveliest manner. As noble as is the diction of the -first and second acts, especially in the lyrical portions, it is here -nevertheless 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 interchange of the dignity of Æschylus -and Sophocles, with the sharp-steeled wit of Aristophanes; then is heard -the tone of the Spanish romances, an agreeable, iambic 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 intelligent, Phorcyas, receives her mistress in the citadel by -command. Opposed to Beauty, as was before said, Mephistopheles can only -appear as ugliness, because in the realm of beautiful forms, the Ugly is -the Wicked. There arises a quarrel 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 Phorcyas that Menelaus is -going to sacrifice her.—Still, (as on the one hand Grecian fugitives, -after the conquest of Constantinople, instilled everywhere into German -Life the taste for classic Beauty, and as, on the other hand, one of the -Ottomans in Theophania—like Faust—won a Helen, and thereby everywhere -arose a striving after the appropriation of the Antique,) the old -stewardess saves her, and bears her through the air together with her -beautiful train, to the Gothic citadel of Faust, where the humble and -graceful behavior of the iron men towards the women, in striking -contrast 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 approaching 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 -antique pathos soon disappears. In the new surroundings, in the mutual -exchange of quick and confiding love, the sweet rhyme soon flows from -their kissing lips. An attack of Menelaus interrupts 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 grottoes 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 beget, longs to free -himself from this idle, Arcadian life. The nature of both the mother and -the father drives him forward, and soon consummates the matter. -Beautiful and graceful as Helen, the insatiate 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 than -Goethe, to whom, however, Art gave no final satisfaction, because he had -a sympathy for the sufferings of nations and of mankind, which called -him pressingly to action. His poems are full of this striving. In them -he weeps away his grief for freedom. Walter Scott, who never passed out -of the Middle Ages, is read more than Byron. But Byron is more powerful -than he, because the Idea took deeper root, and that demoniacal -character concentrated in itself all the struggles of our agitated time. -Divine poesy softened not the wild sorrow of his heart, and the -sacrifice of himself for the freedom of a beloved people and land could -not reproduce classic Beauty. The fair mother, who evidently did not -understand the stormy, self-conscious character of her son, sinks after -him into the lower world. As everything in this phantasmagory 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 avail not. He -topples over into destruction. But Helen, i.e. Beauty, cannot survive -him, for all beauty is the expression of freedom, of independence, -although it does not need to know the fact. Only Faust, who unites all -in himself, who strives to reach beyond Nature and Art, Present and -Past, that is, the knowing of the True, survives her; upon her garments, -which expand like a cloud, he moves forth. What remains now, since the -impulse of spiritual Life, the clarification of Nature in Art, the -immediate spiritual Beauty, have vanished? Nothing but Nature in her -nakedness, whose choruses of Oreads, Dryads and Nymphs swarm forth into -the mountains, woods and vineyards, for bacchantic revelry; an invention -which belongs to the highest effort of all poetry. It is a great -kindness in the Devil, when Phorcyas at last discloses herself as -Mephistopheles, and where there is need, offers herself as commentator. - -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 -artificially. 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 supports 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 possession. -The State is again pacified by the destruction of the pretender; a rich -booty in his camp repays many an injury; the four principal offices -promise 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 dealings with the -suspicious magician. Humbly the Emperor promises all; but as the -archbishop demands tithe from the strand of the sea which is not yet in -existence, the Emperor 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 particulars, profound thoughts, -striking turns, piquant wit, and wise arrangement, there is still -wanting the living breath, the internal connection to exhibit a complete -picture of the war. And still, from some indications, we may believe -that this tediousness is designed, in order to portray ironically the -dull uniformity, the spiritual waste of external political life, and the -littleness of Egotism. For it must be remembered that the war is a civil -war—the genuine poetic war, where people is against people, falls into -Phantasmagory. The last scene would be in this respect the most -successful. The continued persistency of the spiritual lord to obtain in -the name of the heavenly church, earthly possessions, the original -acquiescence of the Emperor, but his final displeasure at the boundless -shamelessness of the priest, are excellently portrayed, and the -pretentious pomp of the Alexandrine has never done better service. - -In the fifth act we behold a wanderer, 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 presence of the -ancient God.—The neighbor is Faust. He has raised dams, dug canals, -built palaces, laid out ornamental gardens, educated the people, sent -out navies. The Industry of our time occupies 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 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 over all 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 -quietly await death, and he sends Mephistopheles 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 -fire in this conflict between the active Understanding and the poetry of -Feeling, which, in the routine of pious custom, 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 accompany the external prosperity of our -industrial 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 Negative of Thought is to be excluded by no walls. But -Faust immediately collects 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 nevertheless make herself known to him at the end of his life, and -passes over his face and makes him blind. Still, Faust expresses no -solicitude, though deprived of his eyes by Care; no alteration is -noticed 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 one remains open and wakeful. The -transition from this point to the conclusion is properly this: that from -the activity of the finite Understanding, only a Finite can result. All -industry, for whose development Mephistopheles is so serviceable, as he -once was in war, cannot still the hunger of Spirit for Spirit. Industry -creates only an aggregate of prosperity, no true happiness. Our century -is truly great in industrial activity. But it should only be the means, -the point of entrance for real freedom, which is within itself the -Infinite. And Faust has to come to this, even on the brink of the grave. -Mephistopheles, after this affair with Care, causes the grave of the old -man to be dug by the shaking Lemures. Faust supposes, as he hears the -noise of the spades, that his workmen are busily employed. Eagerly he -talks over his plans with Mephistopheles, and at last he glows at the -good fortune 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 acknowledgement that the -Individual only in the Whole, that Man only in the freedom of humanity -can have repose. Mephistopheles believes that he has won his bet, causes -the jaws of Hell to appear, and commands the Devils to look to the soul -of Faust. But Angels come, strewing roses from above; the roses, the -flowers of Love, cause pain where they fall; the Devils and -Mephistopheles himself complain 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 seeking -out a tall fellow for himself, and is plunged wholly in his pederastic -lust, the Angels carry away the immortal part of Faust to Heaven. -Mephistopheles now reproaches himself with the greatest bitterness, -because he has destroyed, through so trivial a desire, the fruits of so -long a labor. This _reductio ad absurdum_ of the Devil must be -considered as one of the happiest strokes of humor. The holy innocence -of the Angels is not for him; he sees only their fine bodies; his -lowness carries him into the Unnatural and Accidental, just where his -greatest interest and 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 repentance of the _Pater ecstaticus_, the contemplation 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, waterfalls. The Angels -bring in Faust, who, as Doctor Marianus, in the highest and purest cell, -with burning prayer to the approaching queen of Heaven, seeks for grace. -Around Maria is a choir of penitents, among whom are the Magna -Peccatrix, the Mulier Samaritana, and Maria Ægyptiaca. 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 follow her in -anticipation. A fervent prayer streams from the lips of Doctor Marianus; -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 Beatrice of Dante -is here undeniable; also, the farther 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, and, instead, brings out so -prominently the worship of the Virgin, and the devotion of Woman. -Devotion 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 preserved 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 itself, dramatically considered, the -first four acts could perhaps be entirely omitted. The fifth, as it -shows us that all striving, if its content is not religion, (the freedom -of the Spirit,) can give no internal satisfaction, as it shows us that -in the earnest striving after freedom, however much we may err, still -the path to Heaven is open, and is only closed to him who does not -strive, would have sufficiently exhibited the reconciliation. But Goethe -wants to show not only this conclusion, which was all the legend -demanded 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 internality of -Spirit, and therefore he caused all the elements of the World to -crystallize 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 before said -of him, a perfect manifestation of the Universe. - -If we now cast a glance back to what we said in the beginning, of the -opposition 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 diligence of the -latter, forced him to a certain tameness and complaisance in relation to -others. Faust on the contrary will himself work. He will possess only -what he himself 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 æsthetic 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 -literature. But if, in the continuation of Faust, there was an -expectation of the same Titanic nature, it was disappointed. 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, manufacturer, -merchant, etc., 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 fellowship 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 -religious freedom. Men cannot accomplish more than the realization of -the freedom of the nations, for Mankind has its concrete 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 receives the striving soul -which has erred, still it demands repentance and complete purification -from what is earthly. This struggle, this wrestling of the soul, I find -expressed in the most sublime manner in the songs of the hermits and the -choruses, 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 literature -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 remained a poet. But -in a more extensive sense this opposition is found in all modern -nations, particularly among the Germans. They wish to obtain culture, -and therefore 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 freedom. But then the Spirit warns them. -They sigh, like Faust, that they have sat so long in a gloomy cell over -Philosophy, Theology, etc. 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. - - - - - A CRITICISM OF PHILOSOPHICAL SYSTEMS. - [Translated from the German of J. G. Fichte, by A. E. Kroeger.] - - - [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 published in this Journal to be -perfectly sufficient for unprejudiced readers, i. e. for readers who -give themselves up to the writer without preconceived opinions, who, if -they do not assist him, also do not 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 maxims from -their system, which have become fundamental principles for them; and -whatsoever is not produced according to these maxims, is now pronounced -false by them without further investigation, and without even reading -such productions: 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 altogether—and why should it be?—it is, above -all, necessary to remove the obstacle which deprives us of their -attention; or, in other words, to make them distrust their maxims. - -Such a preliminary investigation concerning the _method_, is, above all, -necessary in regard to the Science of Knowledge, the whole structure and -significance whereof differs utterly from the structure and significance -of all philosophical 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 argumentation itself is their philosophy. -Hence their philosophy consists in _their own_ thinking. Quite different -does the Science of Knowledge proceed. That which this Science makes the -object of its thinking, is not a dead conception, remaining passive -under the investigation, and receiving life only from it, but is rather -itself living and active; generating out of itself and through itself -cognitions, which the philosopher merely observes in their genesis. His -business in the whole affair is nothing further than to place that -living object of his investigation 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 manifestations in the object. That is the business 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 reverse. 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. - -While thus in the Science of Knowledge there are two utterly distinct -series of mental activity—that of the Ego, which the philosopher -observes, and that of the observations of the philosopher—all other -philosophical systems have only _one_ series of thinking, viz: that of -the thoughts of the philosopher, for his object 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 -been taken to belong to the other. This error occurred because -Philosophy 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 itself; but the description of him who has -undertaken an experiment, is not the appearance itself, but the -conception thereof.[1] - -After this preliminary remark, the further application whereof we shall -examine in the course of our article, let us now ask: how does the -Science of Knowledge 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 representations which are accompanied -by the feeling of necessity? Or, how do we to come claim objective -validity for what is only subjective? Or, since objective validity is -generally characterized as _being_, 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 merely 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 contradiction, to mistake it for a -question concerning some being which had no relation 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 abstracted from. On the contrary, the question does -not entertain the conception of being at all, either positively or -negatively. The proposed question asks for the ground of the predicate -of being, whether it be applied positively or negatively; but all ground -lies beyond the grounded, i. e. is opposed to it. The answer must, -therefore, 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 impossible in the answer, because it is impossible in -itself, would be to maintain likewise, that such an abstraction is -impossible in the question; and hence, that the question itself is not -possible, and that the problem of a science of metaphysics, as the -science which is to solve the problem of the ground of being 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 validity. 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 -consciousness 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 demonstration can -compel from any one. - - - III. - - -Let us now ask: Who is it that undertakes the demanded abstraction from -all being? or, in which of the two series does it occur? Evidently, in -the series of philosophical argumentation, for another 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 consciousness, the subject. -This subject he will, therefore, have to comprehend free from all -representation of being, in order 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 acting. Particularly -in relation to being is it the acting. The philosopher will, therefore, -have to comprehend it in its acting, and from this point the -aforementioned double series will first arise. - -The fundamental assertion of the philosopher, as such, is this: as soon -as the Ego is for itself, there necessarily arises for it at the same -time an external being; the ground of the latter lies in the former; the -latter is conditioned by the former. Self-consciousness and -consciousness of a Something which is not that Self, is necessarily -united; but the former is the conditioning and the latter the -conditioned. To prove this assertion—not, perhaps, by argumentation, as -valid for a system of a being in itself, but by observation of the -original proceeding of reason, as valid for reason—the philosopher will -have to show, firstly, how the Ego is and becomes for itself; and -secondly, 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 discover that in the thinking of that conception, 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 -consider with what justice it so proceeds. - - - IV. - - -First of all: what in the described act belongs to the philosopher, as -philosopher, and what belongs to the Ego he is to observe? To the Ego -nothing but the return to itself; everything else to the description of -the philosopher, for whom, as mere fact, the system of all experience, -which in its genesis the Ego is now to produce under his observation, -has already existence. - -The Ego returns _into itself_, is the assertion. 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 possibility 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 consciousness is it to be posited? -It is no _comprehending_, for a comprehending first arises through the -opposition of a non-Ego, and by the determining of the Ego in this -opposition. Hence it is a mere _contemplation_. It is therefore not -consciousness, not even self-consciousness. Indeed, it is precisely -because this act alone produces 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 required deduction of -the system of experience becomes possible. That act only places the Ego -in the possibility of self-consciousness—and thus of all other -consciousness—but does not generate real consciousness. That act is but -a part of the whole act of the intelligence, whereby it effects its -consciousness; a part which only the philosopher separates from the -whole act, but which is not originally 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 -erected upon something produced by an act of mere arbitrariness, does it -not then become a mere creature of the brain, a pure imaginary picture? -How is the philosopher going to secure to this purely subjective 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 correspond to the -necessary thinking, whereby he first became for himself, and through -which the whole series of his representations has been started? - -I answer: this act is in its nature objective. I am for myself; this is -a fact. Now I could have thus come to be for myself 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 conception of the Ego is the -conception of that acting; both conceptions are quite the same; and that -conception of the Ego can mean and can not be made to mean anything, but -what has been stated. _It is so_, because _I make it so_. The -philosopher 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 immediate fact of consciousness. That question, -concerning the objectivity is grounded on the very curious -presupposition that the Ego is something else than its own thought of -itself, and that something 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 themselves 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 anything without at the same time -thinking it. - -Now, in this act, which is arbitrary and in time, for the philosopher as -such, but which is for the Ego—which he constructs, by virtue of his -just deduced right, for the sake of subsequent observations and -conclusions—necessarily and originally; in this act, I say, the -philosopher 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 -contemplates, but _comprehends_ also. He comprehends 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 determination 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 -contemplation. - -Now this whole procedure of the philosopher appears to _me_, at least, -very possible, very easy, and even natural; and I can scarcely 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 internal act; and that if he realizes this demand, 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_ in this manner, (an opposite thinking -producing a quite different thought)—the thought of himself is nothing -but the thought of this act, and the word Ego nothing but the -designation of this act—that Ego and an _into itself returning activity_ -are completely identical conceptions. He will understand, let us hope, -that if he but for the present problematically presupposes with -transcendental Idealism that all consciousness rests upon and is -dependent upon self-consciousness, he must also _think_ that return into -itself as preceding and conditioning all other acts of consciousness; -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 consciousness is conditioned by this act, and therefore cannot -condition the act in the same respect,—as an act, utterly unconditioned -and hence absolute _for him_; and he will thus further understand, that -the _above problematical presupposition_ and this _thinking of the Ego -as originally 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 realization of the act, through which the Ego arises for him, I call -_intellectual contemplation_. It is the immediate consciousness 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 cannot -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 requirement of a -blind person, to explain to him, without his needing to use sight, what -colors are. - -But it can be certainly proven to everyone in his own confessed -experience, that this intellectual contemplation does occur in every -moment of his consciousness. I can take no step, cannot move hand or -foot, without the intellectual contemplation of my self-consciousness in -these acts; only through this contemplation do I know that _I_ do it, -only through it do I distinguish my acting and in it myself from the -given object of my acting. Everyone who ascribes an activity to himself -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 consciousness; both contemplations must be _comprehended_. -Not only this, but the intellectual contemplation is also always -connected with a _sensuous_ contemplation. I cannot find myself acting -without finding an object upon which I act, and this object in a -sensuous contemplation 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 contemplate myself in this sketching of -the image 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 conscious of the contemplations which are at the bottom -of both conceptions. - -Perhaps it is only this which the zealous opponents of intellectual -contemplation wish to insist upon; namely, that that contemplation is -only possible in connection with a sensuous contemplation; and surely -the Science of Knowledge is not going to deny it. But this is no reason -why they should deny intellectual contemplation. For with the same right -we might deny sensuous contemplation, since it also is possible only in -connection with intellectual contemplation; for whatsoever is to become -_my_ representation must be related to me, and the consciousness (I) -occurs only through intellectual contemplation. (It is a remarkable fact -of our modern history of philosophy, that it has not been noticed as yet -how all that may be objected to intellectual contemplation can also be -objected to sensuous contemplation, 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 the same manner in which he arrives at the isolated -representation of sensuous contemplation, by 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 consciousness, 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 sequence can I assert. I can -merely state—I know that if I propose to myself a certain thought, with -the characteristic that it is to have existence, the representation of -this thought, with the characteristic that it really has existence, -follows; or, that the representation of a certain manifestation, as one -which ought to occur, is immediately followed in time by the -representation of the same manifestation as one which really did occur. -But I can, on no account, state that the first representation contains -the _real_ ground of the second one which followed; or, that by thinking -the first one the second one _became real_ for me. I merely remain -passive, the placid scene upon which representations 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 assumption; hence it is a peculiar and -immediate consciousness, that is to say, a contemplation, and not a -sensuous contemplation, 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 together—a deed-act,) and he thus discovers it not -immediately, as an isolated part of his consciousness, but by -distinguishing and separating what in common consciousness occurs in -unseparated union. - -Quite a different problem it is to explain this intellectual -contemplation, which is here presupposed as fact, in its _possibility_, -and by means of this explanation 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; and to show up the interest which -leads us to place faith in its reality, or in the system of Reason. This -is accomplished by showing up the _Moral Law_ in us, in which the Ego is -characterized as elevated through it above all the original -modifications, as impelled by an absolute, or in itself, (in the Ego,) -grounded activity; and by which the Ego is thus discovered to be an -absolute Active. In the consciousness of this law, which doubtless is an -immediate consciousness, and not derived from something else, the -contemplation of self-activity and freedom 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 I see_ MYSELF; _and if I -see myself through that law, I necessarily 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 representations—the -utterly foreign ingredient 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-consciousness is only possible in the way we have -shown, i. e. I am only active. Beyond it I cannot be driven; my -philosophy then becomes altogether independent of all arbitrariness, and -a product of stern necessity; i. e. in so far as necessity exists for -free Reason; it becomes a product of _practical_ necessity. I _can_ not -go beyond this stand-point, because conscience says I _shall_ not go -beyond it; and thus transcendental idealism shows itself up to be the -only moral philosophy—the philosophy 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 becomes possible only through this -intellectual contemplation of the self-active Ego, is the only one which -unites both the worlds that exist for us—the sensuous and the -intelligible world. Whatsoever 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 intelligible (moral) world. - -I should like to know how those who smile so contemptuously whenever the -words “intellectual contemplation” is 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 doubtless do entertain. -According to them there are only two contemplations _a priori_—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 -itself, but merely a certain filling up of time. What is it, then, -wherewith they fill up time, and get a basis for the construction of -those conceptions? There is nothing left to them but Space; and hence -their conceptions of Virtue, Right, &c., are perhaps quadrangular and -circular; just as all the other conceptions which they construct, (for -instance, that 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 basis 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 unimportant, 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 produces it itself, -and in which, therefore, the _acting_ is immediately _deed_.) If -philosophy starts from a fact, it places itself in the midst of 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 overlooked at one glance. - -[Translators frequently use the term “intuition” for what I have here -called “contemplation;” “Deed-Act” is my rendering of “That-Handlung.” -A. E. K.] - -Footnote 1: - - 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 - itself upon all, even the most decided idealist, namely, the - assumption that things exist independently and outside of us, is - involved in the idealistic system itself; and is moreover explained - and deduced in that system. Indeed, the deduction of an objective - truth, as well in the world of appearances as in the world of - intellect, 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 assertion 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 fundamental principle of his philosophy how the Ego - comes to make such an assertion. The philosopher’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 Science is comprehensible only through the Science of - Knowledge, the realistic system comprehensible only through the - idealistic system. Realism forces itself upon us; but it has in itself - no known and comprehensible ground. Idealism furnishes this ground, - and is only to make realism comprehensible. Speculation has no other - purpose than to furnish this comprehensibility 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_. - - - - - NOTES ON MILTON’S LYCIDAS. - BY ANNA C. BRACKETT. - - -Every work of art, whether in sculpture, painting, or music, must have a -definite 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 painting, and that produced on an inferior animal, -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 informing spirit -behind all the outward appearance? - -But if this sense of beauty stops in passive enjoyment, if the sense of -sight or of hearing is simply to be intoxicated with the feast spread -before it, we must confess 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 -say with Goethe: “I would fain understand that which interests me in so -extraordinary a manner;” for this work of art, the product of mind, -touches me in a wonderful 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 content 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 prophecies 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 mysterious 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 Lycidas, and these we might pass by without 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, perfume-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 say only that the first -criticism contradicts the last. But some more appreciative critics, -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 symphony, 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 subordinate to it. - -The soul of the poet is so tossed by the immediate sorrow that it -surrenders itself entirely to it, and so, losing its will, is taken -possession of by whatever thought, evoked by the spell of association, -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 appointed -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 -Puritanism, 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 vivifies 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 flash diamond colors 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 enable one fully to -comprehend its exquisite beauty and finish. It is like one of -Beethoven’s symphonies, where at first we are so occupied with the one -grand thought that we surrender ourselves entirely to it, and think -ourselves completely satisfied. But as we appropriate that more and more -fully, within and around it wonderful melodies start and twine, and this -experience is repeated again and again till the music seems almost -infinite in its content. 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 showing 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, his reason for -singing. But he has written only seven full lines before, in the eighth, -the key-note is struck by the force of sorrow, which, after saying -“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 for mourning. (In -passing, let us say that the effect is greatly increased in reading this -line if the first word be strongly emphasized.) Because he hath not left -his peer, all should sing for him. No more excuse is needed. Sorrow -pleases itself in calling up the neglected form, and then passionately -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 -tumultuously 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 merrily. Most naturally here the key-note -is again struck by the force of contrast, and the despair of the sorrow -that wakes from the forgetfulness of pleasant dreams to the -consciousness of loss, strikes as rapidly 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 seeking for some adequate -cause, heaps blindly unmerited reproaches on anything, on all things. -So, recoiling before its power, stung with its pain, the poet turns -reproachfully 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 living 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 darkness. Is it an accident that the celestial -notes which first strike through the descending bass, come from the god -of light, Phœbus Apollo? Clear, and sweet, and sudden, they cleave the -closing shadows, the sunlight comes in again, and the music 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 attempt 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 immediate 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 begins with a -thunder peal and dies out in a wail of affection, expressed by the one -word “sacred.” This forms the connection 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 -personal, 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 earnest -spirit that was ready to assail every form of wrong, eagerly followed -out the thought which was in the future to 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,” “intrude,” -and “climb,” no one of which could be spared. Then comes disgust, -expressed by “Blind mouths.” Ruskin, in his “Kings’ 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, coming through -the possible execution of Archbishop Laud, whose death, it seemed to the -young Puritan, was the only thing needed to bring back truth, simplicity -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 despair, 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 ornamenting 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 -Hebrides, and the conflict of wave and wind takes possession of us. What -thought is more desolate than that of a solitary human 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 “Namancos and Bayona’s hold.” “Rather turn hither and let even -your heavenly face relax with human grief, and ye, unheeding 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, fuller 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 -Christian faith. The music mounts higher and higher into celestial -harmonies, losing 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 collisions 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 -effect, we have the scenery added, and this in such word-painting as has -never been surpassed. Who could ever weary 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 lifeless 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 ÆSTHETICS. - [Translated from the French of M. Ch. Bénard, by J. A. Martling.] - Part II. - OF THE GENERAL FORMS OF ART AND ITS HISTORIC DEVELOPMENT. - - -The first part of Hegel’s Æsthetics contains 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 suffering 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 sense 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 harmonious -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 enigmatic and mysterious meaning. - -In classic art, on the contrary, this harmonious blending of the form -and the idea is accomplished. Intelligence, having taken cognizance of -itself and of its freedom, capable of self-control, of penetrating the -significance of the phenomena of the universe, and of interpreting its -laws, finds here also the exact correspondence, the measure and the -proportion which are the characteristics of beauty. Art creates works -which represent the beautiful under its purest and most perfect form. - -But spirit can not rest in this precise accord of the form and the idea, -in which the infinite and 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 transcends -them, and then this unity, which constitutes the characteristic of -classic art, is broken. External forms, sensuous images, are no longer -adequate to the expression of the soul and its free spirituality. - - - I. Of Symbolic Art. - - -After these general considerations, Hegel treats successively the -different forms of art. Before speaking of symbolic art, he furnishes an -exposition of the _symbol_ in general. - -The symbol is an image which represents an idea. It is distinguished -from the signs of language in this, that between 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 courage; the -circle, of eternity; the triangle, of the Trinity. - -The symbol, however, does not represent 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 separately 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 extraordinary creations. It characterizes that order of monuments -and emblems by which the people of the East have sought to express 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 _wonder_. 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 of an absolute power, in religions, is manifested at first by -the worship 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 imperfectly, the relation which unites -this invisible principle to the objects of nature; he fashions an image, -a symbol designed to represent it. Art is then the interpreter of -religious ideas. - -Such is art in its origin; the symbolic form is born with it. Let us now -follow it in the successive stages of its development, 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 representation which befits -them. It is the conflict between the content and the form, both -imperfect and heterogeneous. Hence the incessant struggle of these two -elements of art, which vainly seek to harmonize. 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 discord between the two principles ferments. 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 disappearance 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 conjunction arises the _reflex_ symbol, or the -comparison, the allegory, etc. - -These principles having been laid down _a priori_, Hegel seeks among the -people of the East the forms of art which correspond to these various -degrees of oriental symbolism. 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 mountains, 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 Divinity. If light is taken in the sense of the -good and just Being, of the conserving principle of the Universe, which -diffuses 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 every thing—the hideous, the bad, the principle -of death and destruction. - -Hegel seeks to demonstrate this opinion 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 Parsees 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 -general conceptions. There is, then, in it no art properly so-called. -Compared with ruder images or with the insignificant 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 -imagination creates neither a profound idea nor a new form. If we see -appearing general types, and the forms which correspond to them, it is -the result of an artificial combination, not a work of poetry and art. - -Thus this unity of the invisible principle and visible objects, -constitutes only the first form of the symbol in art. To attain to the -symbolic form properly so-called, it is necessary that the distinction -and the separation of the two terms appear 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 -advanced 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 productions 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 -abstractions; at the same time the forms which represent Him bear a -character exclusively 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 profoundest thoughts, only rude images and representations, -in which there flashes out the 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 representations at once imposing, -fantastic and grotesque. - -Hegel characterizes the Indian mythology, 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 indefinitely the dimensions of the form. It wanders amid -gigantic creations, characterized by the absence of all measure, and -loses itself in the vague or the arbitrary.” - -Hegel develops and confirms these propositions, by following the Indian -imagination in the principal points which distinguish its art, its -poetry, and its mythology. He makes it apparent that, in spite of the -fertility, the splendor, and the grandeur of these conceptions, the -Indians 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 complete 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 precipitates itself into the most unbridled -naturalism. 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, because he is born in that caste, represents -Brahma in person. The union of man with God is lowered to the level of a -simply material fact. Thence also the _rôle_ 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 -contradictions which swarm in this religion, and the confusion which -reigns in all this mythology. He establishes a parallel between the -Indian trinity and the Christian Trinity, and shows their difference. -The three persons of this trinity are not persons; 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 recognizing the Christian tenet -in it. - -Examining next the part which corresponds to Greek polytheism, he -demonstrates likewise its inferiority; he makes apparent the confusion -of those innumerable theogonies 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 circle 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 poetry, “scenes of human life, full of attractiveness -and sweetness, many agreeable images and tender sentiments, most -brilliant descriptions of nature, charming features of childlike -simplicity and artless innocence in love; at the same time, -occasionally, much grandeur and nobleness.” - -But as to that which concerns fundamental conceptions 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 sublime -is only the measureless; and as to whatever lies at the foundation of -the myth, the imagination, dizzy, and incapable 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 realize 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 combine them, -and is successful only in making 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 necessary in order that spirit arrive -at consciousness of itself and its spirituality. This idea of death as a -_moment_ of the divine nature is already contained in the Indian -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—Ormuzd -and Ahriman—exist separately and remain separated. Now this principle of -negation, of death and resurrection, as moments and attributes of the -divine nature, 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 suffering, 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 elevated 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 precise; the spiritual principle is revealed more clearly, and -frees itself from physical 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, because of the real -resemblance and of natural analogies, the fantastic is abandoned. 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 conciliation 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 is the proper tendency towards art, and -principally towards the figurative arts. Hence the necessity of finding -and fashioning a form, an emblem which may express the idea and may be -subordinated to it; of creating a work which may reveal 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 combination can be effected in various ways. -The most abstract expression is number. The symbolism of numbers plays a -very important part in Egyptian art. The sacred numbers recur -unceasingly in flights of steps, columns, etc. There are, moreover, -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 moulded to a higher -perfection than in India. A general symbol sums up the principal idea; -it is the phœnix, which consumes itself and rises from its ashes. - -In the myths which serve for the transition, as those of Asia Minor—in -the myth of Adonis mourned by Venus; in that of Castor and Pollux, and -in the fable of Proserpine, this idea of death and resurrection is very -apparent. - -It is Egypt, above all, which has symbolized 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 themselves. - -However this may be in the East, the Egyptians, among eastern nations, -are the truly artistic people. They show an indefatigable activity in -satisfying that longing for symbolic representation 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 people; they excavated the soil, scooped out -lakes, and, with their instinct of art, elevated gigantic structures -into the light of day, and executed under the soil works equally -immense. It was the occupation, the life of this people, which covered -the land 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 -Egyptian 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 preserves even -its physical form. Hence the embalmings, the worship of the dead. -Moreover, the imagination is lifted higher 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 duration -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 symbolic 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 worship which is no longer even symbolic. - -Hieroglyphic writing, another form of Egyptian art, is itself in great -part symbolic, since it makes ideas known by images borrowed from -nature, and which have some analogy with those ideas. - -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 personality. 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 -spontaneity, 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 metaphysical, is shown the superiority of these -conceptions over those of Indian art. - -In general, in Egyptian art, there is revealed a profounder, more -spiritual, and more moral character. The human form is no longer a -simple, abstract personification. Religion and art attempt to -spiritualize 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 human form. The human figure still remains without -expression, colossal, serious, rigid. Thus is explained those attitudes -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 -intermingled and reflected the one in the other; a thing which indicates -the freedom of spirit, but also an absence of clearness and -definiteness. 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 spirit to comprehend -itself, a symbolism full of mysteries, a vast enigma represented by a -symbol which sums up all these enigmas—the sphinx. This enigma Egypt -will propose to Greece, who herself will make of it the problems of -religion 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 sublimity. And thus Hegel designates -Hebrew 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 banishes from its temples every figurative representation of the -Divinity. - -The sublime, as Kant has well described it, is the attempt to express -the infinite in the finite, without finding any sensuous form which is -capable of representing 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 -substance 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 sensuous existence, which disappears and is -annihilated in his presence. - -To the first point of view corresponds oriental pantheism. God is there -conceived 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 expressed by the figurative arts, but -only by poetry. Where pantheism is pure, it admits no sensuous -representation and proscribes images. We find this pantheism 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 Mahometans. - -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 opposition to nature. On the other side, the entire universe, -in spite of the richness and magnificence of its phenomena, compared -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 manifested, 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—preëminently, sacred art; its unique design is to -celebrate the glory of God. This rôle, poetry alone can fill. - -The prevailing idea of Hebrew poetry is God as master of the world, God -in his independent existence and pure essence, 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, nature 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 conceptions of -other peoples. Situations and events are delineated more clearly. The -characters assume a more fixed and precise meaning. They are human -figures which offer no more anything fantastic and strange; they are -perfectly intelligible and accessible to us. - -On the other side, in spite of his powerlessness and his nothingness, -man obtains here freer and more independent place than in other -religions. The immutable 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 fulfilment of law is the end of -human existence, and it places man in direct communication with God. -Here is the principle and explanation of his whole life, of his -happiness and his misery. The events of life are considered as -blessings, as recompenses, or as trials and chastisements. - -Here also appears the miracle. Elsewhere, all was prodigious, and, by -consequence, 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 poetry, in the Psalms—classic examples of the truly sublime—in the -Prophets, and the sacred books in general. This recognition of the -nothingness of things, of the greatness and omnipotence of God, of the -unworthiness of man in his presence, the complaints, the lamentations, -the outcry 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 people 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 sensuous 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, a mixed form -whose basis is _comparison_. This form, which also belongs principally -to the East, is manifested 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 development of art: - -In the symbol, properly so-called, the idea and the form, although -distinct and even opposed, as in the sublime, are reunited 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 beginning in the -symbol, ought also to be clearly effected, and find its place in the -development 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 opposition to the _irreflexive_ -symbolic, whose principal forms we have studied. - -Thus, in this form of art, the connection 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 signification, as in the _fable_, the -_parable_, the _apologue_, the _proverb_, the _metamorphoses_; 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 inferior forms of -poetry or art.[2] - - - II. Of Classic Art. - - -The aim of art is to represent the ideal, that is to say, the perfect -accord of the 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 -representations; sometimes it is the spiritual Being, which it conceives -in a vague manner, and which it personifies in inferior divinities. -Between the idea and the form there is revealed a simple affinity, an -external correspondence. The attempt to reconcile them makes clearer the -opposition; or art, in wishing to express spirit, only creates obscure -enigmas. Everywhere 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 opposition is not the Beautiful, it is the Sublime. -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 independence 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 sciences. But we have here only a superficial side, devoid of -profundity and universality; it is not true personality supported on a -solid basis, on a knowledge 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 corresponds 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 beauty may be perfectly harmonized, it -is necessary that the first, the idea, be the spirit itself, possessed -of the consciousness of its nature and of its free personality. 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 manifesting spirit. - -Classic art, which represents free spirituality under an individual -form, is then necessarily anthropomorphic. Anthropomorphism is its very -essence, and we shall do it wrong to make of this a reproach. Christian -art and the Christian religion are themselves anthropomorphic, and this -they are in a still higher degree since God made himself really man, -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 unchangeable 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 essence of the divine nature, nor penetrate the depths of -the soul. It could not unveil the innermost powers in their opposition, -or re-establish their harmony. All this phase of existence, wickedness, -misfortune, moral suffering, the revolt of the will, gnawings and -rendings of the soul, 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 realized by the Greeks. The most -favorable conditions for unfolding it were found combined among them. -The geographical position, the genius of that people, its moral -character, its political life, all could not but aid the accomplishment -of that idea of classic beauty, whose characteristics are proportion, -measure, and harmony. Placed between Asia and Europe, Greece realized -the accord of personal liberty and public manners, of the State and the -individual, of spirit general and particular. Its genius, a mixture of -spontaneity and reflection, presented an equal fusion of contraries. The -feeling 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 identified. All forms -of Greek civilization are subordinate to art. - -It is important here to determine the new position of the artist in the -production of works of art. - -Art appears here not as a production of nature, but as a creation of the -individual 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 difficulty. - -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 already -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 himself with it; he accepts it, but reproduces 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 reproduced and -created it. - -But it is above all upon the form that this free activity concentrates -and exercises itself. While symbolic art wearies itself in seeking a -thousand extraordinary 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 between the content and -the form he establishes a perfect harmony, for, in elaborating the form, -he also perfects the content. 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 stationary religion, -where the forms are consecrated by usage; in Egypt, for example. And -this ability is always increasing. Progress in the processes of art is -necessary to the realization of pure beauty, and the perfect execution -of works of genius. - -After these general considerations upon classic art, Hegel studies it -more in detail. He considers it 1st, in its development; 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 confused. 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 development of art, and of the Greek mythology. - -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 borrowed their divinities from foreign religions. On -the other hand, we can say they invented them: for invention does not -exclude borrowing. They transformed the ideas contained in the anterior -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 human form. The first development consists, then, in rejecting those -gross symbols, 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 -indicated 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 particular the labors of Hercules. Some of the fables of -Æsop have the same meaning. The metamorphoses of Ovid are also -disfigured myths, or fables become burlesque, 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 deification; -it is the punishment of a monstrous crime. The gods themselves are -shamed by such a form, and they assume it only to satisfy the passions -of the sensual nature. Such is the signification of many of the fables -of Jupiter, as those of Danaë, 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 rôle but little -edifying, and frequently ridiculous. Finally, all that part of religion -which relates to sensual desires is crowded into the background, and -represented by subordinate divinities: Circe, who changes men into -swine; Pan, Silenus, 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 mortals. 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 consults 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 _new_ divinities marks still -more this progress of moral liberty. Among the former, who personify the -powers of nature, 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 dissensions, by not giving them -instruction more elevated,—morality, the science of government, the -guarantees of property. Such is the profound sense of that myth, and -Plato thus explains it in his dialogues. - -Another class of divinities equally ancient, 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 -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 previous -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 distinction -develops itself to the point of engendering strife, and the conflict -becomes the principal event of mythology. - -This conflict is that of nature and spirit, and it is the law of the -world. Under 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 subject of a particular myth; it is -the principal, decisive fact, which constitutes 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 example, 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 present, 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 -invoked 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 spiritual 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 elements of nature, after having been -debased 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 -Venus, 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 development of the ideal in Greek art, a -development 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. Tradition 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. Thereby they were creators of that -mythology which we admire in Greek art, and which is confounded with it. - -The Greek gods have no less their origin 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, without having the clear -and decided distinctions. They maintain the union, the accord, 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, the following remarks are suggested, considering them, at the -same time, on the _general_, the _particular_, 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 abstractions, universal and purely ideal -existences. To this character of generality is joined individuality. -Each divinity has his traits and proper physiognomy, his particular -rôle, his sphere of activity, determined and limited. A just measure, -moreover, is here observed: the two elements, the general and the -individual, are in perfect accord. - -At the same time, this moral character is manifested under an external -and corporeal form itself, its most perfect expression, in which appears -the harmonious fusion of the external form with the internal principle -animating it. - -This physical form, as well as the spiritual principle which is -manifested in it, is freed from all the accidents of material life, and -from the miseries of finite existence. It is the human body with its -beautiful proportions and their harmony; all announces beauty, liberty, -grace. It is thus that this form, in its purity, corresponds to the -spiritual and divine principle which is incarnate in it. Hence the -nobleness, the grandeur, and the elevation of those figures, which have -nothing in common with the wants of material life, and seem elevated -above their bodily existence. They are immortal divinities with human -features. The body, in spite of its beauty, appears as a superfluous -appendage; and, nevertheless, it is an animated and living form which -presents the indestructible harmony of the two principles, the soul and -the body. - -But a contradiction presents itself between the spirit and the material -form. This harmonious whole conceals a principle of destruction which -will make itself felt more and more. We may perceive 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 satisfaction; -something cold and impassive is found in their features, especially if -we compare them with the vivacity of modern sentiment. This divine -peace, this indifference to all that is mortal and transient, forms a -contrast with the moral 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? Evidently 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 -confided the mission of realizing this ideal in its purity, its -greatness, and its perfection. - -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 plurality, a whole, a -totality, which is _polytheism_. Each particular god, while having his -proper and original character, is himself a complete whole; he also -possesses the distinctive qualities of the other divinities. Hence the -richness of these characters. It is for this reason that the Greek -polytheism does not present a systematic whole. Olympus is composed of a -multitude of distinct gods, who do not form an established hierarchy. -Rank is not rigorously fixed, whence the liberty, the serenity, the -independence of the personages. Without this apparent contradiction, the -divinities would be embarrassed by one another, shackled in their -development and power. In place of being true persons, they would be -only allegorical beings, or personified abstractions. - -As to their sensuous representation, sculpture is, moreover, the art -best adapted to express this particular characteristic of the nature of -the gods. By combining with immovable grandeur the individuality 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 particulars. Sculpture creates -absolute and eternal 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 suffice to distinguish them by certain particular attributes. -Moreover, classic art does not confine itself to representing these -personages as immovable and self-absorbed; it shows them also in -movement and in action. The character of the gods then particularizes -itself, and exhibits 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 history or fable. They are the -antecedents, the local particulars, which give to the gods their living -individuality and originality. 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 -ceremonies of worship, etc. All these materials fashioned by art, give -to the Greek gods the appearance, the interest, and the charm, of living -humanity. But this traditional side, which in its origin had a symbolic -sense, loses it little by little; it is designed only to complete the -individuality of the gods, to give to them a more human and more -sensuous form, to add, through details frequently unworthy of divine -majesty, the side of the arbitrary and accidental. Sculpture, which -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 -attributes. Another source for the more precise 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 -itself as an inexhaustible source in a crowd of particular histories, of -traits of character and actions, attributed to the gods. The problem of -art consists in combining, 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 necessity of the situation, the force of -circumstances, 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 classic art abandon, more and more, -the silent 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 -individualization; 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 external 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 destruction, and the defect -which they conceal is unveiled by the representations of classic art -itself. The plurality of the gods and their diversity makes them already -accidental existences; this multiplicity 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 multitude of relations in which they are engaged, 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 something -higher weighs them down—destiny, supreme unity, blind divinity, the -immutable fate to which gods and men are alike subject. - -But the principal cause is, that absolute necessity making no integral -part of their personality, 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 anthropomorphism. 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, are 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 commands 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 contemplation or her -worship. What she conceives as the true ideal is a God, spiritual, -infinite, absolute, personal, endowed 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 under -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 himself upon earth, where he was born, lived, and arose from the -dead. Here is a field 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 actions 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 adversaries are only imaginary -beings, who cannot be taken seriously and meet him on the field of -history. The opposition and conflict cannot, then, present the character -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 impious 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 regarded -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 anthropomorphism. The gods of Greece are -beautiful divinities under the human form. As soon as reason has -comprehended God as Spirit and as Infinite Being, there appear other -ideas, other sentiments, 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, regrets are superfluous; comparison has -no more any significance, it is only a text for declamation. What one -could object to seriously in Christianity, its tendencies 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 sentiment, far from being -opposed to art, are 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 _resumé_ of the ideas of the author. We -must do him the justice to say, that wherever he speaks of Christian -art, he does it worthily, 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 them 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 everything, the individual nothing by himself. This is the radical -vice of the Greek state. In such an identification of man and the state, -the rights of the individual are ignored. The latter, then, seeks to -open for himself a distinct and independent way, separates himself from -the public interest, pursues his own ends, and finally labors for the -ruin of the state. Hence the egoism which undermines this society little -by little, and the ever-increasing excesses of demagoguism. - -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 meantime 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 Rome, in the last years of -the republic, there appears, among energetic spirits, this antagonism -and this detachment from society. Noble characters present to us the -spectacle of private virtues by the side of feebleness and corruption 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, belongs peculiarly to the Romans; -it is at least the distinctive and original characteristic, the salient -feature, of their poetry and literature. “The spirit of the Roman world -is the dominance of the dead letter, the destruction of beauty, the -absence 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 tranquil greatness in obedience to law. The -principle of this political virtue, in its frigid and austere rudeness, -subdued national 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 perfection. 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, epic lyric and dramatic poetry. -What is regarded as indigenous among them is the comic farces, the -_fescennines_ and _atellanes_. 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 Art. - - -This expression, employed here to designate 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 become -the synonym of a liberty pushed even to license, and of a contempt for -all law. Romantic art, which, in its highest development, is also -Christian art, has laws and principles as necessary as classic 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 characterizes 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 harmonized perfectly with it, and does not -surpass 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 representation of -the ideal, the reign of beauty. - -But there is something higher than the beautiful 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 its own -world, the spiritual world of the soul and the conscience. Now, that -development 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. - -Here beauty of form is no longer the supreme thing; beauty, in this -sense, remains 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 essence, that the -Divinity descend into the bosom of humanity. The anthropomorphism of -Greek thought ought to disappear, in order to give place to -anthropomorphism 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 rôles, and formed -a whole, free, although subject 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 creation. 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, romantic art with classic art, we see -that Sculpture no longer suffices to express this idea. We should vainly -seek in the image of the gods fashioned by sculpture that which -announces the true personality, the clear consciousness of self and -reflected will. In the external this defect is betrayed by the absence -of the eye, that mirror of the soul. Sculpture is deprived 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 longing for activity, which calls -for exercise in a more extended career. The representation ought to -embrace a vaster field of objects, and of physical and moral situations. - -As to the manner in which this principle is developed and realized, -romantic art presents certain striking differences from antique art. - -In the first place, as has been said, instead of the ideal divinities, -which exist only for the imagination, and are only human nature -idealized, it is God himself 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, physical 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 -realized in his mortal life. - -The infinite sorrow of this sacrifice, this idea of suffering and of -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 -personality and his spiritual nature. On 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, death is only the resurrection of the -spirit, 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 Christian Art. In spite of some explanations which recall the special -system of the author, one cannot deny that they are expressed with power -and truthfulness. - -Meanwhile, 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 -energetic, and more profound sentiment of human _personality_, or, as -the author calls it, _subjectivity_. - -Romantic art differs no less from classic art in the form or the mode of -representation, than in the ideas which constitute the content of its -works. And, in the first place, one necessary consequence of the -preceding principle is, the new point of view under which nature or the -physical world is viewed. The objects of nature lose their importance; -or, at least, they cease to be divine. They have neither the symbolic -signification 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 indifferent 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 -concentrated in the focus of the human soul, the circle of ideas is -found to be infinitely enlarged. The interior history of the soul is -developed under a thousand diverse 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, become inexhaustible material for the representations -of art. - -Nevertheless, art occupies here only a secondary place; as it is -incapable of revealing the content of the dogma, 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 -difference 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, vanishes 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 -represent these. On the contrary, it turns its back on this culminating -point of classic beauty; it accords, indeed, to the ugly a limitless -rôle in its creations. It permits all objects to pass into -representation in spite of their accidental character. Nevertheless, -those objects which are indifferent or commonplace, have value only so -far as the sentiments of the soul are reflected in them. But at the -highest point of its development art expresses only spirit—pure, -invisible spirituality. 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 comparing in this respect ancient with -modern art, that the fundamental trait of romantic or Christian art is -the musical element, the lyric accent in poetry. The lyric accent -resounds everywhere, even in epic and dramatic poetry. In the figurative -arts this characteristic makes itself felt, as a breath of the soul and -an atmosphere of feeling. - -After having thus determined the general 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 -considering, Hegel, developing its principle, establishes a parallel -between the religious idea in classic and romantic art; for romantic art -has also its ideal, which, as we have seen already, differs essentially -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 agreement 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 mortal life; he makes himself man, -and shares the miseries and the sufferings of humanity. The -representation of religious 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 -family, 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, martyrdom, repentance and conversion, the miracles 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 imperfectly. 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, although representing human -personality, yet develops noble and elevated sentiments, which combine -with moral or religious ideas. The other shows us only persons who -display, in the pursuit of purely human and positive interests, -independence 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 abandons the state of inner sanctification, the -contemplative for the active life. He casts his eyes about him and seeks -a theatre for his activity. The fundamental principle 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 -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 personal and individual character, -_honor_, _love_, and _fidelity_. Moreover, separate or united, they -form, aside from the religious relationships which can be reflected in -them, the true content of chivalry. - -The author analyzes these three sentiments; 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 infinite and ideal character. Thus honor does not -resemble bravery, which exposes itself for a common cause. Honor fights -only to make itself known or respected, to guarantee the inviolability -of the individual person. In like manner _love_, also, which constitutes -the centre of the circle, is only the accidental passion 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. Fidelity 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 advantages and its rights, -the independence and the honor of the person, who is always only -conditionally bound. The basis of these three sentiments is, then, free -personality. This is the most beautiful part of the circle which is -found beyond 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 developed in the East and in the West, -but especially in the West, that land of reflection, of the -concentration of the spirit upon itself. In the East was accomplished -the first expansion of liberty, the first attempt toward enfranchisement -from the finite. It was Mahometanism which first swept from the ancient -soil all idolatry, and religions born of the imagination. 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.” -(Page 456.) - -3. We have seen human personality developing itself upon the theatre of -real life, and there displaying noble, generous 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 character -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 disappear 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 commenced with the predominance of the -agreeable, and it ended with satire. Romantic art ends in the -exaggeration of the principle of personality, deprived of a substantial -and moral content, and thenceforth abandoned to caprice, to the -arbitrary, 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 artist, only to imitate the real; to the spirit, to -exhibit its rigor in piquant combinations and contrasts. - -This tendency is revealed under three principal forms: 1st, -_Independence of individual character_, pursuing its proper ends, its -particular designs, without moral or religious aim; 2d, the exaggeration -of the chivalric principle, and the spirit of _adventure_; 3d, the -separation of the elements, the union of which constitutes 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 -ability, 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 _dramatis personæ_ 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 religion or -of moral ideas. They are characters 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. Macbeth, Othello, Richard III., are such characters. Others, as -Romeo, Juliet, and Miranda, are distinguished by an absorption of soul -in a unique, profound, but purely personal sentiment, which furnishes -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 enthusiasm, 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 excels, 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 knowledge of -human passions. - -One of the characteristics of romantic art is, that, in the religious -sphere, the soul, finding for itself satisfaction in itself, 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 personæ_ 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 complication of events, which intermingle -without order and without cohesion. - -Moreover, this is the form which events affect in romantic, in -opposition to classic 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 development of external circumstances. In -romantic art, also, we find general interests, moral ideas; but they do -not ostensibly 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 -different motives which caused them to be undertaken, it cannot be -denied, that with an elevated religious aim—the deliverance of the holy -sepulchre—there were mingled other interested and material motives, and -that the religious and the profane aim did not contradict nor corrupt -the other. As to their general form, the crusades present utter absence -of unity. They are undertaken by masses, by multitudes, who enter upon a -particular 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 adventurers, 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 innocence, 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 _modern 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 diverse and the most extraordinary -situations. The imagination, disgusted with that which is, cuts out for -itself a world according to its fancy, and creates for itself 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 interests. Such is -also the _dénoûement_ of the greater part of romances, where prose -succeeds poetry, the real, the ideal. - -The destruction of romantic art is announced by symptoms still more -striking, 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 decadence. - -It is, above all, the humorous style which marks this decadence, by the -absence 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 overturns relations, tortures itself to discover -novel and extraordinary conceptions. The author places himself above the -subject, 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 -particular, is precisely what we call the romantic 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 -constitute 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 elsewhere, are far from answering to -what we might have expected from so remarkable a historic picture. - -What are, indeed, these conclusions? The first is, that the rôle of art, -to speak properly, is finished—at least, its original and distinct rôle. -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 secondary place. After having -finished its independent career, it becomes an obscure 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 -indicated. 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 immensity—its joys and its -sufferings, its interests, its actions, its destinies—become the domain -of art.” Thus the content 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 sentimental poetry, light or -descriptive, which to-day floods the literary world and the -drawing-rooms with its verses; compositions without life and without -content, without originality or true inspiration; a common-place 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 epistolary style. Everybody is -poet; and there is scarcely one true poet. “Wherever 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. - - - 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 Wm. Hamilton’s -“Metaphysics,” page 527.) One of these “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. Spinoza’s statement of this distinction applied to -the thinking of the Infinite—his “Infinitum 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 second -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 realize the conception of infinitude, it -represents a limited somewhat, and then _Reflection_ 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 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 efforts 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 representation at all. - -[While the Understanding proceeds to deliver a course of wise saws and -moral reflections 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-complacently and 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 conceive 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 Imagination were engaged upon when I -came in. - -_Un._ What you say seems to me a distinction in words merely. - -_Reason._ Doubtless. All distinctions are merely in words until one has -learned to see them independent of words. But you 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 -distinctions to the mind itself, whose form is consciousness. In -self-knowing, or consciousness, 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 insight 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 somewhat, conditioned by them. -Although this result agrees entirely with the religious instincts 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 “a priori and a posteriori” -inadequately treated; but his emendations will only make the results -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 regarding Mind as a property or attribute of -the individual, we have conceived it not according to its true nature, -but have allowed Imagination to mingle its activity in the thinking of -that which is of a universal nature. Thus we are prone to say to -ourselves: “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 system of thinking which went to -work logically ever proved the Mind to be an attribute; only very -elementary grades of thinking, 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 -order, as there indicated, to achieve our object. Thus our present -search is after the “Categories” 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 nature of mind itself?” It is the same question 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 already 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 recognise predicates as belonging to it. “This -is _red_;” unless I know already what “red” means, I do not cognize the -object by predicating _red_ of it. “Red is a color;” unless I 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 -“translated” a somewhat, that before was 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 impossible, 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 recognition; 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 -language—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 permanent, we shall have “is” the -copula,—or putting a letter for subject and attribute, we shall have -“_a_ is _a_,” (or “_a_ is _b_,”) for the universal form of thought. The -mental act is expressed by “is.” In this empty “is” we have the category -of pure Being, which is the “summum genus” of categories. 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 _explanation_. - - - 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,” &c. -A definition contains 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 become more and more -empty; “they become more _extensive_ in their application, and less -_comprehensive_ in their content.” Thus they approach pure simplicity, -which is attained in the “summum genus.” This pure simple, which is the -limit 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 -activity 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, (II.). - - - IV. - - -Therefore, we may affirm on these grounds, that the “summum 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 activity,—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 category 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 itself, and this involves self-separation, and -then the annulling of this separation in the same act. For in knowing -myself as an object I separate the Ego from itself, but in the very act -of _knowing_ it I make it identical again. Here are two negative -processes involved in knowing, and these are indivisibly one:—first, the -negative act of separation—secondly, the negative act of annulling the -separation by the act of recognition. That the application of categories -to the external world is a process of self-recognition, is now clear: we -know, in so far as we recognize predicates in the object,—we say “The -Rose _is_, it is _red_, it is _round_, it is _fragrant_, &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 merely the recognition of being but being is separated -from it and joined to it in the act of predication. Thus we see that the -fundamental act of self-consciousness, which is a self-separation and -self-identification united in one act of recognition,—we see that this -fundamental act is repeated in all acts of knowing. We do not know even -the rose without separating it from itself, and identifying 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 -intimation 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 activity 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, -(“Wissenschaftslehre”) 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 consideration of -the a priori knowledge of Time and Space, and their logical priority, as -conditions, to the world of experience, we inferred the transcendency of -Mind. Upon further investigation, we have now discovered 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 remarked, could never have been derived -from experience. Experience is not possible without 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 are merely -subjective—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 considering the universal nature of these -categories or “forms of the mind.” For if Being, Negation and Existence -are forms of mind and purely subjective, so that they do not belong to -the “thing in itself,” it is evident that such an object cannot _be_ or -_exist_, or in any way have validity, either positively 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 chapter confirms our first. - - -_Note._ - -The MATERIALISM of the present day holds that thought is a modification -of force, correlated with heat, light, electricity, &c., 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_: “I am so -correlated as to hold this view,—I shall be differently correlated -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 _self_-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 according 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 -idealism which he is in the habit of condemning. The _persistent force_ -is the general _idea_ of force, not found as any _real_ force, for each -_real_ force is individualized in some particular way. But it is evident -that a particular force cannot be correlated with _force in general_, -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 transition into -another—a perpetual losing of individuality. Hence the true abiding -force is not a _real_ 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 else, the -correlationist 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. - - -Philosophers usually begin to construct their systems in full view of -their final principle. It would be absurd for one to commence a -demonstration if he had no clear idea of what he intended to prove. From -the final principle the system must be worked back to the beginning in -the Philosopher’s mind before he can commence his demonstration. Usually -the order of demonstration which he follows, is not the order of -discovery; in such case his system proceeds by external reflections. All -mathematical proof is of this order. One constructs his demonstration to -lead from the known to the unknown, and uses many intermediate -propositions that do not of necessity lead to the intended result. With -another theorem 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 exposition of all that is involved therein. This is called -the _dialectic_. This dialectic movement cannot be used as a philosophic -instrument, unless one has seen the deepest _aperçu_ of Science; if this -is not the case, the dialectic will prove merely destructive and not -constructive. It is therefore a mistake, as has been before remarked, to -attempt to introduce the beginner of the study of Philosophy at once -into the dialectic. The content of Philosophy must be first presented -under its sensuous and reflective forms, and a gradual progress -established. In this chapter 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 propositions: 1. There is an independent being; 2. -That being is self-determined; 3. Self-determined being is in the form -of personality, i. e. is an _Ego_. - - - I. - - -1. Dependent being, implying its complement 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 being, -for the dependent being has no support of its own to lend to another; -all that it has is borrowed. “A chain of dependent beings collapses into -one dependent being. Dependence is not converted into independence by -mere multiplication.” - -3. The dependent, therefore, depends upon the 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 -_negative unity_. - -_Definition._—One of the most important implements of the thinker is the -comprehension of “negative unity.” It is a unity resulting from the -reciprocal cancelling of elements; e. g. _Salt_ is the negative unity of -_acid_ and _alkali_. It is called _negative_ because it negates the -independence of the elements within it. In the negative unity _Air_, the -elements oxygen and nitrogen 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 without, or through another. For all that is -determined through another is a dependent somewhat. - -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 determination -through another makes a somewhat _finite_, that the independent being -must be _undetermined_. He does not happen to discover that there is -another kind of determination, to-wit, self-determination, which can -consist with independence. The method that he uses makes it entirely an -accidental matter with him that he discovers what speculative results he -does—the dialectic method would lead inevitably to self-determination, -as we shall see later. It is Hegel’s _aperçu_ 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 _aperçu_—that the independent -being, i. e. every really existing, separate entity, is -self-determined—is the central point of speculative philosophy. What -self-determination involves, we shall see next. - - - III. - - -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 -contains 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 -former, the self-same active itself. Hence its movement 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 -determinations 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 qualities, and yet remain -itself—just as the person does when he makes abstraction of all, in -thinking 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 chapter -II—_the infinite is its own other_). - -_Resumé._ The first chapter states the premises which Kant lays down in -his Transcendental Æsthetic, (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 -Infinite of the Imagination and Infinite of Reason. The third chapter -gives the logical results which Kant should have drawn from his -Transcendental 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. - -Footnote 2: - - 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 characterizes - Chinese art in his philosophy of history: “This race, in general, has - a rare talent for imitation, 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, it lacks - perspective and shading. European images, like everything else, it - copies well. A Chinese painter knows exactly how many 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 branches; but the - sublime, the ideal, and the beautiful, do not belong at all to the - domain of his art and his ability.”—(_Philosophie der Geschichte._) - - - - - MUSIC AS A FORM OF ART. - [Read before 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 highest order of criticism must endeavor to exhibit the -unity of the work by showing how the various motives unfold from the -central thought. Of course, the artist must be rare who can see his work -doubly—first sensuously, and then rationally. 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 higher 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 intellect—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 the feeling side of his nature -aroused, as the first condition of his interpretation; 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 Schlegels, -who belong to the romantic school. They say that the intellect considers -only abstractions, while the heart is affected by the concrete whole. -“Spectres and goitred dwarfs” for the intellect, but “beauty’s rose” for -the feeling heart. But this all rests on a misunderstanding. The true -art critic does not undervalue 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 inspired by -those spiritual intimations of Eternity 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 Angelo 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 respect the -simple piety of the uneducated peasant. But we must not therefore -underrate the conscious seizing of the same thing,—not place St. -Augustine or Martin Luther below the simple-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 important that we should hold by the only connecting -link—the only universal element—_thought_. For thought has not only -universal _content_, like feeling, but also universal _form_, which -feeling has not. - -Another reason that causes persons to object to art interpretation, is -perhaps that such interpretation reminds them of the inevitable moral -appended _ad nauseam_ to the stories that delighted 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 object. 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. - - - II. Upon the Interpretation of Art. - - -1. The Infinite is not manifested _within_ any particular sphere of -finitude, but rather exhibits itself in the collision of a Finite with -another Finite _without_ it. For a Finite must by its very nature be -limited from without, and the Infinite, therefore, not only includes any -given finite sphere, but also its negation (or the other spheres which -joined to it make up 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 between low spheres, it is -not a high work of art. - -4. But whether the collision presented be of a high order or of a low -order, it bears a general resemblance to every other collision—the -Infinite is always like itself in all its manifestations. The lower the -collision, the more it becomes merely symbolical as a work of art, and -the less it adequately presents 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 gravitation, which continually -abases them. The contrast of the high with the low, of the clear and -untrammelled with the dark and impeded, symbolizes, 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 painting, and look at -the “Last Judgment” of Michael Angelo, or the “Transfiguration” of -Raphael, we find comparatively no ambiguity; there the Infinite is -visibly portrayed, and the collision in 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 approach a form of art wherein -the form and matter 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 perspective -give the artist power to represent distance and magnitude, and -internality, without any one of them, in fact. Upon a piece of ivory no -larger than a man’s hand a “Heart of the Andes” might be painted.) In -Time we have IV. Music, while in Language we have V. Poetry (in the -three forms of Epic, Lyric, and Dramatic) as the last and highest of the -forms of Art. - -6. An interpretation of a work of art should consist in a translation of -it into the form of science. Hence, first, one must seize the general -content of it—or the collision portrayed. Then, secondly, the form of -art employed comes in, whether it be Architecture, Sculpture, Painting, -Music, or Poetry. Thirdly, the relation which the content has to the -form, brings out the superior merits, or the limits and defects 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 furnishes a guide to its highest -enjoyment. We have the double pleasure of immediate sensuous enjoyment -produced by the artistic execution, 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 contrasted with other arts, will, if -exhibited, best 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 -does 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 reflection of our impressions excited in the immediate -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 Laocoon, 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 Sculpture, as in the -Laocoon, we can see what has been before the present moment, and easily -tell what will come later. In Painting, through the fact that coloring -enables more subtle effects to be wrought out, and deeper internal -movements 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 convey 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 portray the internal creative process, rather than -the dead results. It gives us the content in its whole process of -development in a _fluid_ form, while the Sculptor must fix it in a -_frigid_ 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 that in these two arts -there is a possibility of seizing the form of the individual more -definitely, while in Architecture and Music the point of repose does not -appear as the human form, but only as the more general one of -self-relation or harmony. Thus quantitative ratios—mathematical -laws—pervade and govern these two forms of Art. - -8. Music, more definitely considered, arises from vibrations, producing -waves in the atmosphere. 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 distinction of _tone_ from -_noise_, in which there is the irregularity 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 -pillar is necessary; for the solid wall does not isolate sufficiently -the function of support. With the pillar we can have exhibited the -effects of Gravity drawing down to the earth, and of the support holding -up the shelter. The pillar in classic art exhibits the equipoise 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 pillars 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 humanity—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, corresponds to the Gothic Architecture. This aspiring movement -occurs again and again in chorals; it—like all romantic art—expresses -the Christian solution of the problem of life. - - - III. Beethoven’s Sonata in C sharp minor. - (_Opus 27, No._ 2.) - - -The three movements of this sonata which Beethoven called a -_fantasie-sonata_, are not arranged in the order commonly followed. -Usually 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 order 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:—always to select a masterpiece, so -recognized, 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 is, and be no -longer dazzled by it. It requires faith in the commonly received verdict -of critics and an immense deal of patience, but in the end one is -rewarded for his pains. Almost invariably I find immediate impressions -of uncultured persons good for nothing. It requires long familiarity -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 recovering from the disappointment of his hopes -in a love-episode that had an unfortunate termination. (See Marx’s “L. -v. Beethoven, Leben und Schaffen.” From this magnificent work of -Art-Criticism, I have drawn the outlines of the following -interpretation.) The object of his affection was a certain young -countess, Julia 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, floating 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 daytime, but only -_clare-obscure_—brings back to us the sense of our separation from the -day and the real. Sadly the soft gliding movement continues, and distant -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 renouncing 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 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 striving 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 depth of -the soul as the sorrowful words are repeated. The buried past still -comes back and holds up its happy hours, while the shadows of the gloomy -future hover before the two renunciants! - -This movement is very short, and is followed by the - - - _Finale_ (_Presto agitato_). - - -“No grief of the soul that can be conquered except through action,” says -Goethe—and Beethoven 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 cancel 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 dependence, it again becomes -integral and independent. This cannot be; hence death or renunciation. -But renunciation leaves the soul recoiling upon its finitude, and devoid -of the universality it would have obtained by receiving its being -through another which reciprocally 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 creative moment of the artist, and feel its inspiration -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 could be desired. If we -would realize the highest solution, we must study the Fifth Symphony, -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 movement. “We have an immense struggle portrayed. Life -is a struggle—this seems to be the content of this movement.” The soul -finds a solution to this and sings its pæan 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 consoling 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 cannot 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, therefore, -upon 5—it tries the next three thoughtfully 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 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 -method, 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 symphony, and they become upon repetition more and more -suggestive of the highest that art can give. - - - - - THE ALCHEMISTS. - [“Remarks upon Alchemy and the Alchemists, showing that the -Philosopher’s Stone was a Symbol.”—Published by James Miller, New York, - 1867.] - - -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 utterance, 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 -position. 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 consists 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 explicitly to have as object of their -studies the mysteries of Spirit, they warn the reader against taking -their remarks upon the metals 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 “repenting 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. Instead 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 everywhere,” showing that their subject possesses 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 aërial; 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 Alchemy, 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 atmosphere, 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 wisdom 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”), Avicenna, 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 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, comprehended 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 investigate 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_, _Phœbus_, _Sulphur_, _Antimony_, _Elixir_, -_Alcahest_, _Salt_, and other whimsical 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, &c., we should not misunderstand his meaning—it -would be giving us the nature of the thing without the common name. -Every one attaches some sort of significance to the words “Life,” “God,” -“Reason,” “Instinct,” &c., and yet who comprehends them? It is evident -that in most cases the word stands for the thing, and hence when one -speaks of 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 Catechism.” The Alchemists (and Du Fresnoy names nearly a -thousand of these prolific writers) determined that no one should -flatter himself that he knew the nature of the subject before he saw the -predicates applied. Hence the strange names about which such spiritual -doctrines were inculcated. “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 elsewhere, 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 develop spiritual capital on a scale to correspond to 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 importation 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 centuries? 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 of mummy wrappage? Why desecrate the Present, 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 which cherishes its own -little idiosyncrasies we despise. If we must differ from other people, -let us differ in having a wide cosmopolitan culture. “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 immediate existence; _second_, the -products of spirit, including what modifications man has wrought upon -the former, and his independent creations. These spiritual products may -be again subdivided into _practical_ (in which the _will_ -predominates)—the institutions of civilization—and _theoretical_ (in -which the _intellect_ predominates)—art, religion, science, &c. Not only -must Philosophy explain the immediate phenomena of nature—it must also -explain the mediate 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 -himself the solutions which have dissolved the world before him. Hence, -the prevalent opinion that it is far higher to be an “original -investigator” 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 philosopher 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 “original” to be used in the sense -of _primariness_, of approximation to the absolute, universal truth? He -who varies from the truth must be secondary, and owe his deflections to -somewhat alien to his being, and therefore be himself subordinate -thereto. Only the Truth makes Free and Original. How many people stand -in the way of their own originality! If an absolute Science should be -discovered by anybody, we could all become absolutely original by -mastering 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 commentary, 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 constitute 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 Rosencrantz, published in this number, is an eminent -example of the effect which the study of Speculative Philosophy has upon -the analytical understanding. Is not the professor of logic able to -follow the poet, and interpret the products of his creative imagination? -The portion of Hegel’s Æsthetics, published in this number, giving, as -it does, the historical groundwork of art, furnishes in a genial form an -outline of the Philosophy of History. Doubtless the characteristics of -the Anglo-Saxon mind make it difficult to see in art what it has for -such nations as the Italians and Germans; we have the reflective -intellect, and do not readily attain the standpoint of the creative -imagination. - - - STYLE. - - -In order to secure against ambiguity, it is sometimes necessary to make -inelegant repetitions, and, to give to a limiting clause its proper -degree of subordination, such devices as parentheses, dashes, etc., have -to be used to such a degree as to disfigure the page. Capitals 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 -sentences, 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 difficult to master, and cannot be translated -adequately 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 -acquired the strength requisite to grasp in one thought a wide extent of -conceptions. - - - - - THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY. - Vol. I. 1867. No. 3. - - - THE MONADOLOGY. - [Translated from the French of LEIBNITZ, by F. H. HEDGE.] - -1. The Monad, of which we shall here speak, is merely a simple substance -entering into those which are compound; simple, that is to say, without -parts. - -2. And there must be simple substances, since there are compounds; for -the compound is only a collection or aggregate of simples. - -3. Where there are no parts, neither extension, nor figure, nor -divisibility is possible; and these Monads are the veritable Atoms of -Nature—in one word, the Elements of things. - -4. There is thus no danger of dissolution, and there is no conceivable -way in which a simple substance can perish naturally. - -5. For the same reason, there is no way in which a simple substance can -begin naturally, since it could not be formed by composition. - -6. Therefore we may say that the Monads 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 anything in it, or to conceive in it any -internal movement—any movement excited, directed, augmented or -diminished within, such as may take place in compound 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 accidents -to detach themselves and go forth from the substances, as did formerly -the Sensible Species of the Schoolmen. Accordingly, neither substance -nor accident can enter a Monad from without. - -8. Nevertheless Monads must have qualities—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 differ 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 -intrinsic denomination. - -10. I take it for granted, furthermore, 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 natural changes proceed by degrees, something changes and something -remains, and consequently there must be in the simple substance a -plurality of affections and relations, 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 sequel. Here it is that the -Cartesians have especially failed, making no account of those -perceptions of which we are not conscious. 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 believes in souls entirely -separate. Hence, also, ill affected minds have been confirmed in the -opinion that the soul is mortal. - -15. The action of the internal principle which causes the change, or the -passage from one perception to another, may be called Appetition. It is -true, the desire cannot always completely attain to every perception to -which it tends, but it always attains to something thereof, and arrives -at new perceptions. - -16. We experience in ourselves the fact of multitude in the simple -substance, when we find that the least thought of which we are conscious -includes a variety in its object. Accordingly, all who admit that the -soul is a simple substance, are bound to admit this multitude in the -Monad, and Mr. Boyle should not have found any difficulty in this -admission, as he has done in his dictionary—Art. Rorarius. - -17. Besides, it must be confessed that Perception and its consequences -are inexplicable by mechanical causes—that is to say, by figures and -motions. If we imagine a machine so constructed as to produce thought, -sensation, perception, we may conceive it magnified—the same proportions -being preserved—to such an extent 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 internal -acts of simple substances. - -18. We might give the name of Entelechies to all simple substances or -created Monads, inasmuch as there is in them a certain completeness -(perfection), (ἔχουσι τὸ ἔντελες). There is a sufficiency (αὐτάρκεια) -which makes them the sources of their own internal actions, and, as it -were, incorporeal automata. - -19. If we choose to give the name of soul to all that has perceptions -and desires, 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 simple perception, I am willing that -the general name of Monads and Entelechies shall suffice for those -simple substances which have nothing but perceptions, and that the term -souls shall be confined to those whose perceptions are more distinct, -and accompanied by memory. - -20. For we experience in ourselves a state in which we remember nothing, -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 permanent, and -since the soul delivers herself from it, she is something more. - -21. And it does not by any means follow, in that case, that the simple -substance 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. And 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 perceptions, we must have had perceptions, although unconscious of -them, immediately before awaking. For each perception 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 stupor; 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, increasing 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 explain 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. We observe that animals, -having a perception of something which strikes them, and of which they -have previously had a similar perception, expect, through the -representation 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 previous 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 consecutiveness 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 -astronomer 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 us 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 necessary 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 which in us is limited, is in him without -limit. And these reflective acts furnish the principal objects of our -reasonings. - -31. Our reasonings are founded on two great principles, that of -“_Contradiction_,” by virtue of which we judge that to be 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_,” 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 -possible. When a truth is necessary, we may discover the reason of it by -analysis, resolving it into simpler ideas and truths, until we arrive at -those which are ultimate.[3] - -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 opposite 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 diffused through the -universe of creatures—or else the process of resolving into particular -reasons might run into a detail without 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, present and -past, which enter into the efficient cause of my present writing; and -there is an infinity of minute inclinations and dispositions 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 -contingencies, each one of which again requires a similar analysis in -order to account for it, we have made no advance, and the sufficient or -final reason must be outside of the series of this detail of -contingencies,[4] 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 eminently 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 everywhere linked together, _there is but one God, and -this God suffices_. - -40. We may also conclude that this supreme Substance, which is Only,[5] -Universal, and Necessary—having nothing outside of it which is -independent of it, and being a simple series of possible beings—must be -incapable of limits, and must contain as much of reality as is possible. - -41. Whence 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 existing 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 depend, 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 reality 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 -necessary 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 -consequently no contradiction, that alone is 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 dependent upon God, are arbitrary, and depend upon his will, as -Des Cartes, and afterward M. Poiret, appear to have conceived. 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 essential 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 -Barbarus translates this word), they are only imitations according to -the measure of their perfection. - -49. The creature is said to act externally, in so far as it possesses -perfection, and to suffer from another (creature) so far as it is -imperfect. So we ascribe action to the Monad, so far as it has distinct -perceptions, and passion, so far as its perceptions 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 therefore said to act upon the other. - -51. But in simple substances this is merely an ideal influence of one -Monad upon another, which can pass into effect only by the intervention -of God, inasmuch as in the ideas of God one Monad has a right to demand -that God, in regulating the rest from the commencement of things, shall -have regard to it; for since a created Monad can have no physical -influence on the interior of another, it is only by this means that one -can be dependent on another. - -52. And hence it is that actions and passions in creatures are mutual; -for God, comparing two simple substances, finds reasons in each which -oblige him to accommodate the one to the other. Consequently that which -is active in one view, is passive in another—active so far as what we -clearly discern in it serves to account for that which takes place in -another, 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 determines him to one rather than another. - -54. And this reason can be no other than fitness, derived from the -different degrees 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 existence of that Best, which the -wisdom of God discerns, which his goodness chooses, and his power -effects. - -56. And this connection, or this accommodation of all created things to -each, 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 infinite -multitude of simple substances, there are given, as it were, so many -different worlds which yet are only the perspectives 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 greatness of God. And this -Mr. Boyle acknowledges, when in his dictionary (Art. Rorarius) 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 impossibility of this universal harmony, by which each substance -expresses exactly the perfections of all the rest through its relations -with them. - -60. We see, moreover, in that which I have just stated, the _a priori_ -reasons why things could not be other than 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 distinctness 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 effect 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 affected by others in contact with those by -which it is immediately touched—it follows 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, -discerning in the present that which is removed in time as well as in -space. “Συμπνόιει Πάντα,” says Hippocrates. But each soul can read in -itself only that which is distinctly 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 -represents more distinctly the particular body to which it belongs, and -whose Entelechy it is: and as this body expresses the entire 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 always organic; for every Monad, being -a mirror of the universe, according to its fashion, and the universe -being arranged with perfect order, there must be the same order in the -representative—that is, in the perceptions of the soul, and consequently -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 -example, the tooth of a brass wheel has parts or fragments which are not -artificial to us; they have nothing which marks the machine in their -relation to the use for which the wheel is designed; but natural -machines—that is, living bodies—are still machines in their minutest -parts, _ad infinitum_. 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 wonderful art, inasmuch as every portion of nature is not -only infinitely divisible, as the ancients knew, but is actually -subdivided 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 conceived 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 garden, 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 confusion, except in appearance, as it might seem -in a pond at a distance, in which one should see a confused motion 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 animals 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 forever 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 Metempsychosis—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 accretion; and -that which we call death, is envelopment and diminution. - -74. Philosophers have been much troubled about the origin of forms, of -Entelechies, 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 -putrefaction, but always from seed, in which undoubtedly there had been -a _preformation_; it has been inferred that not only the organic body -existed in that seed before 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 transformation, to become an animal -of another species. 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 -number 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 of nature, and that not only there is no generation, but -no entire destruction—no death, strictly considered. And these _a -posteriori_ conclusions, drawn from experience, accord perfectly with my -principles deduced _a priori_, as stated above. - -77. Thus we may say, 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. - -78. These principles have furnished me 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 follows those -which are proper to it, and they meet in virtue of the preëstablished -harmony 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 communicate 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 preëstablished 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, although 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 rational -animals, that although their spermatic 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 distinguish 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 universe of -creatures, but spirits are, furthermore, images of Divinity itself, or -of the Author of Nature, capable of cognizing the system of the -universe, and of imitating something of it by architectonic experiments, -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 perfect of monarchs. - -86. This City of God, this truly universal 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 possesses, properly speaking, the attribute of -_goodness_, whereas his wisdom and his power are everywhere manifest. - -87. As we have established above, a perfect 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 conduce to grace by natural methods. -This globe, for example, must be destroyed and repaired by natural -means, at such seasons as the government of spirits may require, for the -chastisement of some and the recompense of others. - -89. We may say, furthermore, that God as architect contains entirely God -as legislator, and that accordingly sins must carry their punishment -with them in the order of nature, by virtue even of the mechanical -structure of things, and that good deeds in like manner will bring their -recompense, through their connection with bodies, although this cannot, -and ought not always to, take place on the spot. - -90. Finally, under this perfect government, 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 -Providence after having done their duty, and who worthily love and -imitate the Author of all good, pleasing themselves with the -contemplation of his perfections, following 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 all that God brings to pass by his secret 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 wisest, and that it could not be made better than it is, not only -for all in general, but for ourselves in particular, if we are 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. - -Footnote 3: - - _Primitifs._ - -Footnote 4: - - i. e., Accidental causes. - -Footnote 5: - - _Unique._ - - - - - A CRITICISM OF PHILOSOPHICAL SYSTEMS. - [Translated from the German of J. G. FICHTE, by A. E. KROEGER.] - - - [NOTE.—The following completes Fichte’s Second Introduction to the - Science of Knowledge, 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 to enter 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 subsequent 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 - popular 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.] - - - I. - - -It is not the habit of the _Science of Knowledge_, nor of its author, to -seek protection under any authority whatever. The person who has first -to see whether this doctrine agrees with the doctrine of somebody else -before he is willing to be convinced by it, is not one whom this science -calculates to convince, because the absolute 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 -continued elaboration of his system, which he was compelled to -undertake. Nevertheless, all others who pass for students of Kant’s -philosophy, and who have spoken on the subject—whether they were friends -or opponents of the Science of Knowledge—have unanimously asserted the -contrary; and _by their advice_, even Kant himself, who ought certainly -best to understand himself, asserts the contrary. If the author of the -Science of Knowledge were disposed towards a certain manner of thinking, -this would be welcome news to him. Moreover, since he considers it no -disgrace to have misunderstood Kant, and foresees that to have -misunderstood him will soon be considered no disgrace by general -opinion, he ought surely not to hesitate to assume that disgrace, -especially as it would confer upon him the honor of being 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 assertion 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 understand the writings of Kant? But such an -accusation from the lips of the author of the Science of Knowledge is -surely no reproach, since he confesses as loudly as possible, 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 interpretation 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 doctrine, 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 sacrificed. The fact is, I do not wish to be -considered 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 improve 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-activity of the Ego. - -Now it would seem beyond a doubt, and evident to all the readers of -Kant’s writings, 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_[6] 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 received a far higher -clearness and development than they originally possessed;—he yet, in one -of his latest works, feels constrained 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 intellectual -contemplation. - -Is any further proof needed, that a Philosophy, which is based on the -very thing so decidedly rejected by the Kantian System, 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? Perhaps, however, it might be well first to inquire, whether the -same word may not express 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 consciousness (through pure thinking) of the -thing per se; and hence a creation of the thing _per se_ through its -conception, in nearly the same manner as the existence of God is -demonstrated from the mere conception of God;—those who do so must look -upon God’s existence as a mere sequence of their thinking. Now Kant’s -system—taking the direction it did take—may have considered it necessary -in this manner to keep the thing _per se_ at a respectful distance. But -the Science of Knowledge has finished the thing _per se_ in another -manner; that Science knows it to be the completest 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 contemplation 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 of Pure Reason_ he treated only of theoretical Philosophy, and -could therefore not introduce the categorical imperative; in his -_Critique of Practical Reason_, he treated only of practical Philosophy, -wherein the question concerning the manner of consciousness could not -arise. - -This consciousness is doubtless an immediate, but no sensuous -consciousness—hence exactly what I call intellectual contemplation. Now, -since we have no classical 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 become acquainted with the significance of my terminology -before proceeding to judge my system. - -My most estimable friend, the Rev. Mr. Schulz—to whom I had made known -my indefinite idea of building up the whole Science of Philosophy on the -pure Ego, long before I had thoroughly digested that idea, and whom I -found less opposed to it than any one else—has a remarkable passage on -this subject. In his 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 possession of a _supersensuous, intellectual power of contemplation_. -For we call _contemplation_ a _representation_, which is _immediately_ -related to an object. But pure self-consciousness is not representation, -but is rather that which first makes a representation to become really a -representation. If I say, ‘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. Schulz, therefore, a representation is that whereof -consciousness is possible. Now Mr. Schulz also speaks of pure -self-consciousness. Undoubtedly he knows whereof he speaks, and hence, -as philosopher, he most truly has a representation of pure -self-consciousness. It was not of this consciousness of the philosopher, -however, that Mr. Schulz spoke, but of original consciousness; and hence -the significance of his assertion is this: Originally (i. e. in common -consciousness without philosophical reflection) mere self-consciousness -does not constitute full consciousness, but is merely a necessary -compound, which makes full consciousness first possible. But is it not -the same with _sensuous_ contemplation? Does _sensuous_ contemplation -constitute a consciousness, or is it not rather merely that whereby a -representation first becomes a representation? Contemplation without -conception is confessedly 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 standpoint -of original contemplation, sensuous contemplation is equally _not_ -representation. Or does the conception constitute a representation? The -conception without contemplation is confessedly empty. In truth, -self-consciousness, sensuous contemplation, and conception, are, in -their isolated separateness, not representations—they are only that -through which representations become possible. According to Kant, to -Schulz, and to myself, a complete representation contains a threefold: -1st. That whereby the representation relates itself to an object, and -becomes the representative of a _Something_—and this we unanimously call -the _sensuous contemplation_ (even if I am myself the object of my -representation, it is by virtue of a sensuous 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_ -representation; this I also call contemplation (but _intellectual -contemplation_), because it has the same relation to the complete -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-determined; Reason is only -for Reason; but for Reason there is also nothing but Reason. Hence, -everything, which Reason is, must be grounded in itself, and out of -itself, 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 confess that I cannot conceive it possible how -any one can understand even one sentence of Kant, and harmonize it with -others, except 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 -refused 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 -conditions of the original unity of apperception.” That is to say, in -other words, “That something which is contemplated be also _thought_, is -only possible on condition that the possibility of the original unity of -apperception can coexist with it.” Now since, according to Kant, -contemplation also is possible only on condition that it be thought and -comprehended—otherwise 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 apperception. - -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 “_I_” alone is italicised by -Kant, and this is somewhat important; 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, and it is only through the -thinking of my manifold thinking, that I first became I 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, according to him, -by another thinking, and by the thinking of this thinking; and I should -like to know how we could ever arrive 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, -‘_I_ think,’ is an act of spontaneity, i. e. it cannot be considered as -belonging to ‘sensuousness’.“ (I add: and hence, also, not to inner -sensuousness, to which the above described identity of consciousness -most certainly does belong.) Kant continues: “I call it pure -apperception, 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 accompanied by no other representation.” - -Here the character of pure self-consciousness is surely clearly enough -described. It is in all consciousness the same—hence undeterminable by -any accident of consciousness; in it the Ego is only determined through -itself, and is thus absolutely determined. It is also clear here, that -Kant could not have understood 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 individuality, as an _I_, is -necessarily conditioned by, and only possible through, the consciousness -of another individuality, a _Thou_. - -Hence we discover in Kant’s writings the conception of the _pure Ego_ -exactly as the Science of Knowledge has described it, and completely -determined. Again, in what relation does Kant, in the above passage, -place this pure Ego to all consciousness? As _conditioning the same_. -Hence, according to Kant, the possibility of all consciousness is -conditioned by the possibility of the pure Ego, or by pure -self-consciousness, just as the Science of Knowledge 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 consciousness, 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 suggested -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 conditions of -self-consciousness; those results need not _proceed_ from -self-consciousness, provided they do not cancel its possibility. - -But, according to the Science of Knowledge, all consciousness is -_determined_ through self-consciousness; i. e. everything which occurs -in consciousness is _grounded_, _given_ and _produced_ by the conditions -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 -_determinateness_ follows immediately from the _conditionedness_, and -that, therefore, the distinction drawn between both is not valid in this -instance. Whosoever says, “All consciousness 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 everything he may believe, further to -know concerning it. He deduces what is required from the asserted -principle, and only what he thus has _deduced_ as consciousness is for -him consciousness, and everything else is and remains nothing. Thus the -derivability from self-consciousness _determines_ for him 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 Knowledge would not have -undertaken that work, but would have chosen another branch of human -knowledge for his field. I know that he has by no means _proven_ his -categories to be conditions of self-consciousness; I know that he has -simply asserted them so to be; that he has still less deduced 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 utterances are fragments and results of this system, and -that his assertions get meaning and intention only through this -presupposition. 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 undecided; at least somebody else must -investigate this matter, for I have never asserted anything on this -point.[7] But, however such an investigation may result, this _merit_ -surely belongs altogether to the great man; that he first of all -consciously separated 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 -endeavoring to prove that I have done injustice to _myself_, and to -other 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 -Knowledge 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 contained in the Ego; but only in so far as _empirical 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 _transcendental content_, -which is the _form_ of that knowledge; but in regard to its _empirical_ -content, which gives that knowledge objective validity, it is grounded -in the Ego through a something _which 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 -reality 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 experience (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 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 otherwise than _utterly falsely_; they all have -discovered in that system the very doctrine which it refutes—dogmatism, -instead of transcendental idealism; _and I alone understand 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 presumptuous 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 different from the Ego, as the ground of the empirical content -of Knowledge? I answer: only by drawing a conclusion from the grounded -to the ground; hence by applying the category of causality. Thus, -indeed, Kant himself discovers it to be, and hence rejects the -assumption of _things, &c., &c., outside of us_. But his interpreters -make him forget for the present instance the validity of categories -generally, and make him arrive, by a bold leap, from the world of -appearances to the thing _per se_ outside of us. Now, how do these -interpreters justify this inconsequence? - -Kant evidently speaks of a thing _per se_. But what is this thing to -him? A _noumenon_, as we can find in many passages of his writings. -Reinhold and Schulz also hold it to be a _noumenon_. Now, what is a -_noumenon_? According to Kant, to Reinhold, and Schulz, a something, -which our _thinking_—by laws to be shown up, and which Kant has shown -up—_adds_ to the appearance, and which _must_ so be added in -_thought_;[8] which, therefore, is produced _only through our thinking_; -not, however, through our _free_, but through a _necessary_ thinking, -which is only _for our 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. Have they then forgotten their first speech, and is -the thing, _per se_, which a moment ago was but a mere thought, now -turned into something more? Or do they seriously mean to apply to a mere -thought, the exclusive predicate of reality, i. e. causality? And such -teachings are put forth as the astonishing discoveries of the great -genius, who, with his torch, lights up the retrograde philosophical -century. - -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 nothing 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, that a system -which thus mixes being and thinking receives but too much honor if it is -spoken of seriously. To be sure, very few men may be properly required -to overcome the natural tendency towards dogmatism sufficiently to lift -themselves up to the free flight of Speculation. 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 understood 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 disturbers of -their peace; and that the German public, so desirous of acquiring -knowledge, should have bought their blackened paper with avidity, and -attempted to suck up the spirit of it—nay, should even, perhaps, have -copied and recopied 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 rather 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 absurdities, just as well as we others, amongst whom there are -some, of whom you yourself confess the merits, and to whom you doubtless -will not deny all sound understanding? - -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 occur that these men determine some parts inaccurately, and hence -place them in contradiction 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 composed of them, for they may not have got so far yet as to compare -them. But it is quite certain that the latter, who proceeded from the -composite, must have thought, or believed that he thought, the -contradiction which is in the parts of his representation—for _he_ -certainly at one time held all the parts together. It is not absurd to -think dogmatism now, and in another moment transcendental idealism; for -this we all do, and must do, if we wish to philosophize about both -systems; but it is absurd to think both systems as _one_. The -interpreters of Kant’s system do not necessarily 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 expressly 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 which exists -outside of us_, I shall not believe what these interpreters tell us of -Kant. But if he does make this declaration, I shall consider 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 to us,” and “that this is possible because the object affects -us as in a certain manner,” and “that there is a power of attaining -representations by the manner 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 our senses and partly produce representations themselves, while -partly putting our power of understanding into motion, to compare, -connect and separate these representations, and thus to form the _raw -material_ of our sensuous 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 altogether from the idea of the -whole, which I assume these interpreters never to have had, let me ask -first, if these passages could really not be united with Kant’s other -frequently repeated statements, viz., that it is folly to speak of an -impression produced upon us by an external transcendental object,—how -did it happen that these interpreters preferred to sacrifice the many -statements, which assert a transcendental idealism, to these _few_ -passages, which assert a dogmatism, than _vice versa_? Doubtless because -they did not attempt the study of Kant’s writings with an impartial -mind, but had their heads full of that dogmatism—which constitutes their -very being—as the only correct 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 confirmed by him in their old way of thinking. - -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 understanding 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 -_object_, for we have effected a synthetical unity in the manifold of -the contemplation, 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_), _for 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 have but a -spark of logic, it means simply: it affects in so far as it is; hence -_it is only thought as affecting_. Let us 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 affected 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 affection_, but not an affection _through an object_. -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 attention 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 -contemplation 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 necessary 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 limitedness -of the reflecting from that of the reflected, which would result in the -statement: I can think only the finite, because I am finite. But 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. - -All limitedness is, by its very conception, a _determined_, and not a -general limitedness. - -From the possibility of an Ego, we have thus deduced the necessity of a -_general limitedness_ of the Ego. But the _determinedness_ of this -limitedness cannot be deduced, since it is, as we have seen, that which -conditions all Egoness. Here, therefore, all deduction is at an end. -This _determinedness_ appears as the absolutely accidental, and -furnishes the _merely 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 determinedness, 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 Kantians, 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 _transcendental_ explanation, on the contrary, stops -at the immediate feeling, from the reason just pointed out. It is true, -the _empirical_ Ego, which transcendental idealism observes, explains -this feeling to itself by the law, “No limitation without a limiting;” -and thus, through contemplation of the limiting, produces extended -matter, of which it now, as of its ground, predicates the merely -subjective sensation of feeling; and it is only by virtue of this -synthesis 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 -explanation 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 _receptivity_, -and a particular of this receptivity is an _affection_. Without it, -consciousness is unexplainable. - -There is no doubt that it is an immediate 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 attempt 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 se_ and its relations, what else can they possibly know of -this category, but that they are compelled to think according 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 Science 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 himself 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 -contemplation 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 philosopher, 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 conception 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 -contemplation is and remains the basis of the conception, i. e. of that -which is conceived in the conception. We cannot absolutely create or -produce by thinking; we can only think that which is immediately -contemplated by us. A thinking, which has no contemplation for its -basis, which does not embrace a contemplation entertained in the same -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 determine my contemplation by the thinking of -an opposite; this and nothing else is the meaning of the expression—I -comprehend the contemplation. - -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 -undeterminedness) 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 directed 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. _I restrict myself_ -with freedom to this sphere, if I contemplate _myself_ 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 misunderstandings. - -All thinking is necessarily directed upon a being, say some. Now the Ego -of the Science of Knowledge is not to have being; hence it is -unthinkable, and the whole Science, which is built upon such a -contradiction, is null and void. - -Let me be permitted to make a preliminary 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 -conception, 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 according 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 -consciousness. How little can these men be aware of what they really do! -How mechanically, and without any inner attention and spirit, must they -produce their philosophical specimens! Master Jourdan 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 possibility of ever becoming -conscious of their freedom and Egoness, they are covertly already -doubting this very point. - -Their objection might therefore be summarily put aside, since it -contradicts, and thus annihilates itself. But let us see where the real -ground of the misunderstanding 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 thinking, to which -this particular thinking confines itself, and by which it seems to be -limited, then their premise must undoubtedly be admitted; and it is not -the Science 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 proceeds; 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 objectivity; 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 permanent in time and persistent in -space—then that assertion of theirs is unwarranted. If it were correct, -no science of philosophy were possible, for the conception of the Ego -would be unthinkable; and self-consciousness, nay, even consciousness, -would also be impossible. If it were correct, 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 themselves -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 instance, think themselves the free, active authors of -the very sensible and very original objections, which they bring up from -time to time against our system? Now, is then this “themselves” -something which checks and limits their causality, or is it not rather -the very opposite of the check, namely, the very causality itself? I -must refer them to what I have said in § v. on this subject. If such a -sort of being were ascribed to the Ego, the Ego would cease to be Ego; -it would become a _thing_, and its conception would be annihilated. It -is true that afterwards—not afterwards as a posteriority in time, but -afterwards in the series of the dependence of thinking—we also ascribe -such a being to the Ego, which, nevertheless, remains and must remain -Ego in the original meaning 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. But it is the business of philosophy to prove, and -genetically to explain how the Ego comes to think itself thus, and all -this belongs not to that which is presupposed, but to that which is to -be deduced. The result, therefore, remains thus: the Ego is originally -only an act_ing_; if you but think it as an act_ive_, you have already -an Empirical, and hence a conception of it, which must first be -deduced.[9] - -But our opponents claim that they do not 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 anything 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 he ran -away too soon. But in philosophy it is not to be thus. If in philosophy -a man shows in the same manner his complete ignorance, we are, with many -bows and compliments to the sharp-sighted man, to give him publicly that -private schooling which he so sadly needs, and without betraying the -least smile or gesture of disgust. Have, then, the philosophers in two -thousand years made clear not a single proposition which might now be -considered as established for that science without further proof? If -there is such a proposition, it is certainly that of the distinction of -logic, as a purely formal science, from real 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 system? As -far as I know, simply this: _if_ a conception is already determined by a -certain characteristic, then it must not be determined by another -opposite characteristic. But by what characteristic the conception is -originally to be characterized, this logical theorem does not say, nor -can say, for it presupposes the original determination, and is -applicable only in so far as that is presupposed. Concerning the -original determination another science will have to decide. - -These wise men tell us that it is _contradictory_ not to determine a -conception by the predicate of actual being. Yet how can this be -contradictory, unless the conception 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 conception by that -predicate? Do not these adepts in logic perceive that they postulate -their principle, and turn around in an evident 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 being_, 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 which they have denied the determinability of the conception -by that predicate. - -But certainly if they have not yet elevated themselves to _the -consciousness_ of that contemplation, which is not determined 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 determined by the predicate of this -actual being. In that case, however, they must not believe that logic -has taught them this asserted connection of thinking and being, for -their knowledge of it is altogether derived from their unfortunate -empirical self. They, standing on the standpoint of knowing 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 retain 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 violate it. As for ourselves, however, we -cannot use this their rule any longer, for we possess a few conceptions -more, resting in a sphere over which their rule does not extend, 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 conceptions are identical; logic furnishes the _rules_ of -this determining, and hence presupposes clearly enough the determining -generally as a part of consciousness. That all thinking has an object -can be shown only in contemplation. Think! and observe 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 contained 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_, which acts according to certain laws, and what he establishes -is the series of necessary acts of this acting. Amongst these acts there -occurs one which to the acting itself appears as a being, and which by -laws to be shown up, _must_ so appear 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 philosopher 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; derived from the opposition of activity. Hence it -is considered only as a _negative_ conception. The only positive for the -idealist is _Freedom_; being is the mere negative of freedom. Only thus -has idealism a firm basis, and is in harmony with 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 from time to time, -still found a hiding place—namely, some original being, though 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 cannot 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 depends 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 new, and will find few imitators even -in this universal state of despair; since the least school knowledge of -what logic really is, will suffice to make every one reject this -protection. - -Let no one be deceived by these opponents, if they adopt the language of -idealism, and admitting with their lips the correctness of its views, -protest that they know well enough that being is only to 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 demonstrate the utter confusion of their -conceptions; for what may a _being for us_ mean, which is, nevertheless, -to be an original _not_-derived being? Who, then, are those “_we_,” 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 conception of a being, which, from a certain point of view, is to be -independent of the representation, must, after all, be derived 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 “_we_” 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 representation 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 standpoint of the -philosopher, and then it will 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 maintain -the first interpretation to be the true one, and what wretchedness to -refute it in that interpretation. But in the latter interpretation 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 only been thus -understood 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, -whatever we may think, and that hence nothing can occur in us which is -independent of us, because it all is necessarily related 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 particular 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 requires me to -do, from this individual personality, there would be nothing left to me -which might be characterized as _I_; 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 nothing 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 originally opposed to the _It_, to the mere -objectivity; and the positing of these conceptions 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 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 conception of Thou arises from the union of the 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 described 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 synthetized 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 language only the -individual, would this make it necessary that a distinction in the -original 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 attach to -it. If he says, “I am the thinking in this thinking,” does he then only -oppose himself to other persons, and not rather to all object of -thinking generally? Kant says again, “The fundamental principle 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 _Egoness_ generally; for the conception of individuality -arises clearly enough through synthesis, as I have just shown; and the -fundamental principle of individuality is therefore a synthetical -proposition. Reinhold, it is true, speaks of the Ego simply as of the -representing; but this does not affect the present case; for when I -distinguish myself as the representing from the represented, do I then -distinguish myself 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, -presuppose the Ego in advance of the manifold of representation, but -rather heap it together, out of that manifold; do they, then, hold their -one thinking in the manifold thinking to be only the thinking of the -individual, and not rather of the intelligence 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 language? To prove this use, I am -compelled 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, replies, “It is I,” then it is clear that he speaks -of himself as this particular person, and wishes to be understood: “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, because -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—permit me this example, which I find -particularly applicable—sew or cut at the clothing of some person, and -should unawares cut the person himself, then he would probably cry out: -“Look here, this is _I_; you are cutting _me_!” 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 _I_,” 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 are very different conceptions, and -the synthesis of the latter is clearly to be observed. Through the -former conception, we distinguish ourselves from all that is external to -us—not merely from all _persons_ that are external to us—and hence we -embrace by it not our particular personality, 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 philosophical literature. - -But our opponents insist on their incapability to think the required -conception, and we must place faith in their assertions. 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 have that conception in -themselves, but do not know _that_ they have it. The ground of this -their incapability does not lie in any particular weakness of their -thinking faculties, but in a weakness of their whole character. Their -Ego, in the sense in which they take the word—i. e. their individual -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 reason; but reason exists to help -their person through the world; and if the person could get along just -as well without reason, we might discharge reason from service, and -there would be no reason at all. This, indeed, lurks in the whole system -of their conceptions, and through all their assertions, and many of them -are 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 objective that which has merely subjective 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 personality the means to realize it; personality is only a -particular manner of manifesting reason, and must always more and more -lose itself in the universal form of reason. Only reason is eternal; -individuality must always die out. And whosoever is not prepared to -succumb to this order of things, will also never get at the true -understanding of the Science of Knowledge. - - - X. - - -This fact that they can never understand 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 opportunity to attack us. Every conviction, they assert, must -be capable of being communicated by conceptions—nay, it must even be -possible to compel its acknowledgment. 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 their nature, cannot think or -learn. Reason is common to all, and is the same in all rational beings. -Whatsoever one rational 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 possibility of consciousness. The pure Ego, which they -charge is incapable of thinking, lies at the bottom of all their -thinking, and occurs in all their thinking, since all thinking is -possible only through it. Thus far everything proceeds mechanically. But -to get an insight into this asserted necessity—to think again this -thinking—does not lie in mechanism, but, 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 science or art. “But,” say they, “if you -only require a knowledge of the rudiments, why do you not teach them to -us, if we 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 public to understand you before you have -communicated the rudiments?” I reply: that is exactly the difficulty! -These rudiments 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 object of education—from -tenderest youth 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. Education must first content itself -to be more negative than positive—more a mutual interchange _with_ the -scholar than a working _upon_ him; more negative as far as possible—i. -e. education must at least propose to itself this negativeness as its -object, and must be positive only as a means of being negative. So long -as education, whether with or without clear consciousness, proposes to -itself the opposite object—labors only for usefulness through others, -without considering that the using principle lies also in the -individual; so long as education thus eradicates in earliest youth 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 remain 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 themselves what _proving_ means, -and that hence they have never considered that there is at the bottom of -all demonstration something absolutely undemonstrable. - -Demonstration effects only a conditioned, 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 -retrogression 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 certain 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, regarding which no -question can be raised, why it is certain, then, there is an -undemonstrable at the base of all demonstration. - -They do not appear to have considered what it means: to have proven -something to _somebody_. It means: we have demonstrated to him that a -certain other certainty 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.[10] - -Finally, they seem not to have considered that even where there is such -a common 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 reciprocal -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 contradict themselves; what they say and 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 -mechanism is not contained in the mechanism itself. The mechanism cannot -seize itself, for the simple reason that it is mechanism. 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 object; 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 -destroys 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 insignificant prattle. -Now, they must not consider this, our declaration, as degrading 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 they 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 condition. 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 philosophers seem to assume. These -philosophers demand the impossible. What does it mean: a philosophy is -really universally valid? 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 philosophical 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 possessed 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 _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 philosophy is universally -valid for all philosophers;” and will say so with full right if he only -be himself convinced, though no other mortal being should accept his -doctrine; “for,” he will add, “he who does not recognize it as valid is -no philosopher.” - -Concerning this point, I hold the following: 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 objection that all systematic authors -have ever been convinced of the truth of their systems. 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 authors were only convinced -of one or the other point in their system, which perhaps was not even -clearly conscious to themselves, but not of the whole of their -system—they were convinced only in certain moods. This is no conviction. -Conviction is that which depends on no time and no change of condition; -which is not accidental 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 philosophy; perhaps but -one; perhaps not even this one. I do not speak of the ancients. 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 direct contradiction with his necessary conviction in daily -life, by virtue of which he was forced to consider himself free and -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 contradictory to his -life. Kant might have been convinced; but, if I understand him -correctly, he was not convinced when he wrote his _Critique_. He speaks -of _a deception, which always recurs, although we know that it is a -deception_. Whence did Kant learn, as he was the first who discovered -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 deceive one’s self is -not the condition of conviction and harmony within—it is the symptom of -a dangerous inner disharmony. My experience is that no deception recurs, -for reason contains no deception. Moreover, 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 common -consciousness, surely, for common consciousness only speaks _of itself_, -and can therefore say nothing but that things exist for it (i. e. for -us, on this standpoint of common consciousness); and that certainly is -no deception, for it is our own truth. Common consciousness knows -nothing of a thing _per se_, for the very reason that it is common -consciousness, which surely never goes beyond itself. It is a false -philosophy which first makes common consciousness assert such a -conception, whilst only that false philosophy discovered it in _its_ own -sphere. Hence this so-called deception—which is easily got rid of, and -which true philosophy roots out utterly—that false philosophy has itself -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 -explain 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 instrument 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 example -of conviction in the history of philosophy. - - - XI. - - -In conclusion, I wish to refer in a few words to a very curious -misapprehension. It is that of mistaking the Ego, as intellectual -contemplation, from which the Science 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 described 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 Ego as idea is the rational being—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 individual, which it was only through sensuous limitation; -and secondly, in so far as this rational being has also realized reason -in the eternal world, which, therefore, remains constantly posited in -this idea. The world remains in this idea as world generally, 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 contemplation have -only this in common, that in neither of them the thought of the -individual enters; not in the latter, because the Egoness has not yet -been determined as individuality; and not in the former, because 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 fundamental conception; to the latter it does not return, but only -determines this idea in the practical part as highest and ultimate -object of reason. The first is, as we have said, original contemplation, -and becomes a conception in the sufficiently described 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 misunderstandings which are to be taken -into consideration, 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 and end, nay, the whole essence -of which, is that individuality be theoretically forgotten and -practically denied, is denounced as egotism, and by men who, for the -very reason because they are covertly theoretical 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 arguments 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 perfectly in conformity with their mode of -thinking, and it would be an idle undertaking to attempt to rid them of -their nature. 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 Pagans, 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 -consideration, and reflect upon what they wish to say before they say -it. - -Footnote 6: - - Critique of Practical Reason; Critique of the Power of Judgment; and - Critique of a Pure Doctrine of Religion.—_Translator._ - -Footnote 7: - - For instance—_Critique of Pure Reason_, p. 108: “I purposely pass by - the definition of these categories, _although I may be in possession - of it_.” Now, these categories can be defined, each by its determined - relation to the possibility 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 definition 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 _System of Pure Reason_ and the “present - work,” i. e. the _Critique of Pure Reason_—and the latter is said - _not_ to be the former. - -Footnote 8: - - 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 become conscious of this activity in my thinking, - _since it is not free_. Only when I occupy the standpoint of - philosophy can I _draw the conclusion_ that I am active in this - thinking. - -Footnote 9: - - To state 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 consciousness_.—This objectivity is in every representation - (even in that of the Ego, of virtue, of the moral law, &c., or in that - of complete phantasms, as, for instance, a squared circle, a sphynx, - &c.) _object of the mere representation_. Or the free activity is - regarded as _having actual causality_; and then that which limits it, - has _actual_ existence, the _real world_. - -Footnote 10: - - 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 hyperbole, uttered in indignation, than for real earnest; for - they do not cease to repeat their demand: “Prove _to us_ thy - doctrine!” I must solemnly assure them that I was perfectly serious in - that statement, that it is my deliberate 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 - for itself existing. In other words: Dogmatism proceeds from - necessity—Idealism from freedom. They are, therefore, in two utterly - different worlds. - - - - - INTRODUCTION TO IDEALISM. - [From the German of SCHELLING. Translated by TOM DAVIDSON.] - - - I.—IDEA OF TRANSCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHY. - - -1. All knowing is based upon the agreement 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 objective 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 agreement 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 -contemporaneous and one. In my efforts to explain this identity, I must -first have it undone. 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 subjective agreeing with it is superinduced._ - -The idea of the subjective is not contained in the idea of the -objective; they 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 expressed -thus: How is the Intelligent superinduced upon Nature? or, How comes -Nature to be represented? - -The problem assumes Nature, or the objective, as first. It is, -therefore, manifestly, 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 -demand 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 perfection of natural science would be the -complete mentalization of all the laws of Nature into laws of thought. -The phenomena, 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 Nature itself, the more the -wrappage disappears—the phenomena themselves become more mental, and at -last entirely cease. Optical phenomena are nothing more than a geometry -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 already disappeared, and of those of gravitation; 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 -Nature 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 conscious. - -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 philosophy, 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 is certainly the main task of philosophy. - -But the problem demands only the explanation of that agreement -generally, and leaves it entirely undecided where the explanation 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 derive the subjective from it, is, -as has just been shown, the task of natural philosophy. - -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 -objective from it. - -Into these two possible directions of philosophy, therefore, natural and -transcendental philosophy have separated themselves; and if all -philosophy must have for its aim to make either an Intelligence out of -Nature or a Nature out of Intelligence, then transcendental philosophy, -to which the latter task belongs, is the other necessary fundamental -science of philosophy. - - - II.—COROLLARIES. - - -In the foregoing we have not only deduced the idea of transcendental -philosophy, but have also afforded the reader a glance into the whole -system of philosophy, 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 -accordance 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 principle of -explanation for everything else, it necessarily begins with universal -doubt regarding the reality of the objective. - -As the natural philosopher, wholly intent upon the objective, seeks, -above all things, to exclude every admixture of the subjective from his -knowledge, so, on the other hand, the transcendental philosopher seeks -nothing so much as the entire exclusion of the objective from the purely -subjective principle of knowledge. The instrument of separation is -absolute scepticism—not that half-scepticism which is directed merely -against the vulgar prejudices of mankind and never sees the -foundation—but a thorough-going scepticism, which aims not at individual -prejudices, but at the fundamental prejudice, with which all others must -stand or fall. For over and above the artificial and conventional -prejudices of man, there are others of far deeper origin, which have -been placed in him, not by art or education, but by Nature itself, and -which pass with all other men, except the philosopher, 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 conclusions (for there is not a single -irrefragable proof of it), and yet cannot be uprooted by any opposite -proof (_naturam furcâ expellas, tamen usque redibit_), lays 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 founded upon, but identical, -and one and the same with an affirmation which is immediately certain; -and to demonstrate this identity will really be the task of -transcendental philosophy. - -2. Now, even for the ordinary use of reason, there is nothing -immediately certain except the affirmation _I 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 therefore be certain for the transcendental -philosopher, only through its identity with the affirmation _I am_, and -its certainty will be only equal to the certainty of the affirmation -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 prejudice, 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 themselves, but only to show that it is -a natural and necessary prejudice to assume external objects as real.) - -_Second_—That the two affirmations, _I am_ and _There are things outside -of me_, which in the ordinary consciousness run together, 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 separation, when it -is complete, the philosopher transports himself to the transcendental -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 objective will only become an object indirectly -to him, and, whereas, in ordinary knowledge, knowledge itself—the act of -knowing—vanishes in the object, in transcendental 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 -purely 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 transcendental mode of intuition rather gets only a -glimpse of the object of intuition through the act. Ordinary thought, -therefore, is a mechanism in which ideas prevail, without, however, -being distinguished as ideas; whereas transcendental thought interrupts -this mechanism, and in becoming conscious of the idea as an act, rises -to the idea of the idea. In ordinary action, 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-objective, 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 thinking and acting. - - - III.—PRELIMINARY ARRANGEMENT OF TRANSCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHY. - - -This arrangement is preliminary, inasmuch 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 explain how knowledge is possible at -all, supposing that the subjective in it is assumed 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 certain 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 philosophy itself is determined by -those original 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 standpoint 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 -altogether 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 -experience 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 conviction 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 assumed that objects are unalterably determined, 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 determining of the objective by a (freely produced) 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 possibility 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. According to B, there is demanded the dominion of thought -(the ideal) over the world of sense; but how is this conceivable, if -(according to A) the idea, in its origin, is already only the slave of -the objective? 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 theoretical. 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 conceived 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 conforms 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 preëstablished harmony. But this preëstablished harmony -itself is not conceivable, unless the activity, whereby the objective -world is produced, is originally identical with that which displays -itself in volition, and _vice versa_. - -Now it is undoubtedly a _productive_ activity 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 activity which is productive -_with_ consciousness in free action, is productive _without_ -consciousness in the production of the world, this preëstablished -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 activity, which is busy in the production of the world, -with that which displays itself in volition, will exhibit itself in the -productions of the former, and these will necessarily appear as the -productions of an activity at once conscious and unconscious. - -Nature, as a whole, no less than in its different productions, will, of -necessity, appear as a work produced with consciousness, and, at the -same time, as a production of the blindest mechanism. It is the result -of purpose, without being demonstrable as such. The philosophy of the -aims of Nature, or teleology, is therefore the required point of union -between theoretical and practical philosophy. - -D. Hitherto, we have postulated only in general terms the identity of -the unconscious activity, which has produced Nature, and the conscious -activity, which exhibits itself in volition, without having decided -where the principle of this activity 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 philosophy, therefore, could be -complete only when that identity—the highest solution of its whole -problem—could be demonstrated in its principle, the _Ego_. - -It is therefore postulated that, in the subjective—in the consciousness -itself—that activity, at once conscious and unconscious, can be shown. - -Such an activity can be no other than the _æsthetic_, 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 -æsthetic 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 transcendental 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 -mathematics, it can never become the object of external intuition. The -object of mathematics, 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 intuition; and this -intuition itself is an external one. In addition to this, the -mathematician 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 transcendental philosopher have no -existence, except in so far as they are freely produced. Nothing can -compel to this production, any more than the external describing 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 philosophical idea rests upon the inner sense. The whole object of -this philosophy is no other than the action of Intelligence according 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 activity, in a continuous 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 (producing) and the contemplating. - -3. By this continuous duplicity of production 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 æsthetic 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 -between the two, upon the different direction of the productive -power. For whereas production in art is directed outward, in order -to reflect the unconscious by products, 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 æsthetic 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 -transports us into an ideal world, and philosophy, 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 -directly the productive) or by dead speculation (ruinous to all -imaginative power), have completely lost the æsthetic 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 -understanding. - -The common understanding in matters of philosophy has no claims -whatsoever, except those which every object of examination has, _viz._, -to be completely explained. - -It is not, therefore, any part of our business 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 only to -the necessary limitations which render self-consciousness (which is I) -possible; it is enough for the common understanding, 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 something 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 produces realism -out of idealism, by materializing the laws of Nature, or introducing the -material into the formal. - - - - - GENESIS. - By A. BRONSON 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 difficulties by deflection from rectitude on his -part. We think it needs no Lucifer other than mankind collectively -conspiring, to account for Nature’s mishaps, or Man’s. Since, assuming -man to be Nature’s ancestor, and Nature man’s ruins rather, himself is -the impediment he seeks to remove; and, moreover, conceiving Nature as -corresponding in large—or macrocosmically—to his intents, for whatsoever -embarrassments he finds therein, himself, and none other, takes the -blame. Eldest of creatures, and progenitor of all below him, personally -one and imperishable in essence, it follows that if debased forms appear -in Nature, it must be consequent on Man’s degeneracy prior to their -genesis. And it is only as he lapses out of his integrity, by 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 individualized and shattered personality. Behold these -upstarts of his loins, everywhere 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.”[11] - -It is man alone who conceives and brings forth the beast in him, that -swerves and dies; perversion of will by mis-choice being the fate that -precipitates him into serpentine 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, 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 inclination 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 answering spontaneously to their desires. -It is the cleft personality, or _other_ within, that confronts and -seduces the Will; the Adversary and Deuce we become individually, and -thus impersonate in the Snake.[12] - - - III.—SERPENT SYMBOL. - - -One were an Œdipus 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 mankind. Coeval with flesh, the symbol -appears wherever traces of civilization exist, a remnant of it in the -ancient Phallus worship 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 teachers of mankind whose -genial wisdom entitled 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 cranium accepted by eminent naturalists, and so -substantiating the symbol in nature; this being ophiomorphous, a series -of spires, crowned, winged, webbed, finned, footed in structure, set -erect, prone, trailing, as charged with life in higher potency or lower; -man, supreme in personal uprightness, and holding the sceptre of -dominion as he maintains his inborn rectitude, 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 supremacy, 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, fellowship, the ideal arts.[13] - - “Unless above himself he can - Erect himself, how poor a thing is man.” - - - IV.—EMBRYONS. - - - “The form is in the archetype before it appears 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 -fecundity; 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 quickening -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 faculties into -filamental organs, spinning so minutely the threads, “that were it -physically possible to dissolve away all other members of the body, -there would still remain the full and perfect figure of a man. And it is -this perfect cerebro-spinal axis, 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 harmony under which -the human body exists.”[14] - - - 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 volitions are -conceived and brought forth in matter whatsoever he sees, touches, and -treads under foot. The planet he spins. - - He omnipresent is, - All round himself he lies, - Osiris spread abroad; - Upstaring in all eyes. - Nature his globed thought, - Without him she were not, - Cosmos from chaos were not spoken, - And God bereft of visible token. - -A theosmeter—an instrument of instruments—he gathers in himself all -forces, partakes in his plenitude of omniscience, being spirit’s acme, -and culmination in nature. 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 immerses his form, and wherein he -embosoms his essence. Not elemental, but fundamental, essential, he -generates elements and forces, expiring while consuming, and perpetually -replenishing his waste; the final conflagration a current fact of his -existence. Does the assertion seem incredible, absurd? But science, -grown luminous 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 remains from which rises perpetually the -new-born Phœnix into regions where flame is lost in itself, and light -its resolvent emblem.[15] - - “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 picture as a man - with his heels upwards.”—_Cudworth._ - -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 -faculties 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 unfolds itself naturally in organs, -faculties begetting forces, mind moulding things substantially, its -connections and inter-dependencies appear in series and degrees 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 animated creation from the chaos,—the primeval -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 Dædalus of mechanic invention and -discovery, in the service of the soul, as of the senses. Having -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. Using no longer contentedly the eyes of a toiling -circuitous logic, the genius takes the track of the creative thought, -intuitively, cosmically, ontologically. A subtler analysis is finely -disseminated, a broader synthesis accurately generalized from the -materials accumulated on the mind during the centuries, 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 metaphysician: 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 controlling spirit, pulsating in all bodies, inspiring, -animating, organizing, immanent in the atoms, circulating at centre and -circumference, willing in all wills, personally embosoming all persons -an unbroken synthesis of Being. - -Footnote 11: - - “Had man withstood the trial, his descendants would have been born one - from another in the same way that Adam—i. e. mankind—was, namely, in - the image of God; for that which proceeds from the Eternal has eternal - manner of birth.”—_Behmen._ - -Footnote 12: - - “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 unhappy, 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 ourselves. While man knew no sin, he was ignorant - 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._ - -Footnote 13: - - “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 individuals; 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.”—_Agassiz._ - -Footnote 14: - - “Thou hast possessed my reins, thou hast covered me in my mother’s - womb. My substance 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 written, which in continuance were - fashioned when as yet there was none of them.”—PSALM cxxxix: 13, 15, - 16. - -Footnote 15: - - “Man feeds upon air, the plant collecting the materials from the - atmosphere and compounding 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.”—_Schleiden._ - - - - - ANALYSIS OF HEGEL’S ÆSTHETICS. - Translated from the French of CH. BENARD, by J. A. MARTLING. - - - Part III. - System of the Particular Arts. - - -Under the head of “System of the Particular 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. Primitive simplicity is gross, confused, rigid, inanimate. -Art in its infancy is heavy and trifling, destitute of life and liberty, -without expression, or with an exaggerated 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 Beautiful 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. - -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 attention of the artist is distracted by ornaments -and accessories—by the decorations, the trimmings, the simpering airs, -the attitudes 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 nobleness. 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 -_tête-à-tête_ with the public, there is betrayed through all, the desire -of exhibiting his wit, of attracting admiration for his ability, his -skill, his power of execution. This art—without naturalness, full of -coquetry, of artifice and affectation, the opposite 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 -affectation 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 producing an effect. - -The author then passes to the _Division of the Arts_. The common method -classes them according to their means of representation, and the senses -to which they are addressed. Two senses only are affected by 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 imagination, forms a domain apart. Without discarding this -division, Hegel combines it with another more philosophical principle 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 expressing it. This gradation will have at the same time the -advantage of corresponding to historic progress, and to the fundamental -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 representing an idea otherwise than in a vague, indeterminate manner. -It fashions the masses of inorganic nature, according to the laws of -matter and geometrical proportions; it disposes them with regularity and -symmetry in such a manner as to offer to the eyes an image which is a -simple reflex of the spirit, a dumb symbol of the thought. Architecture -is at the same time appropriated to ends which are foreign to it: it is -destined to furnish a dwelling for man and a temple for Divinity; it -must shelter under its roof, in its enclosure, the other arts, and, in -particular, 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 determinate traits. Its object, in fact, is spirit -individualized, revealed by the human 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 degree of spirituality. To form, it adds the different phases of -visible appearance, the illusions of perspective, color, light and -shades, and thereby it becomes capable, 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 intimate and profound -relations; and this by a sensuous phenomenon, equally invisible, -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 capable 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 complete development and in all its phases. It is the -universal art—its domain is unlimited. 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, engraving, etc._, are -only accessories, and more or less connected with the preceding. They -have not the right to occupy a distinct place in a general theory; they -would only introduce confusion, and disfigure the fundamental type which -is peculiar to each of them. - -Such is the division adopted by Hegel. He combines it, at the same time, -with his general division of the forms of the historic development of -art. Thus architecture appears to him to correspond more particularly to -the _symbolic_ type; sculpture 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 architecture, Hegel 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 depart from generalities, we -enter into the domain of mathematical laws, or into the technical -applications, foreign to pure science. It remains, then, only to -determine 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 impressions which the appearance of an -edifice 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 follows 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 symbolize the beliefs of those -peoples, incapable as they are of otherwise expressing 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 imperfectly comprehended. - -Such is the character of oriental architecture. There the end is -valueless or accessory; the symbolic expression is the principal object. -Architecture is _independent_, and sculpture is confounded with it. - -The monuments of Greek and Roman architecture present a wholly different -character. Here, the aim of utility appears 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 temple is only a shelter, an external attendant. -Its forms are regulated according to the laws of numbers, and the -proportions of a learned eurythmy; but its true ornaments are furnished -to it by sculpture. Architecture ceases then to be independent 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 eminently expressive or symbolic—_dependent_ and -_independent_. The temple is the house of God; it is devoted to the uses -and ceremonies of worship, and shows throughout its design in its forms; -but at the same time these symbolize admirably the Christian 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 especially the -art which is exercised in the domain 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, or finally whether, although in the service of a -foreign end, it preserves its independence. - -The _basis_ of the division being 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 comprehension 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 symbolic character of the structures of the -Babylonians, the Indians and the Egyptians, 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 review the multiplicity of ideas and forms which these monuments -and these symbols present. Hegel thinks, nevertheless, that he is able -to establish the following gradations: - -In the first rank are the simplest monuments, 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 dissolution of the primitive family and of the -formation of a vaster society. - -In a rank more elevated, appear the monuments of a more determined -character, where is noticeable a mingling of architecture and sculpture, -although they belong to the former. Such are those symbols which, in the -East, represent the generative force of nature; the _phallus_ and the -_lingam_ scattered in so great numbers 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 confounded with architecture. They are -structures without roof, without doors, without aisles, frequently -forests of colums 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 assemblage 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 besprinkled with hieroglyphics, books of stone, -as it were, leaves of a mysterious book. Everything there is -symbolically determined—the proportions, the distances, the number of -columns, etc. The Egyptians, in particular, consecrated their lives to -constructing and building these monuments, 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, by its chambers and its -halls, its tombs, begins to approach the following class, which exhibits -a more positive design, and of which the type is a house. - -A third rank marks the transition of symbolic to classic architecture. -Architecture 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 excavations which are also temples, species of subterranean -cathedrals, the caverns of Mithra, likewise filled with symbolic -sculpture. But this transition is better characterized by the double -architecture, (subterranean and above ground) of the Egyptians, which is -connected with their worship 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 independent. It divides itself -into two elements—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 shaping 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 -already 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 accessory. In the house, on the contrary, all -is controlled, from the first, by actual necessity and convenience. Now -classic architecture proceeds both from the one and from the other -principle, from necessity and from art, from the useful and from the -beautiful, which it combines in the most perfect manner. Necessity -produces regular forms, right angles, plane surfaces. But the end is not -simply 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 ceremonial. 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 harmonious whole; -there will be, at the same time, a useful, convenient and beautiful -architecture. - -What best marks the transition to Greek architecture, is the appearance -of the column, which is its type. The column is a support. Therein is -its useful and mechanical 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 beautiful column comes from a form borrowed from -nature; but carved, shaped, it takes a regular and geometric -configuration. In Egypt, 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 -presents 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 borrowed from nature, but fashioned -according to the artistic sense. - -Thus the characteristic of classic architecture, 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 being subordination to an end, it -is that end which, without detriment to beauty, gives to the entire -edifice its proper signification, and which becomes thus the principal -regulator of all its parts; as it impresses 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 general -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, colonnades 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 insignificant. -Among the Romans, on the contrary, 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 principal edifice is that whose end is most -remote from the wants of material life; it is the temple designed to -serve as a shelter to a divine object, which already belongs 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 -reproduce 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 -mathematical figures, and it is subjected to the laws of mechanics. Here -must be preserved, first of all, the relations between the width, the -length, the height of the edifice; the exact proportions of the columns -according to their thickness, the weight to be supported, the intervals, -the number of columns, the style, the simplicity of the ornaments. It is -this which gives to the theory of this art, and in particular of this -form of architecture, the character of dryness and abstraction. But -there dominates throughout, a natural eurythmy, 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 description which he gives of the -particular characteristics of architectural forms; we will omit also -some other interesting details 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 proportions 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, especially, this passage, which sums up the general -character of the Greek temple: “In general, the Greek temple presents an -aspect which satisfies the vision, and, so to speak, surfeits it. -Nothing is very elevated, it is regularly extended in length and -breadth. The eye finds itself allured by the sense of extent, while -Gothic architecture mounts even beyond measurement, and shoots upward to -heaven. Besides, the ornaments are so managed that they do not mar the -general expression of simplicity. 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 following passage: “In -place of the spectacle of an assemblage united for a single end, all -appears directed towards the exterior, and presents us the image of an -animated promenade. There men who have leisure abandon themselves to -conversations 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 -Christian or Gothic architecture. - -(_c_) We shall not further attempt to reproduce, 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 apprehension of the relation of -this form of architecture 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 distinctive merit when -compared with all descriptions that have been made of the architecture -of the Middle Ages. - -_Gothic_ architecture, according to Hegel, unites, in the first place, -the opposite characters of the two preceding kinds. Notwithstanding, -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 appearance 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 architecture 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 materially in space. On the -other hand, if, in Christian meditation, the soul withdraws 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 -edifices 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 architecture, -exact proportion between support and height is everywhere observed. -Here, on the contrary, the operation of supporting and the disposition -at a right angle—the most convenient for this end—disappears or is -effaced. The walls and the column shoot without marked difference -between what supports and what is supported, 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 materialistic. The explanation is -simple. There is as great antagonism between chemical research 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 fabric -of the Hegelian philosophy proved but a house built on sands, the scales -and metre have become our only gods. - -Germany—mystic, metaphysical Germany—strange to say, leads the van in -this crusade against all faith and all idealism. Vogt, the geologist, -Moleschott, the physiologist, Virchow, the greatest of all living -histologists, Büchner, 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 favor. We do not -mention the French and English advocates of “positive philosophy.” 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 controversy, 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 Absolute_. Demonstrate the possibility of the -Absolute, and materialism is impossible; disprove it, and all other -philosophies are empty nothings,—_vox et præterea nihil_. Here, and only -here, is materialism brought face to face with metaphysics; here is the -combat _à l’outrance_ 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 philosophy is vain. The response of the -naturalist is: “The necessary sequence of cause and effect is the prime -law of the experimentalist—a law which he does not ask from revelation, -but will find out for himself by observation.” The source of truth is -sensation; the uniform result of manifold 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, secondly, 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 different result. Either this is not the road to absolute truth, -or absolute truth is unattainable. The latter horn of the dilemma is at -once accepted; we neither know, 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 quantity, 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 be 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 -perceptions 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 sensuous 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 plainest laws of space, those which were the -earliest impressions on the _tabula rasa_ of the infant mind, and which -the hourly experience of life verifies, are called, by the -mathematician, _axioms_, and on these simplest generalizations of our -perceptions he bases the whole of his structure. Axioms, therefore, are -the uniform results of experiments, the possible conditions of which are -extremely limited, and the factors 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 edifice of materialism -is embraced in the terse sentence of Moleschott—_all existence is -existence through attributes_. Existence _per se_ (_Fürsichsein_) is a -meaningless term, and substance apart from attribute, the _ens -ineffabile_, is a pedantic figment and nothing more. Finally, there can -be no attribute except through a relation. - -Let this trilogy of existence, attribute and relation, be clearly before -the mind, and the position that the positive philosophy bears to all -others becomes 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 properties 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 constitute 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, consequently a relation of the subject to the the -observer? Such a relation is an attribute. Without it, knowledge is -inconceivable. Neither God nor man can raise himself above the knowledge -furnished by these relations to his organs of apprehension.” - -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 furnish very different and contradictory knowledge, -and one is as likely to be correct as another. The radiate animal, who -sees the world through a cornea alone, must have quite another notion of -light, color, 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 -foreseen by our author, for he grants that “the knowledge of the insect, -its knowledge 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 Moleschott, “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 perception 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 materialism, 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 beautiful, 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 _Système 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 -himself 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 -conclusion 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. BROCKMEYER. - - - I. - - -DEAR H.—Yours of a recent date, requesting an epistolary criticism of -“Goethe’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 understood 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, as 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, flattered or satirized, elevated or degraded, humanized -or brutalized, enlightened or mystified, pleased or displeased, by the -work under consideration; and—since it depends quite as much upon my own -humor, 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 be dark to me; hence, if I report that a given work is a -“perfect riddle to me,” you will only smile at my simplicity. Again, -that which amuses me may bore you, for I notice that even at the -theatre, some will yawn with _ennui_ while others thrill with delight, -and applaud the play. Now, if each of these should tell you how _he_ -liked the performance, the one would say “excellent,” and the other -“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 seems 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 calculus is all fog to -me—mystifies me completely—you would conclude my knowledge 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 perish any sooner than the veritable Doomsday Book itself, I -request you, as a special favor, not to understand of me that I propose -engaging in any undertaking of this sort.[16] - -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 -investigation would lead, at best, to very secondary and remote -conclusions. Nor shall we be permitted to explore the likes and dislikes -of the poet, in that fine volume of scandal, for the kindred reason that -neither 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 referred 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 battalions, -through between their legs? you recollect what he says? - -Nor yet are you to expect a treat of that most delightful of all -compounds, the table talk and conversation—or, to use a homely phrase, -the _literary dishwater_ retailed by the author’s scullion. To expect -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 creative imagination, as a -totality, and submit the result to the canons of art, is to expect 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 -extremely 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 rational judgment of the same. - - - II. - - -In my first letter, dear friend, I endeavored to guard you against -misapprehension 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 yourself. With the same desire of keeping up a fair -understanding with you, I must call your attention to some terms and -distinctions 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 general 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 Faust. - -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 -attention, after cutting the grain, to collecting 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 elevators—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 beginning 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 manifests 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 intelligence, 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 -undoubtedly distinct from the “works of art” no less than from the -“works of nature,” and to tie them up in the same bundle with either of -them, seems to me to be like tying wheat with oats, and therefore to be -avoided, as in the example before our minds. This seems to be done in -the expression “works of self-conscious intelligence,” and “works of -nature.” - -But if we reflect upon the phrases “works of self-conscious -intelligence” and “works of nature,” it becomes obvious that there must -be some inaccuracy contained in them; for how can two distinct subjects -have the same predicate? It would, therefore, perhaps be better to say -“the works of self-conscious intelligence” 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—“the world.” - -Under this we comprehend: - - 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 universe which is involved in its processes; these are: - - (_a_) (1.) Mechanic=Gravity, } Meteorologic=Electricity. - (2.) Chemic=Affinity, } - (_b_) (1.) Organic=Galvanism, } Vital=Sensation. - (2.) Vegetative=Assimilation, } - -II. Under “The Spiritual World,” the world of conscious intelligence, we -comprehend: - - (_a_) The real world=implement, mediation. - (_b_) 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, } Self-determination. - (3.) Philosophy=Definition, } - -From this it appears that we have divided 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 reason 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 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 justify 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-determination, 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 individual man? This can -be seen only by examining 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 sequent, 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 institution. And it -is not merely necessary that it should so manifest itself in the -individual; 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 _comprehends_; or that Art, -Religion, and Philosophy 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-conscious 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 individuality -of the work of Art. And not only this, but this particularity of the -_self-consciousness_ furnishes the very contradiction itself with the -development and solution of which the work of art is occupied. For the -self-consciousness which constitutes the content, being the self -consciousness 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 -solution.[17] - -Now, if we look back upon the 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 -obvious that the realization of self-conscious intelligence in the -family, society, and the state, and its actualization in Art, Religion, -and Philosophy, depend in their genesis upon its manifestation in the -individual. Hence a denial of the possibility of this manifestation is a -denial of the possibility of the realization and actualization also. - -Now if this denial assume the form of a conviction in the consciousness -of an individual, 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 modern thought, the result of Kant’s philosophy. 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., - - - 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 sentence of the poem, as was meet, -the fundamental contradiction, the theme, or the “argument,” as it is so -admirably termed by critics, is stated in its naked abstractness, just -as Achilles’ wrath is the first sentence of the Iliad. - -This theme, then, is nothing more nor less than the self-consciousness -in contradiction 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 himself; 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 there in the poem as printed, which does not flow -from or develop this theme? - - - IV. - - -In my last, dear friend, I called your attention 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 the -abstract generality into concrete detail is the task before us. - -According to the analysis, we have to consider, first of all, the sphere -of _Manifestation_. - -In this we observe the three-fold relation which the individual sustains -to self-conscious 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 denied that he can -know it. This conclusion as conviction, however, does not affect -immediately the third relation—the aspiration—nor quench its gnawing. -And this is the first form of conflict in the individual. Let us now -open the book and place it before us. - -The historic origin of our theme places us in a German University, in -the professor’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. -Moreover, 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 -superstition—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 mankind. 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 mediation, 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! The imagination seizes the -totality of the universe, and revels in ecstatic visions. What a -spectacle! But, alas! a spectacle only! 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! Ah, -that is my sphere; here I have a firm footing; here I am master; here I -command spirits! Approach, and obey your master! - - “_Spirit._ Who calls? - - _Faust._ Terrific face! - - _Sp._ Art thou he that called? - - Thou trembling worm! - - _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 include within thyself the totality -of the practical world, but only that part thereof which thou dost -comprehend—only thy _vocation_, and hark! “It knocks!” - -Oh, death! I see, ’t is my vocation; indeed, “It is my famulus!” - -And this, too, is merely a delusion; this great mystery of the practical -world shrinks to this dimension—a bread-professorship. - -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 in transparent forms and present it as -a harmonious totality to your fellow-man, for that would require that -these transparent intellectual forms should possess objective -validity—and this they have not, according 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, this the reality, the only reality to -answer the aspiration of our soul—the aspiration which sought to seize -the universe, to kindle its inmost recesses with the light of -intelligence, and thus illumine the path of life? Alas, Reason gave us -error—Imagination, 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 Easter Sunday, for example. - - - V. - - -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 recollections of his youth (when he believed in -revealed truths) to answer his aspirations. These recollections arouse -his emotions, and rescue him from nothingness (suicide)—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 -aforesaid; citizens’ daughters, perfectly outraged 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 countries, in order -to enjoy their own peace at home with proper contrast; also an “elderly -one,” who thinks that she is quite able to furnish what the well-dressed -citizens’ daughters wish for—to the great scandal of the latter, who -feel justly indignant 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 people, 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 mass, - 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 -pestilence 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, O 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 fly into the air! 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 -Wagner, 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 satisfied 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 aspiration 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-’tis almost a certainty—’tis -already near; come, come home with as! - -The temptation here spread before us by the poet, to consider the dog -“_well_,” 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—comfortably lodged behind the stove, where it properly -belongs, we take down the original 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 dissolve in mist, -into thin air—and nothing is left us but our newly acquired conviction, -the restlessness of which during this examination 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 despicable? What is it that governs the practical world of -finite motives, the power that adapts means to ends, regardless 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 proportions—is no dog at all, in fact, but the 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 -chimeras, and it alone? And shall we reject the real, the actual—all in -fact that possesses objective validity—because, forsooth, the power of -subjective chimeras declares it negative, finite, perishable? Never. “No -fear, dear sir, that I’ll do this. Precisely what I have promised is the -very aim of all my endeavor. Conceited fool that I was! I prized myself -too highly”—claimed kin with the infinite. “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 practical -avocation to an absurdity. We sought refuge in the indefinite—the -mysticism 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, which -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 cannot know -truth. The result, as the mere statement of the proposition would -indicate, 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 therefore 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 -demonstrated by the kitten dance of the whole world. - -Footnote 16: - - In this connection, permit me, dear friend, to mention a discovery - which I made concerning my 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 possessed of all the incapacity of such - “learned men”—was shocked, nay, mortified, by the utter want of - appreciation which the little fellow showed of this, his exalted - condition! - -Footnote 17: - - From this a variety of facts in the character and history of the - different works of art become apparent. The degree of the effect - produced, for example, is owing to the degree of validity attached to - the two sides of the contradiction. If the duties which the individual - owes to the family and the state come into conflict, as in the - Antigone of Sophocles, and the consciousness of the age has not - subordinated the ideas upon which they are based, but accords to each - an equal degree of validity, 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 particularity spoken of into a collision, - we may refer to that great national work of art—the Iliad of Homer. - The particularity which distinguishes the national self-consciousness - of the Greeks is the preëminent 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 - preëminence and the consequent subordination of the moral and the - rational modes to it, is the root of the contradiction, and hence the - basis of the collision which forms the content of the poem. Its motive - modernized would read about as follows: “The son of one of our - Senators goes to England; is received and hospitably entertained 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 themselves 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 undefiled, 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 fealty to Beauty.” - “But then,” Sir Achilles, “if the Beautiful should present itself - under some individual form—say that of Briseis—you would for the sake - of its possession disobey the will of the state?” “Of course.” And the - poet has to sing, “Achilles’ wrath!” and not “the recovery of the - runaway wife,” the grand historical action. - - - - - INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY. - - - CHAPTER V. - NECESSITY, CHANCE, FREEDOM. - - - I. - - -All things are necessitated; each is necessitated 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 -“understanding.” Nothing seems more clear than this to the thinker who -has advanced beyond the sensuous grade of consciousness and the stages -of Perception. - - - II. - - -But things change—something new begins and something old ceases; but, -still, in each case, the first principle must apply, and the new -thing—like the old—be 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 encountered a -contradiction which becomes apparent upon further attempt to adjust the -idea of necessity to it. - - - III. - - -If the same totality of conditions necessitates 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 conditions of the two different states of -the thing. - -_Remark._—Here we have returned to our starting-point, and carried back -our contradiction 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 contradiction 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. - - - V. - - -If it requires a different totality of conditions 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 necessitate _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 contains the _potentiality_ upon -which it acts. Had it no potentiality it could not change. (_b_) As -_necessitated_ it is the potentiality _plus_ the limit which its -activity has fixed there. (_c_) But we have here self-determination, and -thus the _existence_ of the Universal 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 universal -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 -determinations and finitudes, while it is directed full on itself, and -is in that very act complete self-recognition. (See proof of this in -Chapter IV., III., 3.) - - - VII. - - -Thus the doctrine of necessity presupposes 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 Contingency. - - - 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 thinking_ is made at first unconsciously, and -for this reason the one who has begun the process of mediation handles -the “mental spectres” created by abstraction with the utmost naïveté, -assuming for them absolute validity in the world at large. It is only -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 -manifestation_, _matter and form_, and the like, give rise to a series -of _antinomies_, or contradictory propositions, when applied to the -Totality. From the standpoint of mediation—that of simple reflection, -“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 described: - -“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 intuition 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 involved 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 contrast 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 perception. - -(_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 _things themselves_ obtain reality only through -these very characteristics. One thing preserves its distinctness from -another by means of its various _determinations_. Without these -determinations all would collapse into _one_, nay, even “_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 preceded 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.) 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. - -(_f_) 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 sufficient -for its own existence, (though as we have seen, a necessary constituent -of the process 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 consideration of mediation in the more general form, involved by the -second question. - - - IMMEDIATE KNOWING. - - -(_a_) _Definition._—“Immediate” is a predicate 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 immediately -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. - -(_c_) _Principle._—Any concrete somewhat exists through its relations to -all else in the universe; hence all concrete somewhats are _mediated_. -“If a grain of sand were destroyed the universe would collapse.” - -(_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 immediateness -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 “_result_.”) - -(_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 likewise an _immediate_, for it is its own -mediation, and hence it is the beginning and end—_it begins with its -result, and ends in its beginning_, and thus it is a circular process. - -This is the great _aperçu_ of all speculative philosophy. - -(_f_) _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 presentation 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 misstatement that occurs in the first - paragraph regarding the objects of the Philosophical Society. It was - not founded for the special purpose of “studying German Philosophy - 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 systems, 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 Philosophy; 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.] - - -WÜRZBURG, Dec. 28, 1866. - - -_Mr. President_: In the first number of Vol. XLIX of the “_Zeitschrift -für Philosophie_,” published at Halle, in Prussia, edited by Fichte, -Ulrici and Wirth, notice is taken of a philosophical society, organized -at St. Louis, with the object of pursuing the study of German philosophy -from Kant to Hegel. - -This fact promises a correlation of philosophical movements between -North America and Germany which is of great importance. 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 comprehensive 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 Baader, 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 Erlangen, 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 -Philosophical 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 modifications, reforms and -further developments. If Hegel had lived longer, the influence of Baader -upon him would have been greater yet than became visible during his last -years. He has thrown Schelling 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 admitted. -Whether they agree to it or not, still it is a fact that Baader is the -central constellation of the movement of the German spirit, from -pantheism to a deeper ideal-realistic theism. Such a genius, whatever -position may be taken with regard to him, cannot be left unnoticed, -without running the risk of being left behind 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 volume, perhaps, -will be ready at Easter, 1867. - -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 former work on the history of modern philosophy, -and he bears witness that his esteem of Baader increases more and more. -But he evidently assigns to him a wrong position, 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 represents Hegel in a sense not far distant from -the standpoint of Baader. * * * * * * * C. H. Fischer’s Characteristics -of Baader’s Theosophy speaks with high favor of him, but still I have to -take several exceptions. According to my opinion, all the authors by him -referred to, as Schelling, Hegel, Schleiermacher, Dauber and Baader, we -must call theosophers—or call none of them so, but _philosophers_, in -order 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, yea, the _most_ profound. Finally, a want of system must be -admitted, but too great importance is attributed to this. If, however, -systematism could decide here, then not Schelling 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 important 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 of the works of the philosophers after Hegel and Baader. The -Athenäum of Froschhammer, (Journal for Philosophy), appeared only for -three years. It had to cease its publication, because on the one side -the Ultramontanist party agitated against it, and on the other side it -met with insufficient support. Its reissue would be desirable, but just -now not practicable, for want of interest on the part of the public, -although it could bear comparison with any other philosophical journal. - -Here let me say, that from Baader there proceeded a strong impulse -toward the revival of the study of the long-forgotten spiritual -treasures of the mystics and theosophers of the middle ages, and of the -time of the Reformation. From this impulse monographs have made their -appearance about Scotus Erigena, Albertus Magnus—at least biographies of -them—Thomas Aquinas, Meister Eckhart, Tauler, Nicholas Cusanus, Weigel, -J. Böhme, Oettinger, etc. The most important of these I deem to be -_Scotus Erigena_, by Joh. Huber, Christlieb and Kaulich; _Meister -Eckhart_, by Bach, and _J. Böhme_, by J. Hamberger. Bach on _Eckhart_ is -especially instructive with respect 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 director of the observatory at Krakau, Kerlinski, is at -present preparing a monograph 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 recently published a beautiful edition of the works of -Copernicus. As in the early ages, first in the Pythagorean school, they -approached 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 Cusanus 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 Würzburg_. - - - - - 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 OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY. - Vol. I. 1867. No. 4. - - - - - INTRODUCTION TO THE OUTLINES OF A SYSTEM OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY; - OR, - ON THE IDEA OF SPECULATIVE PHYSICS AND THE INTERNAL ORGANIZATION OF A - SYSTEM OF THIS SCIENCE. - 1799. - [Translated from the German of SCHELLING, by TOM DAVIDSON.] - - - I. -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 -unconsciously, or freely and consciously;—unconsciously productive in -external intuition, consciously in the creation of an ideal world. - -Philosophy removes this distinction by assuming the unconscious activity -as originally 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 conscious and unconscious, which manifests -itself in the productions of genius, _indirectly_, 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 unconscious, 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 -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 geometry 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 produces 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 itself, 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 purpose 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 this is not explained by saying that it is an unconscious -productivity, though in its origin akin to the conscious, whose mere -reflex we see in Nature, and which, from the stand-point of the natural -view, must appear as one and the same blind tendency, which exerts its -influence from crystallization upwards to the highest point of organic -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 Nature 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 Nature, 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 -opposite directions in which they move; moreover, 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 PHILOSOPHY. - - -Natural Philosophy, as the opposite of Transcendental Philosophy, is -distinguished 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 Transcendental Philosophy is fitted to supply, -from the circumstance that for it Nature is nothing more than the organ -of self-consciousness, 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 meaningless 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 introduction 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 explanation 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 accepted 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 principle of realism, -nothing further would follow than that what we call reason is a mere -play of higher and necessarily unknown natural forces. For, inasmuch as -all thinking 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 successive 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 immaterial, 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. - - - 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 ancient 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 speculative 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 mechanical or atomistic basis which -has been adopted by Lesage and his most successful predecessors, the -idea of speculative physics is incapable of realization. For, inasmuch -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, -seeing 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 derivative motion of that which is solely primitive and original, -and which wells forth from the very first factors in the construction 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 -reduced 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 only as mechanical -(and therefore likewise capable 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 objective, 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 former 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 speculative physics are -possible, we must know what belongs to the possibility of a doctrine 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 -preëxisted in his head before he exhibited it as a reality. - -Now, it would certainly be impossible to obtain a glance into the -internal construction 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 we call an -experiment. Every experiment is a question put to Nature, to which she -is compelled to give a reply. But every question contains an implicit _à -priori_ judgment; every experiment that is an experiment, 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_ acceptation of the term, is a _pure_ knowing _à 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 _à 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 correlated 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 _à -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 phenomena are themselves not phenomenal, -we must either give up all attempt ever to arrive at a knowledge of -them, or else we must altogether put them into Nature, endow Nature with -them. But now, that which we put into Nature has no other value than -that of a pre-supposition (hypothesis), and the science founded thereon -must be equally hypothetical with the principle 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. Assuming, 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 arrive 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 continual activity, and -prevented from exhausting itself in its product; and universal 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, inasmuch 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 phenomena from an absolute hypothesis, -our knowing is changed into a construction of Nature itself, that is, -into a science of Nature _à priori_. If, therefore, such deduction -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 remark, if the confusion -which still prevails in regard to ideas perspicuous enough in themselves -did not render some explanation with regard to them requisite. - -The assertion that natural science must be able to deduce all its -principles _à priori_, is in a measure understood to mean that natural -science must dispense with all experience, and, without any intervention -of experience, be able to spin all its principles out of itself—an -affirmation so absurd that the very objections to it deserve pity. _Not -only do we know this or that through experience, but we 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 _à priori_ principles when we become -conscious 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 _à priori_ and _à 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 experience—becomes, -notwithstanding, an _à priori_ 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 necessary; for, if there is no chance in nature -at all, there can likewise be no original phenomenon of Nature -fortuitous; on the contrary, for the very reason that Nature is a -system, there must be a necessary 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 organic 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, therefore_, WE KNOW _Nature, but -Nature_ IS, _à priori_, that is, everything individual in it is -predetermined by the whole or by the idea of a Nature generally. But if -Nature _is_ _à priori_, then it must be possible to _recognize_ it _as_ -something that is _à priori_, and this is really the meaning of our -affirmation. - -Such a science, like every other, does not deal with the hypothetical, -or the merely probable, but depends upon the evident and the certain. -Now, we may indeed be quite certain that every natural phenomenon, -through whatever number of intermediate links, stands in connection with -the last conditions of a Nature; the intermediate links themselves, -however, may be unknown to us, and still lying hidden in the depths of -Nature. To find out these links is the work of experimental research. -Speculative physics have nothing to do but to show the need of these -intermediate links;[18] 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 therefore also our -science itself, is an infinite task. Nothing, however, has more impeded -the infinite progress of this science than the arbitrariness of the -fictions by which the want of profound insight 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. - - - V. - OF A SYSTEM OF SPECULATIVE PHYSICS GENERALLY. - - -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 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 -attention, would come to it with certain preconceived ideas, which he -has not presupposed, 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 arrangement) -mainly, the following: - -1. That many persons, misled perhaps by the word _Natural Philosophy_, -expect to find transcendental deductions from natural phenomena, such -as, in different fragments, 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 experiment, 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 accept -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 occupation 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 -representation, all the phenomena of Nature are looked at only on their -lowest plane, and the dynamical physics of these philosophers begin -precisely at the point where they ought properly to leave off. It is -indeed 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 dynamical process of Nature is one, and the -individual dynamical processes are only shreds of the one fundamental -process—even magnetic and electric phenomena, 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 -mutual action of the fundamental forces, at last, changes in the -relation of the fundamental forces themselves. We do not indeed deny -that these phenomena at the extreme limit of their manifestation are -changes in the relation of the principles themselves; we only deny that -these changes are nothing more; on the contrary, we are convinced that -this so-called dynamical principle is too superficial and defective a -basis of explanation for all Nature’s phenomena, to reach the real depth -and manifoldness of natural phenomena, inasmuch as by means of it, in -point of fact, no qualitative change of matter _as_ such is -constructible (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 dynamical philosophy and the empirical attainments -of physics—as, for example, in regard to the very different kinds of -effects exhibited by simple substances—a thing which, let us say at -once, we consider to be impossible. - -We may therefore be 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. - - - VI. - INTERNAL ORGANIZATION OF THE SYSTEM OF SPECULATIVE PHYSICS. - - - 1. - - -An inquiry into the Principle of speculative physics must be preceded by -inquiries 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 be thought at all. What is -pure empiricism is not science, and, _vice versâ_, what is science is -not empiricism. 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 object what it may, is history (the absolute -opposite of theory), and, conversely, history alone is empiricism.[19] - -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 _à priori_ construction, to strip empiricism of all -theory, and restore it to its original nakedness. - -The opposition between empiricism and science rests therefore upon this: -that the former regards its object in _being_—as something already -prepared and accomplished; science, on the other hand, views its object -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. - - - 2. - - -As this inquiry is, in the Outlines, deduced 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 -unconditioned. But seeing that individual being, as a conditioned, can -be thought only as a particular limitation of the productive activity -(the sole and last substrate of all reality) _being itself_ is _thought_ -as the same productive activity _in its unlimitedness_. 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 objects 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 continuous 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 the 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 (_natura naturata_) we call Nature as object -(with this alone all empiricism deals). Nature as productivity (_natura -naturans_) we call Nature as subject (with this alone all theory deals). - -As the object is never unconditioned, something absolutely non-objective -must 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 -vanishes 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 phenomena) 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 empirical view, which sees in Nature -only the effect (although on account of the continual wandering of -empiricism into the field of science, we have, even in purely empirical -physics, maxims which presuppose 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 speculation, which looks -only at _cause_ in Nature. - - - 3. - - -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 becoming. Every infinite series is -but the exhibition of an intellectual or ideal infinity. 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, however, is _continuous_. Time, therefore, -as the evolution of that activity, cannot be produced by composition. -Now, as all other infinite 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 reflection 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 -_intuition_—interrupted and composite for the _reflection_. It is on -this _contradiction_ between intuition and reflection that those -sophisms are based, in which the possibility 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 rapidity 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 opposition between reflection and the -productivity of the intuition, serves only to enable us to deduce the -general statement that in _all_ productivity, and in productivity alone, -there is absolute _continuity_—a statement of importance in the -consideration 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 original productivity of Nature, in which -certainly there must be continuity, whereas from the stand-point of -reflection all things must appear _disconnected_ and _without_ -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 dynamical and atomistic physics; for, as will soon -become apparent, the two are distinguished only by the fact that the -former occupies the stand-point of _intuition_, the latter that of -_reflection_. - - - 4. - - -These general principles being presupposed, we shall be able, with more -certainty, 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, the permanence, the resting of the products of Nature—the -organic ones, for instance—is not to be viewed as an absolute resting, -but only as an evolution proceeding with infinitely small rapidity or -with infinite tardiness. But hitherto evolution, 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 productivity, 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 productivity must -pass from being undetermined to being determined—that is, it must, as -pure productivity, be cancelled. If now the ground of determination of -productivity lay outside of Nature, Nature would not be originally -absolutely productivity. Determination, that is, negation, must -certainly 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 -distinguished in it, its identity must be cancelled—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 further deduced physically; for, as -the condition 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 -original 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 -object 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, -anti-productive—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 that which limits it is again positive, and its original duplicity -is a contest of really opposite tendencies. - -(_f_) 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 manner: 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 1-1+1-1... on to -infinity is thought as equal neither to 1 nor to 0. The reason however -why this series is thought as =1/2 lies deeper. There is one absolute -magnitude (=1), which, though continually annihilated in this series, -continually 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 infinite 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 nothing 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 universal identity.—At every -such point the stream breaks (the productivity is annihilated), but at -every step there comes a new wave which fills up the sphere). - -The philosophy of nature has not to explain 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 appear as mere points, if nature did not -give them extension and depth by its own pressure, and the products -themselves would last only an instant, if nature did not at every -instant crowd up against them. - -(_h_) This seeming product, which is reproduced at every step, cannot be -a really infinite product; for otherwise productivity would actually -exhaust itself in it; in like manner it cannot be a finite product; 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 infinite development. - - * * * * * - -The point at which this product originally 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 infinite -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. - -We behold in what is called nature (i. e. in this assemblage of -individual objects), not the primal product itself, but its evolution, -(hence the point of retardation cannot remain _one_.)—By what means -_this_ evolution 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 infinity 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 retardation to productivity; but any -number 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 infinite; therefore nature is still infinite in every -product, and in every one lies the germ of a universe.[20] - -(The question, by what means the infinite tendency is retarded in the -product, is still unanswered. The original retardation 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 infinitum_. In this evolution, -therefore, nothing can happen, which is not already a product -(synthesis), and which might not divide up into new factors, each of -these again having its factors. - -Thus even by an analysis pursued _ad infinitum_, we could never arrive -at anything in nature which should be absolutely simple. - -(_k_) If however we _suppose_ the evolution as completed, (although it -_never_ can be 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 -substrate, but the cause of all substrate, no longer a product, but -absolutely productive—we will not say _occurs_, for that is unthinkable, -but—can at least be proved in experience. - -(_l_) Inasmuch as it bears the character of the unconditioned, it would -have to exhibit 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 external 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 mechanically or -chemically must therefore lie outside of space. But it is only the final -ground of all quality that has anything of this nature; for although one -quality may be extinguished by another, this can nevertheless only -happen in a third product, C, for the formation and maintenance of which -A and B, (the opposite factors of C,) 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 degree with its smallest -part.) - -That, therefore, which is purely productive 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 qualities, -therefore, productivity appears as already retarded, and as it appears -most original in them generally, it appears in them most originally -retarded. - -This is the point at which our mode of conception diverges from those of -the currently 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 actions, 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 quality. 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 demonstration. That, -therefore, which is in reality 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 idea 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 divisibility, sustains the -substrate. - -If, therefore, the assertion that affirms something simple as the basis -of the explanation 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 product, 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 division, that is, the simple. But the -simple can be thought only as dynamical, and as such it is not in space -at all (it designates only what is thought as altogether outside of -space-occupation); there is therefore no intuition of it possible, -except 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, therefore, every -original quality, as quality (not as substrate, in which quality merely -inheres), must be thought as pure intensity, pure action, then qualities -generally are only the absolutely empirical in our knowledge of nature, -of which no construction is possible, and in respect to which there -remains nothing of the philosophy 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 answered only by an ideal ground of explanation. This -question adopts the stand-point of reflection (on the product), whereas -genuine dynamics always remain on the stand-point of intuition. - -It must here, however, be at once remarked that if the ground of the -explanation of quality is conceived as an ideal one, the question only -regards the explanations of quality, in so far as it is thought as -absolute. There is no question, for instance, of quality, in so far as -it shows itself in the dynamical process. For quality, so far as it is -relative, there is certainly a [not merely ideal, but actually real] -ground of explanation and determination; 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 universal organization could -dissolve itself, all matter likewise would sink back into dynamical -inactivity, that is, into absolute defect of quality. (Quality is a -higher power of matter, to which the latter elevates itself by -reciprocity.) It is demonstrated 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 determination 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 element is the only one in things that is indivisible, -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 positive 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 quality is electricity_, and conversely, _the -electricity 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 narrower acceptation of the term, as colors, taste, -&c.), is doubtless sensible to us only _through_ electricity, and the -only _immediately_ sensible (element) would then be electricity,[21] a -conclusion to which the universal duality of every sense leads us -independently, inasmuch as in Nature there is properly only one duality. -In galvanism, sensibility, as a reagent, reduces all quality 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 inconstructible, 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 quality reduces itself to the two -attempts; to express qualities by figures, and so, for each original -quality, to assume a particular figure in Nature; or else, to express -quality by analytical formulæ (in which the forces of attraction and -repulsion supply 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 we limit ourselves 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 constructed, but certainly never -different qualities as qualities; for although all dynamical -(qualitative) changes appear, in their lowest stage, as changes of the -fundamental 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 explanation 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 himself 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 remarked, which is possible only on the hypothesis of the -evolutions being complete, physics divide into the two opposite -directions, into which the two systems, the atomistic and the dynamical, -have been divided. - -The _dynamical_ system _denies_ the absolute evolution of Nature, and -passes from Nature as synthesis (i. e. Nature as subject) to Nature as -evolution (i. e. Nature as object); the atomistic system passes from the -evolution, as the original, to Nature as synthesis; the former passes -from the stand-point of intuition to that of reflection; the latter from -the stand-point of reflection to that of intuition. - -Both directions are equally possible. If the analysis only is right, -then the synthesis must be capable of being found again through -analysis, just as the analysis 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 -evolution_. The former explains the composition of Nature by the force -of cohesion, whereby, however, no continuity is ever introduced into it; -the latter, on the contrary, 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 absolute evolution; product is what is -contained 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 productive Nature must be reflected as -product 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 understanding of our science, if we -here demonstrate 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 -se_, not at the producing of a determinate [somewhat], the tendency of -Nature, in virtue of which product is arrived at, must be the _negative_ -of productivity. - -In Nature, in so far as it is real, there can no more be productivity -without a product, than a product without productivity. Nature can only -approximate to the two extremes, and it must be demonstrated _that_ it -approximates to both. - -(α) _Pure productivity passes originally into formlessness._ - -Wherever Nature loses itself in formlessness, 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 (representable) 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.) - -(β) _If productivity passes into formlessness, 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 absolutely formless -[somewhat] everywhere incapable of manifestation as determinate matter, -is nothing other than the symbol of nature approximating to -productivity.—The nearer to productivity the nearer to formlessness. - -(γ) _Productivity appears as productivity only when limits are set to -it._ - -That which is everywhere and in everything, 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 coöperation (the -phenomenon of productivity exerted all round by the sun) presupposes -that antithesis.[22] - -(δ) _It is only limited productivity that gives the start to product._ -(The explanation of product must begin at the origination of the fixed -point at which the start is made.) _The condition of all formation is -duality._ (This is the more profound signification that lies in Kant’s -construction of matter from opposite forces.) - -Electrical phenomena are the general scheme for the construction of -matter universally. - -(ε) _In Nature, neither pure productivity nor pure product can ever be -arrived at._ - -The former is the negation of all product, the latter the negation of -all productivity. - -(Approximation to the former is the absolutely decomposible, to the -latter the absolutely indecomposible, of the atomistics. The former -cannot be thought without, at the same time, being the absolutely -incomposible, 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 productivity engaged in a -transition into product, or of a product that is productive ad -infinitum_. We hold to the latter definition. - -The idea of the product (the fixed) and that of the productive (the -free) are mutually 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 [somewhat] -must therefore be _in the state of formation_. - -But the product is supposed to be productive _ad infinitum_ (that -transition is never absolutely to take place); it will therefore at -every stage be productive in a determinate way; the productivity will -remain, but not the product. - -(The question might arise how a transition 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 certainly 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 required -form.—Organizations that do not live in the grosser element, at least -live on the deep ground of the aërial 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 remain within the original antithesis, and is thereby confined -within limits.[23] - -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 -however manifold divergences, they nevertheless all express. - -But even with such a product, we have not that which we were in quest -of—a product which, while productive _ad infinitum_, remains _the same_. -That this product should remain the same seems unthinkable, 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 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 secured_. - -In this way we have brought the reader as far as the problem of the -fourth section 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 necessarily appear from the stand-point of _reflection_. - -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 indecomposible.—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 manifoldness 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 -fundamental forms must be conceded, but certainly 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 proportion, of an internal -equipoise of the original actions, which neither reduce themselves -mutually to absolute formlessness, nor yet, by reason of the universal -conflict, allow the production of a determinate 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 developments, -there is only one direction. - -(η) By the unavoidable separation of productivity into opposite -directions at every single step of development the product itself is -separated into _individual products_, by which, however, for that very -reason, only different stages of development 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 continuity 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 perfectly realized. - -In order to find continuity in productivity, the successive steps of the -_transition 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 productivity 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 problem 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 investigation. By dualization a -change of contraction and expansion is perhaps conditioned. This change -is not something in matter, but is _matter itself_, and the first stage -of productivity passing over into product. _Product_ cannot be reached -except through a stoppage of this change, that is, through a third -[somewhat] which _fixes_ that change itself, and thus matter in its -lowest stage—in the _first_ power—would be an object of intuition; that -change would be seen in rest, or in equipoise, just as, conversely -again, by the suppression of the third [somewhat] matter might be raised -to a higher power. Now it might be possible that those products just -deduced stood upon _quite different degrees_ of materiality, or of _that -transition_, or that those different degrees were more or less -_distinguishable_ in the one than in the other; that is, a dynamical -scale of those products would thereby have to be demonstrated. - -(_o_) In the _solution_ of the problem itself, we shall continue, in the -first instance, in the direction hitherto taken, without knowing where -it may lead us. - -There are individual products brought into nature; but in these products -productivity, _as_ productivity, is held to be still always -distinguishable. Productivity has not yet absolutely passed over into -product. The subsistence of the product is supposed to be a continual -self-reproduction. - -The problem arises: By what is this absolute transition—exhaustion of -the productivity in the product—prevented? or by what does its -subsistence become a continual 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 prevented _by external influences_, and the -product, 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 postulated. 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 antithesis must come into nature. - -Nature has hitherto been for us absolute _identity_ in duplicity; here -we come upon an antithesis that must again take place _within_ the -other. This antithesis must be capable of being shown in the deduced -product itself, if it is capable of being deduced at all. - -The deduced product is an activity _directed outwards_; this cannot be -distinguished as such without an activity _directed inwards from -without_, (i. e. directed upon itself,) and this activity, on the other -hand, cannot be thought, unless it is _pressed back_ (reflected) from -without. - -_In the opposite directions, which arise through this antithesis lies -the principle for the construction of all the phenomena of life_—on the -suppression of those opposite directions, life remains over, either as -_absolute activity_ or _absolute receptivity_, since it is possible only -as the perfect _inter-determination_ of receptivity and activity. - -We therefore refer the reader to the Outlines themselves, and merely -call his attention 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 nature 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 construction 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 deduced 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 subsist only under the influence of -external forces, because it is only thereby that productivity is -interrupted—prevented from being extinguished in the product. For these -external forces there must now again 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 -respect. The problem—how a product in nature is arrived at—has therefore -received 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-productive_ 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 conditions can be laid down only hypothetically, -and as we do not in the first instance know it at all except from its -opposition 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 reduced the -construction of the two to a common expression, which, however, is -possible only through the synthetic part.—This must lead to the highest -and most general principles for the construction of a _nature_ -generally; 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 detailed 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 inorganic 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.) - - - A. - - -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 _construction 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 be a -phenomenon_, it goes back into the interior of nature, or of each -respective product. - -In organic nature, this limitation of productivity is shown by what we -call sensibility, which must be thought as the first condition of the -construction of the organic product. - -(_b_) The immediate effect of confined productivity 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, productivity 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 product; the absolute transition of the latter into product is -the cancelling of product itself. - -(_d_) As these three stages are distinguishable in the _individual_, so -they must be distinguishable in _organic nature throughout_, and the -scale of organizations is nothing more than a scale of _productivity -itself_. (Productivity exhausts itself to degree _c_ in the product _A_, -and can begin with the product _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 productivity. If we knew the absolute _degree_ of -productivity of the _earth_ for example—a degree which is determined by -the earth’s relation to the sun—the limit of organization upon it might -be thereby more accurately determined than by incomplete -experience—which must be incomplete for this reason, if for no other, -that the catastrophes 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 productivity 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 organic nature, that the construction of all organic phenomena -rests. - - - B.[24] - - -These principles, stated universally, lead to the following fundamental -principles of a universal theory of nature. - -(_a_) Productivity must be _primarily_ limited. Since _outside_ of -limited productivity there is [only] _pure identity_ the limitation -cannot be established by a difference already existing, and therefore -must be so by an _opposition_ arising in _productivity itself_—an -opposition to which we here revert as a first postulate.[25] - -(_b_) This difference thought _purely_ is the first condition of all -[natural] activity, the productivity is attracted and repelled[26] -between 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 it is to exist _outside_ of change, then the -_change itself_ must become fixed. The _active_ in change is the -productivity sundered within itself. - -(_c_) It is asked: - -(α) By what means such change can be 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 _tertium quid_. - -(β) But this _tertium quid_ must be able to _invade_ that original -antithesis; but _outside_ of that antithesis nothing _is_[27]; 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 antithesis; 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 therefore a _struggle towards indifference_—a struggle which is -conditioned, by the difference itself, and by which it, on the other -hand, is conditioned.—(The difference must not be looked upon as a -difference 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 is absolute, but all is only -indifference. - -Since that _tertium quid_ itself _presupposes_ the primary antithesis, -the antithesis 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 continuance 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 antithesis 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 endure, is thinkable only by its being -_infinite_—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 attained, never -absolute ones, and every successively originated difference leaves -behind a new and still unremoved antithesis, and this again goes over -into indifference, which, in its turn, _partially_ removes the primary -antithesis. Through the original antithesis and the struggle towards -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 product 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_ unremoved; if we say that _a_ and _f_ -mark the extreme limits, then the union of these will be that product -which can never be arrived at. - -Between the extremes _a_ and _f_, lie the antitheses _c_ and _d_, _b_ -and _e_; but the series of these intermediate antitheses is infinite; -all these intermediate antitheses are included in the one absolute -antithesis.—In the product _A_, of _a_ only _c_, and of _f_ only _d_ is -removed; let what remains of _a_ be called _b_, and of _f_, _e_; these -will indeed, by virtue of the absolute struggle towards indifference, -become again united, but they leave a new antithesis uncancelled, and so -there remains between _a_ and _f_ 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 _f_, but inasmuch as the antithesis 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 f_.) Since in the product of _a_ and _f_, only -_c_ and _d_ are united, there arises in it the new division _b_ and _e_, -the product will therefore divide up into opposite directions; at the -point where the struggle towards indifference attains the preponderance, -_b_ and _e_ will combine and form a new product different from the -first—but between _a_ and _f_, there still lie an infinite number of -antitheses; the indifference-point _B_ is therefore 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 _maintained_ 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 _f_. But the antithesis in _C_ is -maintained through _B_, only in so far as _A_ maintains the antithesis -in _B_.[28] What therefore in _C_ and _B_ results _from_ this -antithesis—[suppose, for example, the result of it were universal -gravitation]—is _occasioned_ 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 _f_, 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 case 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 which _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.—Indifference 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 themselves; 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 carrying over is what is called action by -distribution, the theory of which receives light only at this -point.[29])—Thus, for example, the sun, being only _relative_ -indifference, maintains, as far as its sphere of action reaches, the -antithesis, which is the condition of weight upon the subordinate -world-bodies.[30] - -The indifference is cancelled at every step, and at every step it is -restored. Hence, weight acts upon a body at rest as well as upon one in -motion.—The universal restoration of duality, and its recancelling at -every step, can [that is] appear only as a _nisus_ against a third -(somewhat). This third (somewhat) is therefore the pure zero—abstracted -from tendency it is nothing [= 0], therefore purely ideal, (marking only -direction)—a _point_.[31] 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.[32] - -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.[33] - -Gravity is not proportional to mass (for what is this mass but an -abstraction of the specific gravity which you have hypostatized?); but, -conversely, the mass of a body is only the expression of the momentum, -with which the antithesis in it cancels itself. - -(_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 mediated by that difference. - -What _distinguishes B_ and _C_ from _A_ therefore, 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, therefore, 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 absolutely -_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 preponderance, (thus rendering the one -body positively, and the other negatively, electric).—All difference is -difference of electricity.[34] - -(_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 accompanying phenomena.[35] We may be -allowed, 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._ - -(α) The first stage will be marked by objects _in which the reproduction -and recancelling of the antithesis at every step is still itself an -object of perception_. - -The whole product is reproduced anew at every step,[36] that is, the -antithesis which cancels itself in it, springs up afresh every moment; -but this reproduction of difference loses itself immediately in -_universal_ gravity;[37] 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 products, is that of the earth and -the magnetic needle, in which is distinguished the continual -recancelling of indifference in gravitation towards the poles[38]—the -continual sinking back into identity[39] in gravitation towards the -universal indifference-point. Here, therefore, it is not the _object_, -but the _being-reproduced of the object_ that becomes object.[40] - -(β) 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 objects (_A_ and _B_). From the fact -that the one factor of the antithesis attained a _relative_ -preponderance in _A_, the other in _B_, there will arise, according to -the same law as in α, a _gravitation_ of the factors toward each other, -and so a new difference, which, when the relative equiponderance is -restored in each, results in repulsion[41]—(change of attraction and -repulsion, _second_ stage in which matter is seen)—_electricity_. - -(γ) At the second stage the one factor of the product had only a -_relative_ preponderance;[42] at the _third_ it will attain an -_absolute_ one—by the two bodies _A_ and _B_, the original antithesis is -again completely represented—matter will revert to the _first stage_ of -becoming. - -At the _first stage_ there is still PURE _difference_, 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,[43] then in each -of them singly indifference of gravity (by which alone each _is_) must -be _cancelled_, and they must gravitate to _each other_.[44] (In the -second stage there was only a mutual gravitating of the factors to each -other—here there is a gravitating of the products.)[45]—This process, -therefore, first assails the _indifferent (element) of the_ PRODUCT—that -is, the products 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 indifference has been only indifference -of substrateless, or at least simple factors.—Now we come to speak of an -indifference of products.) This struggle will not cease till there -exists a common product. The product, in forming itself, passes, from -both sides, through all the intermediate links that lie between the two -products [for example, 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 identity, it is true, again resolves itself into an antithesis, -which, however, is no longer an antithesis cleaving to _products_, but -an antithesis in the _productivity_ itself.—The product, therefore, _as_ -product, is identity.—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.[46]—There is therefore here also a progress from thesis to -antithesis, and thence to synthesis.—The last synthesis of matter closes -in the chemical process; if composition is to proceed yet further in it, -then this circle must open again. - -We must leave it to our readers themselves to make out the conclusions -to which the principles here stated lead, and the universal -interdependence which is introduced by them into the phenomena of -Nature.—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:—“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, presupposes a -continual cancelling of indifference?—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 indifference 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_ appear to us. -According to the foregoing, it is _one_ antithesis which, beginning at -magnetism, and proceeding through electricity, at last loses itself in -the chemical phenomena.[47] In the chemical process, namely, _the whole -product_ + _E_ or - _E_ (the _positively_ electric body, in the case of -absolutely _unburnt_ bodies, is always the _more combustible_;[48] -whereas the _absolutely incombustible_ is the cause of all _negatively_ -electric condition;) and if we may be allowed to invert the case, what -then are bodies themselves but condensed (confined) electricity? In the -chemical process the whole body dissolves into + _E_ or - _E_. Light is -everywhere 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 factor 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?[49] - -(_f_) The dynamical process is nothing but the second construction of -matter, and however many stages there are in the dynamical process, -there are the same number in the original construction of matter. This -axiom is the converse of axiom _e_.[50] That which, in the dynamical -process is perceived in the product, takes place _outside_ 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_ phenomena. - -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.[51] - -And—in order to close the circle at the point where it began—just as in -organic nature, in the scale of sensibility, irritability, and formative -instinct, the secret of the production of the _whole of organic nature_ -lies in each individual, so in the scale of magnetism, electricity, and -chemical process, so far as it (the scale) can be distinguished in the -individual body, is to be found the secret of the production of _Nature -from itself_ [of the whole of Nature[52]]. - - - C. - - -We have now approached nearer the solution of our problem, which was: To -reduce the construction of organic and inorganic nature to a common -expression. - -Inorganic nature is the product of the _first_ power, organic nature of -the _second_[53]—(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, necessary. Inorganic nature can take its origin from _simple_ -factors, organic nature only from products, which again become factors. -Hence an inorganic nature generally will appear as having been from all -eternity, 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 already been composed for the second -time by the chemical process—is once more thrown back to the initial -point of formation (the circle above described is again opened); it is -no wonder that matter always 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 latter, even _in the first stage_, at least -begins with products of the _simple_ power.—Organic production also -begins with limitation, not of the _primary_ productivity, but of 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 compound. - -But there is all this, too, in the chemical process,[54] 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 triplicity 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 -irritation) stands a power higher than the chemical, and the third -element, which the latter lacks and the former has, prevents -indifference from being arrived at in the organic product.[55] - -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),[56] there remains for nature no -alternative but separation of the factors in _different_ products.[57] -The formation of the individual product, for that very reason, cannot be -a completed formation, and the product can never cease to be -productive.[58] The contradiction 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.[59] - -This contradiction Nature tries to solve by mediating _indifference_ -itself through _productivity_, but even this does not succeed—for the -act of productivity is only the kindling spark of a new process of -irritation; the product of productivity is a _new productivity_. Into -this as its product the productivity of the _individual_ now indeed -passes over; the individual, therefore, ceases more rapidly or slowly to -be productive, and Nature reaches the indifference-point with it only -after the latter has got down to a product of the second power.[60] - -And now the result of all this?—The condition of the inorganic (as well -as of the organic) product, is duality. In any case, however, organic -_productive product_ is so only from the fact _that the difference_ -NEVER _becomes indifference_. - -It is [in so far] therefore impossible to reduce the construction of -organic and of 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 process.—But sensibility, -and irritability, and formative instinct are all only included in that -_one_ process of irritation. (Galvanism affects them all).[61] But if -they are only the higher functions of magnetism, electricity, &c., there -must again be a higher synthesis for these in Nature[62]—and this, -however, it is certain, can be sought for only in Nature, in so far as, -viewed as a whole, it is _absolutely_ organic. - -And this, moreover, is also the result to which the genuine Science of -Nature must lead, viz: that the difference between organic and -inorganic nature is only in Nature as object, and that Nature as -originally-_productive_ soars above both.[63] - - * * * * * - -There remains only one remark, which we may make, not so much on account -of its intrinsic interest, as in order to justify what we said above in -regard to the relation of our system to the hitherto so-called dynamical -system. If it were asked, for instance, in what form our original -antithesis, cancelled, or rather fixed, in the product, would appear -from the stand-point of reflection, we cannot better designate what is -found in the product by analysis, than as _expansive_ and _attractive_ -(retarding) _force_, to which then however, gravitation must always be -added as the _tertium quid_, whereby those opposites become what they -are. - -Nevertheless, the designation is valid only for the stand-point of -reflection or of _analysis_, and cannot be applied for _synthesis_ 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 make up 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._] - -Footnote 18: - - 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 still lack that central - phenomenon of which Bacon already speaks, which certainly lies in - Nature, but has not yet been extracted from it by experiment. [_Remark - of the Original._ Compare below, third note to “General Remark.”] - -Footnote 19: - - If only those warm panegyrists of empiricism, who exalt it at the - expense of science, did not, true to the idea of empiricism, try to - palm off 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 deal 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._ - -Footnote 20: - - 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 organic Nature, till it culminates - in the history of the universe—one chain.—_Remark of the Original._ - -Footnote 21: - - 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?”—_Remark of the Original._ - -Footnote 22: - - 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 colors _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._ - -Footnote 23: - - Hence wherever the antithesis is cancelled or deranged, the - metamorphosis becomes irregular. For what is disease even but - metamorphosis?—_Remark of the Original._ - -Footnote 24: - - 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. - -Footnote 25: - - 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 - opposition without a substrate, cannot philosophize at all. For all - philosophizing goes only to the deduction of a substrate. - -Footnote 26: - - The phenomena of electricity show the scheme of nature oscillating - between productivity and product. This condition of oscillation or - change, attractive and repulsive force, is the real condition of - formation. - -Footnote 27: - - For it is the only thing that is given us to derive all other things - from. - -Footnote 28: - - 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 - carried over to _C_. The antithesis in _C_ is therefore maintained by - _B_, but only in so far as _A_ maintains the antithesis which is the - condition of _B_. - -Footnote 29: - - That is, distribution exists only, when the antithesis in a product is - not absolutely but only relatively cancelled. - -Footnote 30: - - The struggle towards indifference attains the preponderance over the - antithesis, at a greater or less distance from the body which - 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 existence, but must also be thought as - again cancelled. By this continual reproduction and resuscitation - creation takes place anew at every step. - -Footnote 31: - - It is precisely zero to which Nature continually strives to revert, - and to which it would revert, if the antithesis were ever cancelled. - Let us suppose the original condition of Nature = 0 (want of reality). - Now zero can certainly be thought as dividing itself into 1 - 1 (for - this = 0); but if we posit that this division as not infinite (as it - is in the infinite series 1 - 1 + 1 - 1 ...), then Nature will as it - were oscillate continually between zero and unity—and this is - precisely its condition. - -Footnote 32: - - Baader on the Pythagorean Square. 1798. (_Remark of the original._) - -Footnote 33: - - Except by the thoughtful author of a review of my work on the - world-soul, in the Würzburg _Gelehrte Anzeiger_, the only review of - that work that has hitherto come under my notice. (_Remark of the - original._) - -Footnote 34: - - 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. - -Footnote 35: - - In the M.S. copy the last part of this sentence reads as follows: The - construction of quality ought necessarily to be capable of - experimental proof, by the recancelling the identity, and of the - phenomena which accompany it. - -Footnote 36: - - Every body must be thought as reproduced at every step—and therefore - also every total product. - -Footnote 37: - - The _universal_, however, is never perceived, for the simple reason - that it is universal. - -Footnote 38: - - Whereby what was said above is confirmed,—that falling toward the - centre is a compound motion. - -Footnote 39: - - The reciprocal cancelling of opposite motions. - -Footnote 40: - - 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 product, which is necessary in order to the construction of - the product. - -Footnote 41: - - There will result the opposite effect—a _negative_ attraction, that - is, repulsion. Repulsion and attraction stand to each other as - positive and negative magnitudes. Repulsion is only negative - attraction—attraction only negative repulsion; as soon, therefore, as - the maximum of attraction is reached, it passes over into its - opposite—into repulsion. - -Footnote 42: - - If we designate the factors as + and - electricity, then, in the - second stage, + electricity had a relative preponderance over - - electricity. - -Footnote 43: - - If no longer the individual factors of the two products, but the whole - products themselves are absolutely opposed to each other. - -Footnote 44: - - For product is something wherein antithesis cancels itself, but it - cancels itself only through indifference of gravity. When, therefore, - 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. - -Footnote 45: - - In the electric process, the whole product is not active, but only the - one factor of the product, which has the relative preponderance 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. - -Footnote 46: - - We have therefore the following scheme of the dynamical process: - - First stage: Unity of the product—magnetism. - - Second stage: Duplicity of the products—electricity. - - Third stage: Unity of the products—chemical process. - -Footnote 47: - - The conclusions which may be deduced from this construction of - dynamical phenomena 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 occasion, - 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 condition 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 Nature? - - What happens, then, in the chemical process? Two whole 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 condition - of light. Therefore, also the light—what seems to stream to us from - the sun—is nothing 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 continual, 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 deviations 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 cancelled—therefore, the phenomenon of the - dynamical process continually rekindled. It is, therefore, one - antithesis that prevails in all dynamical phenomena—in those of - magnetism, electricity and light; for example, the antithesis, which - is the condition of the electrical phenomena must already enter into - the first construction of matter. For all bodies are certainly - electrical. - -Footnote 48: - - Or rather, conversely, the more combustible is always also the - positively electric; whence it is manifest that the body which burns - has merely reached the maximum of + electricity. - -Footnote 49: - - 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 electricity, 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 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 - representative of the positive, or of the force of repulsion. 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 experiments. 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 - repeatedly charged and discharged, and if, after the lapse of some - time, this iron is taken out and placed upon an isolator—paper, for - example—it begins to get hot, becomes incandescent, 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 terrestrial magnetism. But terrestrial electricity must again be - determined by magnetism. The connection of North and South with - magnetism is shown even by the irregular movements of the magnetic - needle. But again, with universal electricity, which, no less than - gravity and magnetism, has its indifference point—the universal - process of combustion and all volcanic phenomena stand connected. - - 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 _fully_ 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, electricity, &c., so run together in one phenomenon - that the _individual_ function is distinguishable)—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 relation to the _whole_ of Nature, as galvanism - does to organic nature. [Compare this with the discourse on Faraday’s - latest discovery, (1832,) p. 15. Complete Works, 1st Div., last vol.] - -Footnote 50: - - Proof—All dynamical phenomena are phenomena of transition from - difference to indifference. But it is in this very transition that - matter is primarily constructed. - -Footnote 51: - - In the already mentioned discourse on Faraday’s latest discovery, the - author cites the passage (p. 75, original edition,) as well as § 56 - 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_ of the - electrical and the chemical antithesis, and of the similar connection - subsisting between magnetic and chemical phenomena. (See also Remark - 2, p. 216.) - -Footnote 52: - - Every individual is an expression of the whole of Nature. As the - existence of the _single_ organic individual rests on that scale, so - does the whole of Nature. Organic nature maintains the whole wealth - and variety 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 changing the relation of - those three functions of matter _ad infinitum_; for magnetism, - electricity, and chemical process are the functions 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, but _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. - -Footnote 53: - - That is, the organic product can be thought only as subsisting under - the hostile pressure of an external nature. - -Footnote 54: - - The chemical process, too, has not substrateless or simple factors; it - has products for factors. - -Footnote 55: - - 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 towards intussusception - (indifference of products) when it is not continually prevented, as it - is in the process of irritation. (_Remark of the original._) - -Footnote 56: - - 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 fact that no genesis of new individuals is possible - upon it, otherwise than under the condition of opposite powers? - Compare an utterance of Kant on this subject, in his Anthropology. - (_Remark of the original._) - -Footnote 57: - - The two factors can never be _one_, but must be separated into - different products—in order that thus the difference may be permanent. - -Footnote 58: - - In the product, indifference of the first and second powers is arrived - at (for example, by irritation itself an origin of _mass_ [i. e. - indifference of the first order] and even _chemical products_ [i. 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._) - -Footnote 59: - - 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 productivity. Therefore a product of the third power is - itself a contradictory idea. From this even is manifest what an - extremely artificial condition life is—wrenched, as it were, from - Nature—subsisting against her will. - -Footnote 60: - - Nothing shows more clearly the contradictions out of which life - arises, and the fact that it is altogether only a heightened condition - of _ordinary_ natural forces, than the contradiction of Nature in what - she tries, but tries in vain, to reach through the _sexes_.—Nature - _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 involved 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 purpose; whereas she is always striving - only for a return into the identity of the genus, which, however, is - chained to the (never to be cancelled) duplicity of the sexes, as to - an inevitable condition. That she develops the individual only from - compulsion, and for the sake of the genus, is manifest from this, that - wherever in a genus she _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 individual 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, the _genus_ is better _secured_. - - 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 ever to seek, each other; and for ever seek, in - order never to find, each other; it is only in _this_ contradiction - that the ground of all the activity of Nature lies. (_Remark of the - original._) - -Footnote 61: - - Its effect upon the power of reproduction (as well as the reaction of - particular conditions 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._) - -Footnote 62: - - Compare above Remark, p. 197. (_Remark of the original._) - -Footnote 63: - - That it is therefore the same nature, which, by the same forces, - produces organic phenomena, and the universal phenomena of Nature, and - that these forces are in a heightened conditioned in organic nature. - - - - - ANALYSIS OF HEGEL’S ÆSTHETICS. - [Translated from the French of M. CH. BENARD, by J. A. MARTLING.] - - -II. SCULPTURE.—Architecture fashions and disposes of the masses of inert -nature 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 detaching itself from physical existence, and in -expressing spirit in a manner more in conformity with its nature. The -first step which art takes in this career does not yet indicate the -return of spirit upon itself, which would render necessary a wholly -spiritual mode of expression, and signs as immaterial 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 _rôle_ and the -place which belong to Sculpture. - -It still resembles _architecture_ in this, that it fashions extended and -solid material; but it is distinguished from it in this, that this -material, in its hands, ceases to be foreign to spirit. The corporeal -form blends with it, and becomes its living image. Compared to poetry, -it seems at first to have the advantage over it of representing objects -under their natural and visible form, while speech expresses 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 -innermost 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 passions; -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 to such an extent -as the body can express in a given moment, without movement, without -living action, without development. 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 Sculpture -would do well to add to its own proper means those of painting. This is -a grave error; for that abstract form, deprived of color, which the -statuary employs 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 animating 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 extension, and extension only; arithmetic, -number; jurisprudence, the right; &c. Allow 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 -material, corporeal side, of which architecture gives only a vague and -imperfect symbol. It is given to painting, to substitute for this real -form, a simple visible appearance, which then admits color, by joining -to it the effects of perspective, of light and shade. But Sculpture -ought to respect its proper limits, to confine itself to representing -the corporeal form as an expression of the individual 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 movements, having a determined end, nor -engaged in those enterprises and actions which manifest a character. 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 -thing, that it presents to our eyes spirit absorbed in the corporeal -form, designed to manifest 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 materials of which it has no need at the step where -it stops. The image fashioned by it, is of a single color; it employs -primitive 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 approaches the more special study -and the theory of this art. He considers it—1st, in its principle; 2d, -in its ideal; 3d, in the 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 points, and to limit ourselves to general ideas. - -1. To seize fully the principle of Sculpture and the essence of this -art, it is necessary to examine, in the first place, what constitutes -the _content_ of its representations, 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 representations 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, can not 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, eternal -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 representations 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 particularized, unalterable, -self-centered, calm, is the divine in opposition to finite existence, -which is developed in the midst of accidents and contingencies, the -exhibition of which this world of change and diversity presents us. - -According to this, Sculpture should represent 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 which is accidental and transient; to -admit only the fixed, invariable side, the ground of character. This -fixed element is what Sculpture should express as alone constituting the -true individuality; it represents its personages as beings complete and -perfect in themselves, in an absolute repose freed from all foreign -influence. The eternal in gods and men is what it is called upon to -offer to our contemplation in perfect and unalterable clearness. - -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, harmonious, -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 express 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 Sculpture, not to confound this -manner of looking 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 artistic 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 different; it is that of the harmonious and necessary accord of -forms, from which beauty results. The ground of Sculpture excludes, -moreover, precisely all the peculiarities of individual character to -which the physiognomist attaches himself. The ideal form manifests only -the fixed, regular, invariable, although living and individual type. It -is then forbidden to the artist, as far as regards the physiognomy, to -represent the most expressive and determinate 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. Sculpture should interdict to itself things so transient, and -confine itself to the permanent traits of the expression of the spirit; -in a word, it should incarnate in the human form the spiritual principle -in its nature, 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 personages: 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 different parts of the human body, -_the face_, _the looks_, _the bearing_, _the dress_. Upon all these -points he faithfully follows Winckelmann, recapitulates him, and -constantly cites him. The philosopher meanwhile preserves 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 reason of that which the great critic, with his -exquisite and profound sense, has so admirably seized and undeniably -proved, but without being able to unfold the theory of it. The subject -gathers, henceforth, new interest from this explication. We may cite, in -particular, the description of the Greek profile, which, in the hands of -the philosopher, takes the character of a geometric 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 -arbitrary; 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 nature. What he afterwards says of the looks, of -the bearing, of the postures, of the antique dress compared with the -modern dress, and of its ideal character, presents no less interest. But -all these details, where the author shows much of discrimination, of -genius even, and spirit, escape in the analysis. The article where he -describes the particular attributes and the accessories which -distinguish the personages of Greek Sculpture, although in great part -borrowed also from Winckelmann, shows a spirit familiarized with the -knowledge of the works of antiquity. - -3. The chapter devoted to the different _modes_ of representation of the -materials of Sculpture, and of its historic development, 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 comparison of -their æsthetic value, furnish also to the author some very ingenious -remarks upon a subject which seems scarcely susceptible of interest. -Finally, in a rapid sketch, Hegel retraces the _historic development_ of -Sculpture, Egyptian Statuary, Etruscan art, the school of Ægina, are -characterized in strokes remarkable for precision. - -Arrived at _Christian Sculpture_, without disputing the richness and the -ability which it has displayed in its works in wood, in stone, etc., and -its excellence in respect to expression, Hegel maintains with reason, -that the Christian principle is little favorable to Sculpture; and that -in wishing 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 -penitence, death and resurrection, the mystic depth, the love and -out-gushing of the heart, are wholly unsuited to be represented by -Sculpture, which requires calmness, serenity of spirit, and in -expression, harmony of forms.” Thus, Sculpture here remains rather an -ornament of architecture; it sculptures saints, bas reliefs upon the -niches and porches of churches, turrets, etc. From another side, through -arabesques and bas reliefs, it approximates the principle of painting, -by giving too much expression to its figures, or by making 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 Bossuet 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 sensitive. - -Discords massed together without system, 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 celebrated 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; therefore, one possessed of -the finest voice, but uncultivated, will sing sometimes badly, sometimes -pretty well, but never quite perfectly for a real judge. - -So it is with taste. Depending on natural 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 music 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, Allegri, 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, 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 concerning it; and -as nothing important or necessary to modern art is involved, we may be -content to let the music of the ancients rest in the obscurity which -surrounds it. - -With the first Christians, who hated everything 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.” 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 clearly, some one called the key -beginning with “D,” Doric, “E,” Phrygic, “F,” Lydic, “G,” Mixolydic, -“A,” Æolic, and “B,” Tonic. These names are all we have borrowed from -Greece. - -Palestrina, the preserver of our art, wrote his compositions in these -keys, and for the highest purity of harmony, rhythmical beauty, sublime -simplicity, and deep religious feeling, his works are still unrivalled. - -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, Beethoven 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 -Comala, the song to the moon, in the Doric mood; but Handel, Bach, -Beethoven, and myself, have written in our own style, and never imitated -Palestrina’s. Men in similar 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 respect with -that feeling. Palestrina’s music 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 soprano 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 different, although the tones are the same. -Palestrina 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 singing 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 -instruments? 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 c, d, e, f, g, a, b, c, 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 Harmony and Metre, page 30—“The -key is formed, when the common chord (c, e, g), after 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 minor, 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 Beethoven’s last symphony, -in the melody to Schiller’s poem, a going _back_, because it has -scarcely any modulation. - -We will not be so lavish with keys as Hauptmann, nor so economical as R. -Wagner, 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 compositum_” of several old keys; it begins as the “Æolic” 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 Phrygic, transposed a fourth higher, -and brings thus the tone b _flat_ into its scale, which has been already -the subject of much discussion, 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 end, wherein we -find f _sharp_ and f _natural_, g and g _sharp_, b and b _flat_, 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, - {b _flat_, {f _sharp_, {g _natural_. - -Let us proceed. The two kinds of time are common and triple. The rhythm -of the first is—__, that of the second—__ __. The accentuation of -subdivisions is governed by the same law. It makes no difference whether -a piece of music is written in 2|3 or 2|4, or even 2|8 time; but good -composers of music, writing in 2|4 time, intend the same to be of -lighter rendition than those composed in 2|2 time, etc. - -Concerning harmony, there is one chord only—all other harmonies are -passing notes, inversions, prolongations, suspensions or retardations of -chord-tones, or from sharped and diminished intervals. Harmony is a -connection of different melodies. 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 firmus_) a higher -part, named _alto_, and lastly, a lower part was added called _bass_. -These four parts, though each melodious and independent in itself, -harmonized closely with each other, all striving for the same aim. - -Even to-day we must necessarily call such music good, wherein every -voice acts independently of all others, and still in harmony with the -same, in order to express the reigning feeling, and sustain the various -shades in contrast to non-acting and lifeless trabants, which may be -strikingly seen in many compositions, particularly in four-part songs -for male voices, by Abt, Gumbert, Kücken, etc., wherein three voices -(_Brummstimmen_) 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 dominant, followed by that of the tonic, concludes 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 dominant. The cadence of the dominant -suspends the sense of the musical phrase without 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. Of course, the true nature of the proper arrangement of parts -excludes all direct fifths. - -It is considered by the new school “an exploded 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 contained in the minuet which Mozart composed 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 intended. - -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 govern 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 explain this properly. - -Revolutions often beat the path for new ideas. Palestrina towers great -and unattainable in his compositions of sacred music, 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 century, created a music -full of freshness, primitiveness 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 centre 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 by culture. - -We must think at our work. - -This necessity of thought is apparent in religion, language and art, and -can be seen most clearly in the greatest works of the German -grand-masters, in Bach’s “Matthew Passion,” and Handel’s “Israel.” - -Sebastian Bach’s astonishing dexterity in thematical works is the reason -that even unto this day we do not find a symphony or overture -appropriate for a concert, of which the single motive forming the -principal thought of the movement is not worked up on the basis which he -constructed 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 -overture—was a French production, (Lulli was the first master in this -_genre_ of art,) yet Bach and Handel impressed the first decided 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 a _fugue_. The symphony was composed -somewhat in the style of a _fugue_ 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 his ancestors, the minuet. But Beethoven’s impetuous and -passionate nature scoffed 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 _Passepied_. Dark and mighty forms rose -before the gloomy vision of his inner-man, acting powerfully upon the -phantasy, and wherever they met this volcanic fire, always leaving a -deep impression. - -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 thousand times in the nurseries with -lead and paper soldiers. Beethoven’s melodies agitated 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. Beethoven’s star shone brighter, -while Napoleon’s was already fading. Then we heard that Beethoven -intended to destroy his great symphony called “Eroica.” Napoleon, the -consul, to whom Beethoven designed to dedicate this great work, had sunk -to Napoleon the Emperor, and Beethoven 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 introduced the third -symphony (Eroica), and his inversions in the Scherzo b^b, e^b, g, b^b, -and in the last movement e, b, b, e, this echo of the Marseillaise -suited no longer and should perish with it. Only then, when fate, in the -icy deserts of Russia, 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 funebre_ contained in this -symphony, he had spoken in prophetic voice. The prophecy contained 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 century. -Altogether Mozart is generally appreciated better in riper years. “_La -delicatesse du gout est une première nuance de la satiété._” - -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 instance, 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 Scherzo 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 Summer-night’s Dream.” -Auber, Herold and others wrote dance overtures _en masse_, 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 character of the principal -composition. Second, 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 swelling bud bursts into a beautiful blossom; yet there must -not be orange-blossoms 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 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 ā | 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 measure, executed by the -viola, growling like a furiously racked demon, while the wind -instruments, flute, oboe and clarionet, “very expressive,” and yet full -of sympathizing sorrow, intervene at the last quarter of the tenth -measure with the motive, which we will call figure III. Figure II. -continues rumbling in the quartette, relieved by another figure (IV.) -descending from above, which is introduced by the second violin in the -fourteenth measure. Figure IV. now extends itself further above a -chromatic bass, until in the nineteenth measure, in d major, a clear and -distinct new motive, gentle and forgiving in character (V.) makes its -appearance. - -These five motives which the composer so exquisitely leads before us, in -his very moderate introduction, now receive the finishing-touch in the -allegro. Thus speaks 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 Tannhäuser, 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 unbearable by the soul-killing figures—no! not figures, but by -the up and down strokes of monotonous bases, which continue for about -sixty measures. Setting aside even all this, we may justly expect in the -allegro the expansion of the principle theme I., yet we have no such -thing; in place of the “idea” he produces after the first five measures -a worthless figure, fit for accompaniment only, which is supported on -its tottering 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 -and admirer, calls the forgiving voice (III), reappears twice in -wind-instrument music? - -A. According to Lobe’s system. Borrow a measure or two from a theme, -then a motive, which you may construct from this or that or a third -figure, and you have, besides the required unity, the grandest -variation. - -Do you know, my young friend, what a composer understands by an exploded -idea? The technical! All who study the art of composing, as Lobe teaches -it, may learn to become _compilers_ but _not composers_; 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 -measures 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 _fortissimo_. 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, _à 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 b _flat_ minor, or g minor, it is difficult to -say which, for this part may be said to belong in the “most inseparably -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 performance 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 g _flat_ -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 wonderful abortion. Are you now curious as to the second part? Oh! it -almost appears 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 united, 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 headed “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 future 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 parts, excepting, perhaps, that I -said the working out of the second theme is, in proportion to the first -theme, too extensive; in fact, there is nothing of the future contained -in the overture. - -Q. No future? - -A. I mean to say, no music of the future—not even a chromatic scale for -the fundamental key—it moves entirely in the common 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 perceive 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 different instruments, and is, -consequently, not sufficiently “obligato.” - -The parts succeed, instead of going in company or against each other. - -Although now one, then another instrument 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 curious 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 -subordinate of the other; both are equally necessary 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 movements likewise. - -The addition of voices to a melody satisfactory in itself, be they ever -so well flourished, cannot properly be called polyphonism. - -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 place. - -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 ignores 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 operas he has opened a new avenue, and his creations therein are -something grand and sublime. - - - - - SCHOPENHAUER’S DOCTRINE OF THE WILL. - Translated from the German, by C. L. BERNAYS. - - [We print below a condensed statement of the central doctrine of - Arthur Schopenhauer. It is translated from his work entitled “_Ueber - den Willen in der Natur_,” 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 resembles in some respects - that of Leibnitz in the Monadology, 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 - immediateness (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 relation 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 substantiality, 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 _aperçu_, and identifies - self-determination with cognition in its various stages; and hence - he rises to the great principle of Recognition as the form under - which all finitude is cancelled—all multiplicity preserved in the - unity of the Absolute.—EDITOR.] - -The idea of a soul as a metaphysical being, 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 separation of the will from the -intellect. All former philosophers thought will to be inseparable from -the intellect; the will was declared to be conditioned upon the -intellect, or even to be a mere function of it, whilst the intellect was -regarded as the fundamental principle of our spiritual existence. I am -well aware that to the future 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 decomposition of water had to chemistry. Not -the soul is the eternal and indestructible 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 combination -of will and the νοῦς, intellect. The intellect is the secondary, the -_posterius_ 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 function of the brain) exhibits itself as an -organic body. Only by virtue of the forms of cognition, that is, by -virtue of that function of the brain—hence only in conception—one’s body -is something extended and organic, not outside of it, or immediately 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 functions 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 nature of the organism; the will never can be; the -contrary is true, namely, that every 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 primitive; 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 represented: for the -will, to reach its ends, needs the intellect. This function again -pre-supposes the whole world as representation; it therefore -pre-supposes also the body as an object, and even matter itself, so far -as existing only in representation, for an objective world without a -subject in whose intellect it stands, is, well considered, something -altogether unthinkable. Hence intellect and matter (subject and object) -only relatively exist for each other, and in that way constitute the -apparent world. - -Whenever the will acts on external matter, 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 circulation 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 committed that ever happened. - -Before all, one should know how to discriminate between will and -arbitrariness (_Wille und Willkühr_), and one should understand that the -first can exist without the second. Will is called arbitrariness where -it is lighted by intellect, and whenever 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 species the place of -that image may be occupied by a concept, which being formed from images -of a similar kind, by omitting the differences, is no longer intuitive, -but only marked and fixed by words. Hence as the action of motives is -altogether independent 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 irritation, as with the plants, -are called arbitrary movements. These motives pre-suppose knowledge, the -medium of the motives, through which in this case causality is effected, -irrespective of their absolute necessity in any other respect. -Physiologically, the difference between irritation and motive may be -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 originates -the ensuing reaction, which now is called an act of the free will. Hence -the difference between free and unfree movements 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 and tangible representations, but abstract concepts, -which, independent of the differences of time, act simultaneously and -side by side, permitting thereby conviction or a conflict of motives; -this, in the strictest sense of the word, is called free will. Yet this -very free will or choice consists only in the victory of the stronger -motive over a weaker in a given individual character, by which the -ensuing action was determined, just as one impulse is overpowered by a -stronger counter impulse, whereby the effect nevertheless appears with -the same necessity as the movement of a stone that has received an -impulse. The great thinkers 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 difficulty in discovering the will also in -occurrences 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 -structure of any animal is the result of its will to be what it is. -Nature, which never lies, tells us the same in its _naïve_ 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 empirically do all beings stand -before us as their own work; but the language of nature is too simple, -and therefore but few understand it. - -Cognition, since all motives are dependent 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 medium by -which the influences from the external 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 relation -in general which appears as the substitute 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 absence -of the sun, and that they turn themselves 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 volition are clearly separated from each other, and the clearer, the -more perfect the intellect is; whilst at the mere susceptibility for an -irritation, the feeling of the irritation and the resulting volition can -no longer be discriminated. In the inorganic world, finally, even the -susceptibility for irritation, whose analogy with the intellect cannot -be mistaken, ceases, and there remains nothing but the varied reaction -of the bodies against the various influences. This reaction is the -substitute for the intellect. Whenever the reaction of a body differs -from another, the influence also must be different, creating a different -affection, which even in its dullness yet shows a remote analogy with -the intellect. If, for instance, the water in an embankment finds an -issue and eagerly precipitates 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 effected such sudden changes, has a certain resemblance with -that which moves ourselves whenever we act in consequence of an -unexpected 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, balances the whole world as -representation, i. e. that whole extensive world in space and time, -which as such cannot be anywhere else but in our brain, just as dreams; -for the periods of their duration stand on the very same basis. Whatever -to the animals 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 -irritation, 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 develop -itself, did consciousness, moreover, 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 servant of the will, appearing only -“_per accidens_” 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 motives 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 motive -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 independently 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-supposition 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 discovery, arriving by our -empirical, physiological way to the same point whence Kant started with -his transcendental criticism. Kant made the subjective his basis, -positing consciousness; but from its _à priori_ nature he comes to the -result, that all that happens in it can be nothing else but -representation. 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 phenomenon_, -and that just in the same way the order 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 connected 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 intelligent -(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 starting from natural beings as posited, we have abstracted -from the circumstance that their objective existence presupposes an -intellect, in which they find themselves as representations; but Kant’s -subjective and idealistic stand-point is equally conditioned, inasmuch -as it starts from the intellect, which itself is conditioned by nature, -in consequence of whose development up to the animal world it only comes -into existence. Holding fast to this, our _realistic-objective_ -stand-point, Kant’s doctrine may be characterized thus: after Locke had -abstracted the _rôle_ 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, abstracted the -_rôle_ of the brain functions [conceptions of the understanding]—a less -considerable _rôle_ than that of the senses—and thus abstracted as -belonging to the subjective 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 realistically from the -objective as a datum, and take the WILL, of which alone we are -immediately conscious, as the true που στῶ 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 illustrate: 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 cannot -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 calling for the -other, each asserting its complement 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 -“_moments_” by Hegel. The total is the “_negative unity_” (See Chap. -IV.) - -In the illustration we have salt as the negative unity of the moments, -acid and base. The unity is called _negative_ because its existence -destroys each of the moments by adding the other to it. After the -negative unity exists, each of the moments is no longer in a tension, -but has become thoroughly modified by the other. The negative unity is -_ideal_ when the moments are held asunder—it is then potential, and -through it each moment has its own peculiar properties. - -More generally: every somewhat is _determined_ 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 properly 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 generally used in English to signify a -picture of the object more or less general. Not the totality, but only -some of its characteristics, are grasped together in a conception. 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. -Sensuous knowing—for the reason that it attributes 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 -negative unity and moments are thought together. Thus a true -comprehension is the thought of the self-determined, and we have not -thoroughly comprehended any thing till we have traced it back through -its various presuppositions to self-determination which must always be -the form of the total. (See chapters IV. & V.) - - - II. - - -The name “Idea” is reserved for the deepest thought of Philosophy.[64] -In _comprehension_ we think a system of dependent moments in a negative -unity. Thus in the comprehension the multiplicity of elements, thought -in the moments, is destroyed in its negative unity, and there is, -consequently, 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 -comprehensions—a system of totalities—and this is what Hegel means by -“_Idee_,” or Idea. Plato arrives at this, but does not consistently -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 consists in generously (!) assuming of any category -all that his interlocutor wishes, and then letting it refute itself -while he applies it in this and that particular instance with the air of -one who sincerely 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 positions wherein these weaknesses -prove their true nature.) Aristotle, on the other hand, writes from the -standpoint of the _Idea_ constantly, and therefore treats his subjects -as systematic totalities independent of each other; this gives the -appearance of empiricism to his writings. The following illustration of -the relation of comprehension to idea may be of assistance here: - -Let any totality = T be composed of elements, phases or moments = a + b -+ c + 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 moments. 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., and c = T - a - b - &c. Each demands 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 result: _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 + b + c + d + &c.) a -new series wherein each moment has developed to a total by supplying its -deficiencies thus: a b c d &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 cancelled by -the negative unity. Such a system of terms would offer us a manifold of -individuals, and yet a profound unity. This is the unity of the Idea, -and it affords a concrete multiplicity. Leibnitz gives to his Monads the -power of reflection, so that each is the mirror of the universe; hence, -in each is found the whole, and the Totality is endlessly repeated; -“everywhere the one and the all”—and this is the “preestablished -harmony,” no doubt. This is the highest point of view in philosophy—true -multiplicity and true unity coexisting. Plato reaches it in his -statement in the Timaeus, that “God has made the world most like -himself, since he _in nowise possesses envy_.” The ultimate purpose of -the universe is the reflection of God to himself. In this reflection, -the existence of independent self-determining totalities is presupposed; -to all else he is a negative unity, and therefore destructive. To the -righteous, i. e. to those who perfect themselves by performing for -themselves the function of negative unity, He says: “In you I am well -pleased; I am reflected in you.” But to the wicked he is a consuming -fire, for they do not assume the function of negative unity, but leave -it to be used toward them from outside. Thus, too, the lower orders of -existence perish through this, that their negative unity is not within -but without. If God is conceived merely as the negative unity, and the -creature not as self-determining, we have the standpoint of Pantheism. -It is the Brahm which becomes all, and all returns into him again. If we -had such a God we should only _seem_ to be, for when he looked at us and -“placed us under the form of Eternity” we should vanish. But in culture -each of us absorbs his “not me,” just as “a,” in the illustration given -above, became a b c d &c. Its _a_-ness was destroyed by its modifying -(“rounding off”) its own peculiarity by the peculiarities of the rest, -and thus becoming “cosmopolitan.” This is justly esteemed the -profoundest and most sacred dogma of the Christian Religion when stated -as the doctrine of the Trinity. The completest unity there obtains of -independent individualities. All higher forms of spirit repeat the same -thought. Government, e. g. is the Legislative, the Judiciary, and the -Executive. Resist the Judiciary and it can, in the exercise of its -function, assume executive powers. Each power is the entire organism -viewed from the standpoint of one of its phases, just as _a b c_, _b a -c_, _c a b_, are the same totality, but with different starting points -assumed. - -The self-determining being is the being which is its own other, and -hence is its own negative unity. Thus it can never be a simple moment of -a higher being, but is essentially a _reflection_ of it. Recognition is -the highest deed; it belongs to the standpoint of the Idea. Upon the -plane of comprehension, the unity and multiplicity are mutually -destructive; upon the plane of Idea they are mutually affirmative. The -more creatures in whom he can be reflected, the more affirmations of God -there are. The human spirit grows solely through recognition. - - * * * * * - -_Remark._ This is the only standpoint that is absolutely affirmative—all -others being more or less negative, and, as a consequence, self-opposed. -The stage of _human culture_ is the most concrete illustration of it. -Three human beings—A, B, and C—meet and form a community. As physical -beings they exclude, each the others. The more one eats, the less the -others have to eat. But spiritually it is the reverse: each has a -different experience, and their giving and taking, instead of -diminishing any one’s share, _increases_ it. The experience of A is -imparted to B, and conversely; and so also both share with C. By this, C -grows through the culture of A and B, and becomes C B A; B develops to B -C A, and A to A C B; all is gain: no loss, except of _poverty_. -Limitation by another makes a finite being. But self-determination is -the process of being one’s own “other” or limit, and hence all -self-determined beings are totalities or microcosms, which, though -independent, reflect each other, i. e. they make themselves in the same -image. Hence the “Preëstablished Harmony” exists among such beings. Each -is its own negative. Cognition or mind is the form of being which -embodies this. - -In culture we have an absolutely affirmative process, for the reason -that the _negative_, involved in the cancelling of one’s own -idiosyncracies, is a negative of what is already negative. Hence the -unity of God is not in anywise impaired by the existence of a -continually increasing number of perfected beings. In proportion to -their perfection they reflect Him, and their complete self-determination -is just that complete realization of Him which completes his -self-consciousness. This has been called Pantheism by those who confound -this standpoint with that of the Comprehension. Pantheism is impossible -with a proper insight into the nature of self-consciousness. A blind -force fulfilling its destiny, and giving rise to various orders of -beings which are to be re-absorbed by it,—if one fancies this to be God, -call him a Pantheist, for God is then merely a negative unity, and -creation is only a series of _moments_. But if one considers God to -be the Absolute Person, and deduces all Theology from His -self-consciousness, as Hegel does, he cannot be called a Pantheist -consistently by any one who believes in the Gospel of St. John. It is -easy to see why Hegel has been and still is regarded as a Pantheist. -When he asserts the self-consciousness of the creature to be the -completion of the Divine self-consciousness, Hegel merely states the -logical constituents of the Christian idea of the Trinity. The -“creature” is the _Son_, which is “in the beginning.” All time must have -presented and still presents the development of creatures into -self-conscious beings. Our planet began a short time since to do this. -“The fullness of time had come,” and the final stage of reflection -(which must always have existed in the Universe) began on the earth, or, -to state it theologically, “The Son was sent to redeem this world.” To -think that Hegel could regard God as becoming conscious in time—as -passing from an unconscious state to a conscious one—is to suppose him -the weakest of philosophers. _Self-consciousness_ cannot be “in time,” -for it is the “form of eternity,” and thus time is not relative to it. -The “fleeting show” of History does not touch the self-consciousness of -God, nor does it touch any self-conscious being “whose soul is builded -far from accident.” - - - CHAPTER VIII. - WHAT IS THE TRUE ACTUAL? - - - I.—_Reality and Potentiality._ - - -The immediate object before the senses undergoes change; the real -becomes potential, and that which was potential becomes real. Without -the potentiality we could have had no change. At first we are apt to -consider the real as the entire existence and to ignore the potential; -but the potential will not be treated thus. Whatever a thing _can_ -become is as valid as what it is already. The properties of a thing by -which it exists for us, are its relations to other beings, and hence are -rather its _deficiencies_ than its being _per se_. Thus the sharpness in -the acid was pronounced to be the hunger of the same for alkali; the -sharper it was, the louder was its call for alkali. Thus the very -concreteness of a thing is rather the process of its potentialities. To -illustrate this: we have a circle of possibilities belonging to a -thing—only one of them is real at a time; it is, for instance, water, -whose potentialities are vapor, liquid, and solid. Its reality is only a -part of its total being, as in the case of water it was only one-third -of itself at any given temperature. Yet the real is throughout qualified -by the potential. In change, the real is being acted upon by the -potential under the form of “outside influences.” The pyramid is not -air, but the air continually acts upon it, and the pyramid is in a -continual process of decomposition; its potentiality is continually -exhibiting its nature. We know by seeing a thing undergo change what its -potentialities are. In the process of change is manifested the activity -of the potentialities which are thus negative to it. If a thing had no -negative it would not change. The real is nothing but the surface upon -which the potential writes its nature; it is the field of strife between -the potentialities. The real persists in existence through the potential -which is in continual process with it. Thus we are led to regard the -product of the two as the constant. This we call _Actuality_. - - - II.—_Actuality._ - - -The actual is a process, and is ever the same; its two sides, are the -real and the potential, and the real is manifested no more and no less -than the potentialities, in the process which constantly goes on. The -real is annulled by the potential, and the latter becomes the real, only -to be again replaced. If in the circle of possibilities which make up -the entire being of a thing, that which is real bears a small proportion -to the rest, the real is very unstable, for the potentialities are to -that extent actively negative to it. But let the sphere of the real be -relatively large, and we have a more stable being—there is less to -destroy it and more to sustain it—it is a higher order of being. If the -whole circle of its being were real it would coincide with its -actuality, it would be self-related, exist for itself, and this would be -the existence of the _Idea_. - - - III.—_The Actual is the Rational._ - - -The highest aim is toward perfection; and this is pursued in the -cancelling of the finite, partial or incomplete, by adding to it its -other or complement—that which it lacks of the Total or Perfect. Since -this complement is the _potential_, and since this potential is and can -be the only agent that acts upon and modifies the real, it follows that -all process is pursuant of the highest aim; and since the actual is the -process itself, it follows that the actual is the realization of the -Best or of the Rational. A somewhat has a low order of existence if the -sphere of its reality is small compared to that of its potentiality. But -the lower its order the more swift and sure are the potentialities in -their work. Hence no matter how bad anything is, the very best thing is -being wrought upon it. Seize the moments of the world-history, and state -precisely what they lacked of the complete realization of spirit, and -one will see clearly that each phase perished by having just that added -to it which it most of all needed. - - - IV.—“_The Form of Eternity._” - - -To think according to Reason is to think things under the form of -Eternity, says Spinoza (_Res sub quadam specie aeternitatis percipere_). -The Form of Eternity is what we have found as the true actual. The -Phenomenal world is the constant spectacle wherein each and all is -placed under the form of Eternity. When this is done, all _immediate_ -(or mechanical) being appears in a state of transition; all _mediated_ -being appears as a merely relative, i. e. as existing in what lies -beyond it; all _absolutely mediated_ (i. e. self-determined) being -appears in a state of development. In the first and second stages the -individual loses its identity. In the third stage the process is one of -unfolding, and hence the continual realizing of a more vivid personal -identity. Thus the Form of Eternity is to the conscious being the -realization of his Immortality. - -Footnote 64: - - The word “Idea” does not have the sense here given it, except in - Hegel, and in a very few translations of him. 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 “_Begriff_,” which we call - “_comprehension_,” 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 used commonly 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. - - - - - A THOUGHT ON SHAKESPEARE. - BY ANNA C. BRACKETT. - - -To say that Shakespeare excels others by virtue of the genius which -enables him to throw himself for the time completely into each of the -characters he represents, is to say a very common-place thing, and yet -it will bear repeating. - -His spirit was so many-sided, so universal, that it was able to take all -forms and perfectly to fit itself to each, so that he always gives us a -consistent character. His personages are individuals whose every word -agrees with every other they have spoken, and while the spirit which -moves in them is Shakespeare, he is all, yet no one of them. - - “The water unchanged in every case, - Doth take on the figure of the vase.” - -He does not consciously go to work to fashion a character, nor does he -ask himself what that character shall say under the given circumstances, -but his soul, being capable of all, takes on for the time the form of -the character, and then speaks the things which are most natural to -itself in that form. So entirely is this the case, that a comparison of -the way in which one of his personages conducts himself under different -circumstances, is sure to amaze us as we discover the fine touches by -which the unity of the character is preserved. Goethe’s characters -grow—are in a state of becoming. Shakespeare’s are grown: they are -crystallized. The problem with Goethe is, the development of a character -through growth; Shakespeare’s: given a certain character and a certain -collision, how will the given character demean itself? The common man -with an effort could tell what _he himself_ would have done under such -and such circumstances, but Shakespeare could have done _all things_, -and grasping one side of himself he holds it, and shows it for one -person, and another for another. He never confuses—never changes. The -divine inspiration sways him. The power to do this, the Universal which -can take on all and be all, is genius. - -This is not claimed as new in any sense. I simply wish to illustrate its -truth with regard to the suitors of Portia, by noticing how perfectly -the feelings which each expresses after the result of his choice is -apparent, are the outcome of the feelings which decided the choice. - -The three sets of comments on the caskets and their mottoes, betray -three entirely different men. Their minds move differently; they are -actuated habitually by different motives, and the results of the same -failure in Morocco and Arragon are noticeably different. They are placed -in precisely the same circumstances. They are both disappointed, but -observe how differently they demean themselves. Morocco wastes no words. -His mood changes instantly from a doubting hope to despondency and -heartfelt grief, so powerful that it deprives him of all speech. He goes -at once. But Arragon speaks as if he had been deceived. First—“How much -unlike art thou to Portia!” That is, I was led to suppose one thing; I -have been misled. Then—“How much unlike my hopes!” but, indignation and -wounded pride gaining the ascendency—“_and my deservings!_” He re-reads -the motto, and grows more angry still. He has not been treated fairly, -and at last, forgetting himself, he turns round to Portia with the -fierce, direct question, “Are my deserts no better?” Portia shows her -appreciation of his state of mind by her evasion, plainly intimating -that he had gone too far in his manner of addressing her. His very words -are rough and uncourteous in their abruptness. His question was rude -because so personal. In his haste he has not even noticed the writing, -which now surprises him, as, feeling her quiet rebuke, he turns back to -the casket to hide his embarrassment, and he reads. During the reading -he begins to be conscious that he has been angry without reason, and -that he has not had control enough of himself to conceal the fact. That -he is not a fool is shown by his consciousness that he has behaved like -one in giving away to his temper, and as this consciousness begins to -dawn on him, he is ashamed of himself for having been provoked, and -desires to be gone as soon as possible. He has had a revelation of -himself which is not agreeable, and he turns to depart, no longer angry -with Portia, but so angry with himself that he almost forgets to bid the -lady adieu. But suddenly reminded that she is there, he assumes again -his usual, courtly, outside self, and half in apology for his anger and -rudeness, which might have led her to suppose that he would forget his -promise, half to recall himself to himself, he awkwardly ends the scene -by assuring her that he means to keep his word. - -Now, why should Morocco never for one instant lose his gentlemanly -bearing, while Arragon so wholly forgets himself? Turn back to the -comments before the choice, and we have the key at once. - -In their remarks on the leaden chest we see at first how much more -quickly than Morocco, Arragon rushes at conclusions. The former becomes -at once thoughtful, and does not pass by even that unattractive metal -without careful pausing. After reading all three mottoes once, he reads -slowly the inscription on the leaden casket again, and begins to repeat -it a second time. He feels thoroughly how much depends on the choice, -and is self-distrustful. Finding that he can gain no suggestion from the -lady, he commends himself for help to the gods before he proceeds. He is -not the man to be daunted by a threat, and thinks he detects in that -very threat a false ring. He is conscious of high motives, but not in -vanity, and he decides, adversely, giving a reason. But Arragon, before -surveying the whole ground, decides at once about the first he sees, and -the summary way in which he dismisses all consideration of the leaden -casket, savors strongly of self-esteem. There is a sort of bravado in -the sudden words without a moment’s pause: “You shall look fairer ere I -give or hazard!” The very use of “shall” with the second person, forces -into view the will of the speaker. He does not turn to Portia. He is -quite capable of directing his own actions without help from any god. - -As Morocco considers the silver, the principal thing that attracts his -attention is its “virgin hue.” (Remark that Arragon under the same -circumstances calls it a “treasure house.”) He again begins thoughtfully -to repeat; and again mark the self-distrust. There is an exquisitely -delicate touch of this in— - - “If thou be’st rated by thy _estimation_, - Thou dost deserve enough.” - -Relying on the judgment of others, rather than on his own, but conscious -too that there is good ground for the estimation in which he knows -himself held, the chivalrous admiration with which he looks up to the -woman he desires, comes in here suddenly with a doubt whether if all -that is thought of him is deserved, it is enough to win a pearl of so -great price. His conscious manhood refuses, however, to weaken itself by -doubting, and he again repeats the clause on which he stopped before. He -goes back to the thought of the estimation in which he is held; he -thinks of his noble birth, of his princely fortune, of his graces, and -qualities of breeding, and enumerating all these, he proves his title to -a better nobility by the sudden thought that the love he bears her is -enough to make him deserve her were she never so precious, and on that, -and that alone, he rests his claim. But before deciding he will read -again from the gold casket, and his exclamations on it are only a -continuation of his previous thought. It seems perfectly plain to him -that this must be the fortunate casket. In his generous love he forgets -himself entirely, and as it were to show her how wholly he believes in -her, he makes his selection here. Why should he be angry at the failure? -He had no self-assertion to be wounded. If he deserved her, it was only -because he loved her; and if he did not deserve her, it was only because -she was more than any one could deserve. - -As Arragon, after passing by the lead, turns to the gold, he begins to -be a little more cautious, and repeats like Morocco. But his mind, -instead of turning at once to Portia as the only prize in the world -wholly desirable, begins from a lofty eminence of superiority to -criticise others whom he calls the “fool multitude.” He will not choose -what many men desire, because he prefers to keep out of the ranks. No -democrat, but a proud aristocrat is he, and so the gold casket is set -aside. After reading from the next, he begins to criticise again. It -seems as if he stood outside of all the world and coolly reviewed it. On -consideration he is quite sure that there is no danger of his losing his -place even if “true honor were purchased by the merit of the wearer,” -and basing his choice on his belief that he deserves success, he orders -peremptorily the opening of the “treasure house.” - -Is it not most natural that with such feelings, such self-complacency, -he should be angry when he finds he has made a mistake? Nothing can be -more galling to a proud spirit than to discover that the estimation set -upon him by others is lower than that he sets upon himself. - -It was not our purpose to compare Bassanio’s comments with the others. -Let us say only that he evidently prizes sincerity above all other -virtues, and prefers a leaden casket that is lead all through, to a -golden one that is gold only on the outside, and so he wins the woman, -who, as she shows us a moment afterwards, is sincere enough to deserve -to be won. - - - - - LEONARDO DA VINCI’S “LAST SUPPER,” - AS TREATED BY GOETHE. - - - [The following extracts from Goethe’s treatment of the master-piece - of Leonardo da Vinci were read at a meeting of the St. Louis Art - Society, pending the discussion of a fine engraving of this - celebrated picture. The MS. kindly presented to us by the translator - we print, in order to give to those unacquainted with the original - an exhibition of Goethe’s thorough manner of penetrating the spirit - of a work of art.—EDITOR.] - - -The Last Supper * * * was painted upon the wall of the monastery _alle -Grazie_, at Milan. The place where the picture is painted must first be -considered, for here the skill of the artist appears in its most -brilliant light. What could be fitter and nobler for a refectory than a -parting meal, which should be an object of reverence to the whole world -for all future time. Several years ago, when travelling, we beheld this -dining-room still undestroyed. Opposite the entrance on the narrow side, -stood the table of the prior, on both sides of him the tables of the -monks, all of which were raised a step from the floor—and when the -visitor turned round, he saw painted on the fourth, above the doors, -which are of but moderate height, a fourth table, and Christ and his -disciples seated at it, as if they belonged to the society. At meal -times it must have been a telling sight, when the tables of the prior -and Christ looked upon each other as two opposite pictures, and the -monks at their places found themselves enclosed between them. And just -on this account the skill of the artist was compelled to take the -existing tables of the monks as a pattern. Also, the table-cloth, with -its folds still visible with its worked stripes and tied corners, was -taken from the wash-room of the monastery. The plates, dishes, cups, and -other vessels, are like those which the monks used. - -Here was no attempt at imitating an uncertain antiquated costume; it -would have been highly improper to stretch out the holy company upon -cushions in this place. No, the picture must be brought near to the -present; Christ must take his last supper with the Dominicans at Milan. -Also, in many other respects, the painting must have produced a great -effect; the thirteen figures about ten feet above the floor, one-half -larger than life-size, take up the space of twenty-eight feet in length. -Only two whole figures can be seen at the opposite ends of the table, -the rest are half-figures; and here, too, the artist found his advantage -in the necessity of the circumstances. Every moral expression belongs to -the upper part of the body, and the feet in such cases are everywhere in -the way. The artist has created here twelve half-figures, whose laps and -knees are covered by the table and table-cloth, but whose feet are -scarcely visible in the modest twilight beneath. Let us now imagine -ourselves in the place; let us consider the moral repose which prevails -in such a monastic dining-hall, and let us admire the artist who has -infused into his picture, powerful emotion, passionate movement, and at -the same time has kept his work within the bounds of Nature, and thus -brings it in close contrast with the nearest reality. - -The means of excitement by which the artist arouses the quiet holy -group, are the words of the Master: “There is one among you who shall -betray me!” They are spoken—the whole company falls into disquiet; but -he inclines his head, with looks cast down; the whole attitude, the -motion of the arms, of the hands, everything repeats with heavenly -submission the unhappy words: Yes, it is not otherwise, there is one -among you who shall betray me! - -Before we go farther, we must point out a happy device whereby Leonardo -principally enlivened his picture; it is the motion of the hands; this -device, however, only an Italian could discover. With his nation, the -whole body is full of animation; every limb participates in the -expression of feeling, of passion, even of thought. By various motions -and forms of the hand, he expresses: “What do I care!—Come hither!—This -is a rogue! beware of him!—He shall not live long!—This is a main -point!—Observe this well, my hearers!” To such a national peculiarity -Leonardo, who observed every characteristic point with the closest -attention, must have turned his careful eye. In this respect, the -present picture is unique, and one can scarcely observe it enough. Every -look and movement perfectly correspond, and at the same time there is a -combined and contrasted position of the limbs, comprehensible at a -glance, and wrought out in the most praiseworthy manner. - -The figures on both sides of the Saviour may be considered by threes, -and each of these again must be thought into a unity, placed in -relation, and still held in connection with its neighbors. First, on the -right side of Christ, are John, Judas, and Peter. Peter the most -distant, in consonance with his violent character, when he hears the -word of the Lord, hastens up behind Judas, who, looking up affrighted, -bends forward over the table, and holds with his right hand firmly -closed, the purse, but with the left makes an involuntary nervous -movement, as if he would say: What’s that? What does that mean? In the -meanwhile Peter has with his left hand seized the right shoulder of -John, who is inclined towards him, and points to Christ, and at the same -time urges the beloved disciple to ask who the traitor is. He strikes a -knife-handle, which he holds in his right hand, inadvertently into the -ribs of Judas, whereby the affrighted forward movement, which upsets the -salt-cellar, is happily brought out. This group may be considered as the -one which was first thought out by the artist; it is the most perfect. - -If now upon the right hand of the Lord immediate vengeance is -threatened, with a moderate degree of motion, there arises upon his left -the liveliest horror and detestation of the treachery. James, the elder, -bends back from fear, extends his arms, stares with his head bowed down -as one who sees before him the monster which he has just heard of. -Thomas peers from behind his shoulder, and approaching the Saviour, -raises the index of his right hand to his forehead. Philip, the third of -this group, rounds it off in the loveliest manner; he has risen, bends -toward the Master, lays his hands upon his breast, and declares with the -greatest clearness: Lord, it is not I! Thou knowest it! Thou seest my -pure heart. It is not I! - -And now, the last three figures of this group give us new material for -thought; they talk with one another about the terrible thing which they -have just heard. Matthew, with a zealous motion, turns his face to the -left toward his two companions; his hands, on the contrary, he stretches -with rapidity towards his master, and thus, by the most ingenious -artifice, unites his own group with the previous one. Thaddeus shows the -most violent surprise, doubt and suspicion; he has laid his left hand -open upon the table, and has raised the right in a manner as if he -intended to strike his left hand with the back of the right—a movement -which one still sees in men of nature when they wish to express at an -unexpected occurrence: Have I not said so? Have I not always supposed -it? Simon sits at the end of the table, full of dignity—we therefore see -his whole figure; he, the eldest of all, is clothed with rich folds; his -countenance and movements show that he is astonished and reflecting, not -excited, scarcely moved. - -If we now turn our eyes to the opposite end of the table, we see -Bartholomew, who stands upon his right foot, with the left crossed over -it; he is supporting his inclined body by resting both hands firmly upon -the table. He listens, probably to hear what John will find out from the -Lord; for, in general, the incitement of the favorite disciple seems to -proceed from this entire side. James, the younger, beside and behind -Bartholomew, lays his left hand upon Peter’s shoulder, just as Peter -lays his upon the shoulder of John, but James does so mildly, seeking -explanation only, whereas Peter already threatens vengeance. - -And thus, as Peter reaches behind Judas, so James the younger reaches -behind Andrew, who, as one of the most important figures, shows with his -half-raised arms, his expanded hands in front, a decided expression of -horror, which appears only once in this picture, while in other works of -less genius, and of less profound thought, it recurs unfortunately only -too often. - - - COPIES GENERALLY. - - -Before we now come to imitations of our painting, of which the number -amounts to about thirty, we must make some reference to the subject of -copies generally. Such did not come into use until everybody confessed -that art had reached its culminating point, whereupon, inferior talents, -looking at the works of the greater masters, despaired of producing by -their own skill anything similar, either in imitation of nature, or from -the idea; and art, which now dwindled into mere handicraft, began to -repeat its own creations. This inability on the part of most of the -artists did not remain a secret to the lovers of art, who, not being -able always to turn to the first masters, called upon and paid inferior -talents, inasmuch as they preferred, in order not to receive something -altogether destitute of skill, to order imitations of recognized works, -with a view to being well served in some degree. This new procedure was -favored, from reasons of illiberality and overhaste by owners no less -than by artists, and art lowered itself advisedly by setting out with -the purpose to copy. - -In the fifteenth century, as well as in the previous one, artists -entertained a high idea of themselves and their art, and did not readily -content themselves with repeating the inventions of others; hence we -find no real copies dating from that period—a circumstance to which -every friend of the history of art will do well to give heed. Inferior -arts no doubt made use of higher patterns for smaller works, as in the -case of _Niello_ and other enamelled work, and, of course, when from -religious or other motives, a repetition was desired, people contented -themselves with an accurate imitation, which only approximately -expressed the movement and action of the original, without paying any -close regard to form and color. Hence in the richest galleries we find -no copy previous to the sixteenth century. - -But now came the time, when, through the agency of a few extraordinary -men—among whom our Leonardo must be reckoned and considered as the -first—art in every one of its parts attained to perfection; people -learned to see and to judge better, and now the desire for imitations of -first-class work was not difficult to satisfy, particularly in those -schools to which large numbers of scholars crowded, and in which the -works of the master were greatly in request. And yet, at that time, this -desire was confined to smaller works which could be easily compared with -the originals and judged. As regards larger works, the case was quite -different at that time from what it was at a later period, because the -original cannot be compared with the copies, and also because such -orders are rare. Thus, then, art, as well as its lovers, contented -itself with copies on a small scale, and a great deal of liberty was -allowed to the copyist, and the results of this arbitrary procedure -showed themselves, in an overpowering degree, in the few cases in which -copies on a large scale were desired. These indeed were generally copies -of copies, and, what is more, generally executed from copies on a -smaller scale, worked out far away from the original, often from mere -drawings, or even perhaps from memory. Job-painters now increased by the -dozen, and worked for lower prices; people made household ornaments of -painting; taste died out; copies increased and darkened the walls of -ante-chambers and stair-cases; hungry beginners lived on poor pay, by -repeating the most important works on every scale; yea, many painters -passed the whole of their lives in simply copying; but even then an -amount of deviation appeared in every copy, either a notion of the -person for whom it was painted, or a whim of the painter, or perhaps a -presumptuous wish to be original. - -In addition to this came the demand for worked tapestry, in which -painting was not content to look dignified, except when tricked out with -gold; and the most magnificent pictures were considered meagre and -wretched, because they were grave and simple; therefore the copyist -introduced buildings and landscapes in the background, ornaments on the -dresses, aureoles or crowns around the heads, and further, strangly -formed children, animals, chimeras, grotesques, and other fooleries. It -often happened, also, that an artist, who believed in his own powers of -invention, received by the will of a client who could not appreciate his -capabilities, a commission to copy another person’s work, and since he -did so with reluctance, he wished to appear original here and there, and -therefore made changes or additions as knowledge, or perhaps vanity, -suggested. Such occurrences took place of course according to the -demands of place and time. Many figures were used for purposes quite -different from those for which they had been intended by their first -producers. Secular subjects were, by means of a few additions, changed -into religious ones; heathen gods and heroes had to submit to be martyrs -and evangelists. Often also, the artist, for instruction or exercise to -himself, had copied some figure from a celebrated work, and now he added -to it something of his own invention in order to turn it into a saleable -picture. Finally, we may certainly ascribe a part of the corruption of -art to the discovery and abuse of copper-plate engravings, which -supplied job-painters with crowds of foreign inventions, so that no one -any longer studied, and painting at last reached such a low ebb that it -got mixed up with mechanical works. In the first place, the copper-plate -engravings themselves were different from the originals, and whoever -copied them multiplied the changes according to his own or other -peoples’ conviction or whim. The same thing happened precisely in the -case of drawings; artists took sketches of the most remarkable subjects -in Rome and Florence, in order to produce arbitrary repetitions of them -when they returned home. - - - COPIES OF THE SUPPER. - - -In view of the above, we shall be able to judge what is to be expected, -more or less, of copies of the Supper, although the earliest were -executed contemporaneously; for the work made a great sensation, and -other monasteries desired similar works. Of the numerous copies -consulted by the author [Vossi] we shall occupy ourselves here with only -three, since the copies at Weimar are taken from them; nevertheless, at -the basis of these lies a fourth, of which, therefore, we must first -speak. _Marco d’Oggiono_, a pupil of Leonardo da Vinci’s, though without -any extensive talent, gained the praise of his school chiefly by his -heads, although in them he is not always equal to himself. About the -year 1510, he executed a copy on a small scale, intending to use it -afterwards for a copy on a larger scale. It was, according to tradition, -not quite accurate; he made it, however, the basis of a larger copy -which is in the now suppressed monastery at Castellazzo, likewise in the -dining-hall of the monks of those days. Everything about it shows -careful work; nevertheless the usual arbitrariness prevails in the -details. And although Vossi has not been able to say much in its praise, -he does not deny that it is a remarkable monument, and that the -character of several of the heads, in which the expression is not -exaggerated, is deserving of praise. Vossi has copied it, and on -comparison of the three copies we shall be able to pronounce judgment -upon it from our own observation. - -A second copy, of which we likewise have the heads copied before us, is -found in fresco on the wall at Ponte Capriasca; it is referred to the -year 1565, and ascribed to Pierro Lovino. Its merits we shall learn in -the sequel; it has the peculiarity that the names of the figures are -written underneath, a piece of foresight which aids us in arriving at a -correct characterization of the different physiognomies. - -The gradual destruction of the original we have described in sufficient -detail, and it was already in a very wretched condition when, in 1612, -Cardinal Frederico Borromeo, a zealous friend of art, endeavored to -prevent the entire loss of the work, and commissioned a Milanese, Andrea -Bianchi, surnamed Vespino, to execute a full-sized copy. This artist -first tried his skill on a few of the heads; being successful in these, -he proceeded and copied the whole of the figures, separately however, -and afterwards put them together with the greatest possible care; the -picture is at present to be found in the Ambrosiana library at Milan, -and lies mainly at the basis of the most recent copy, executed by Vossi. -This was executed on the following occasion. - - - LATEST COPY. - - -The Kingdom of Italy was decreed, and Prince Eugène, following the -example of Luigi Sforza, wished to glorify the beginning of his reign by -patronizing the fine arts. Luigi had ordered a representation of the -Last Supper of Leonardo; Eugène resolved to restore, as far as possible, -the painting that had been going to wreck for three hundred years in a -new picture, which, in order that it might be indestructible, was to be -done in mosaic, for which preparation had been made in an already -existing institution. - -Vossi immediately receives the commission, and commences in the -beginning of May, 1807. He finds it advisable to execute a full-sized -cartoon, takes up anew the studies of his youth, and applies himself -entirely to Leonardo, studies his art-remains and his writings, -particularly the latter, because he is persuaded that a man who has -produced such splendid works must have worked on the most decided and -advantageous principles. He had made drawings of the heads in the copy -at Ponte Capriasca, as well as of some other parts of it, likewise of -the heads and hands of the Castellazzo copy, and of that of Bianchi. -Then he makes drawings of everything coming from Da Vinci himself, and -even of what comes from some of his contemporaries. Moreover he looks -about for all the extant copies, and succeeds in making more or less -acquaintance with twenty-seven; drawings and manuscripts of Da Vinci’s -are kindly sent to him from all quarters. In the working out of his -cartoon, he adheres principally to the Ambrosiana copy; it alone is as -large as the original. Bianchi, by means of thread-nets and transparent -paper, had endeavored to give a most accurate copy of the original, -which, although already very much injured, was not yet painted over. - -In the end of October, 1807, the cartoon is ready; canvass grounded -uniformly in one piece, and the whole immediately sketched out. -Hereupon, in order in some measure to regulate his tints, Vossi painted -the small portion of sky and landscape, which, on account of the depth -and purity of the colors in the original, had still remained fresh and -brilliant. Hereupon he paints the head of Christ and those of the three -apostles at his left, and as for the dresses, he first paints those -about whose colors he had first arrived at certainly, with a view to -selecting the rest according to the principles of the master and his own -taste. Thus he covered the whole of the canvass, guided by careful -reflection, and kept his colors of uniform height and strength. - -Unfortunately, in this damp, deserted place, he was seized with an -illness which compelled him to put a stop to his exertions; -nevertheless, he employed this interval in arranging drawings, -copper-plate engravings, partly with a view to the Supper itself, partly -to other works of the master; at the same time he was favored by -fortune, which brought him a collection of drawings, purporting to come -from Cardinal Cæsar Monti, and containing, among other treasures, -remarkable productions of Leonardo himself. He studied even the authors -contemporaneous with Leonardo, in order to make use of their opinions -and wishes, and looked about him for everything that could further his -design. Thus he took advantage of his sickness, and at last attained -strength to set about his work anew. - -No artist or friend of art will leave unread the account of how he -managed the details, how he thought out the characters of the faces and -their expression, and even the motions of the hands, and how he -represented them. In the same manner he thinks out the dishes, the room, -the back-ground, and shows that he has not decided upon any part without -the strongest reasons. What care he takes about representing the feet -under the table in correct attitudes, because this portion of the -original had long been destroyed, and in the copies had been carelessly -treated! - - * * * * * - -Of the relation of the two copies—the merits of the third can be shown -only to the eye, not to the mind in words—we shall state in a few words -the most essential and most decided points, until we shall be fortunate -enough, as we shall perhaps one day be, to be able to lay copies of -these interesting sheets before the friends of art. - - - COMPARISON. - - -_St. Bartholomew_, manly youth, sharp profile, compressed, clear face, -eyelid and brow pressed down, mouth closed, as if listening with -suspicion, a character completely circumscribed within itself. In -Vespino’s copy no trace of individual characteristic features, a general -kind of drawing-book face, listening with open mouth. Vossi has approved -of this opening of the lips, and retained it, a procedure to which we -should be unable to lend our assent. - -_St. James_ the younger, likewise profile, relationship to Christ -unmistakable, receives from the protruded, slightly opened lips, -something individual, which again cancels this similarity. According to -Vespino, almost an ordinary, academical Christ, the mouth opened rather -in astonishment than in inquiry. Our assertion that Bartholomew must -have his mouth closed, receives support from the fact that his neighbor -has his mouth open. Such a repetition Leonardo would never have endured; -on the contrary, the next figure, - -_St. Andrew_ has his mouth shut. Like persons advanced in life, he -presses the lower lip rather against the upper. In the copy of Marco, -this head has something peculiar, not to be expressed in words; the eyes -are introverted; the mouth, though shut, is still _naïve_. The outline -of the left side against the back ground forms a beautiful silhouette; -enough of the other side of the forehead (eye, nose and beard) is seen -to give the head a roundness and a peculiar life; on the contrary, -Vespino suppresses the left eye altogether, but shows so much of the -left temple and of the side of the beard as to produce in the uplifted -face a full bold expression, which is indeed striking, but which would -seem more suitable to clenched fists than to open hands stretched -forward. - -_Judas_ locked up within himself, frightened, looking anxiously up and -back, profile strongly dented, not exaggerated, by no means an ugly -formation; for good taste would not tolerate any real monster in the -proximity of pure and upright men. Vespino, on the other hand, has -actually represented such a monster, and it cannot be denied that, -regarded by itself, this head has much merit; it expresses vividly a -mischievously bold malignity, and would make itself eminently -conspicuous in a mob triumphing over an _Ecce Homo_, and crying out -“Crucify! crucify!” It might be made to pass for Mephistopheles in his -most devilish moment. But of affright or dread, combined with -dissimulation, indifference and contempt, there is not a trace; the -bristly hair fits in with the _tout ensemble_ admirably; its -exaggeration, however, is matched only by the force and violence of the -rest of Vespino’s heads. - -_St. Peter._—Very problematical features. Even in Marco, it is merely an -expression of pain; of wrath or menace there is no sign; there is also a -certain anxiety expressed, and here Leonardo may not have been at one -even with himself; for cordial sympathy with a beloved master, and -threatening against a traitor, are with difficulty united in one -countenance. Nevertheless, Cardinal Borromeo asserts that he saw such a -miracle in his time. However pleasant it might be to believe this, we -have reason to suppose that the art-loving cardinal expressed his own -feeling rather than what was in the picture; for otherwise we should be -unable to defend our friend Vespino, whose Peter has an unpleasant -expression. He looks like a stern Capuchin monk, whose Lent sermon is -intended to rouse sinners. It is strange that Vespino has given him -bushy hair, since the Peter of Marco shows a beautiful head of short, -curled tresses. - -_St. John_ is represented by Marco in the spirit of Da Vinci; the -beautiful roundish face, somewhat inclined to oval, the hair smooth -towards the top of the head, but curling gently downwards, particularly -where it bends round Peter’s inserted hand, are most lovely; what we see -of the dark of the eye is turned away from Peter—a marvellously fine -piece of observation, in that while he is listening with the intensest -feeling to the secret speech of his neighbor, he turns away his eyes -from him. According to Vespino, he is a comfortable-looking, quiet, -almost sleepy youth, without any trace of sympathy. - -We turn now to the left side of Christ, in order that the figure of the -Saviour may come last in our description. - -_St. Thomas’_ head and right hand, whose upraised fore-finger is bent -slightly toward his brow to imply reflection. This movement, which is so -much in keeping with a person who is suspicious or in doubt, has been -hitherto misunderstood, and a hesitating disciple looked upon as -threatening. In Vespino’s copy, likewise, he is reflective enough, but -as the artist has again left out the retreating right eye, the result is -a perpendicular, monotonous profile, without any remnant of the -protruding, searching elements of the older copies. - -_St. James_ the Elder.—The most violent agitation of the features, the -most gaping mouth, horror in his eye; an original venture of Leonardo’s; -yet we have reason to believe that this head, likewise, has been -remarkably succesful with Marco. The working out is magnificent, whereas -in the copy of Vespino all is lost; attitude, manner, mien, everything -has vanished, and dwindles down into a sort of indifferent generality. - -_St. Philip_, amiable and invaluable, resembles Raffaelle’s youths, -collected on the left side of _The School of Athens_ about Bramante. -Vespino has, unfortunately, again suppressed the right eye, and as he -could not deny that there was something more than profile in the thing, -he has produced an ambiguous, strangely inclined head. - -_St. Matthew_, young, of undesigning nature, with curly hair, an anxious -expression in the slightly opened mouth, in which the teeth, which are -visible, express a sort of slight ferocity in keeping with the violent -movement of the figure. Of all this nothing remains in Vespino; he gazes -before him, stiff and expressionless; one does not receive the remotest -notion of the violent movement of the body. - -_St. Thaddeus_, according to Marco, is likewise quite an invaluable -head; anxiety, suspicion, vexation, are expressed in every feature. The -unity of this agitation of the countenance is extremely fine, and is -entirely in keeping with the movement of the hands which we have already -explained. In Vespino, everything is again reduced to a general level; -he has also made the head still more unmeaning by turning it too much -towards the spectator, whereas, according to Marco, hardly a quarter of -the left side is seen, whereby the suspicious, askance-looking element -is admirably portrayed. - -_St. Simon_ the Elder, wholly in profile, placed opposite the likewise -pure profile of young Matthew. In him the protruding under lip which -Leonardo had such a partiality for in old faces, is most exaggerated; -but, along with the grave, overhanging brow, produces the most wonderful -effect of vexation and reflection, in sharp contrast with the passionate -movement of young Matthew. In Vespino he is a good-natured old man in -his dotage, incapable of taking any interest in even the most important -occurrence that might take place in his presence. - -Having thus now thrown light upon the apostles, we turn to the form of -_Christ_ himself. And here again we are met by the legend, that Leonardo -was unable to finish either Christ or Judas, which we readily believe, -since, from his method, it was impossible for him to put the last touch -to those two extremes of portraiture. Wretched enough, in the original, -after all the darkening processes it had to undergo, may have been the -appearance presented by the features of Christ, which were only -sketched. How little Vespino found remaining, may be gleaned from the -fact that he brought out a colossal head of Christ, quite at variance -with the purpose of Da Vinci, without paying the least attention to the -inclination of the head, which ought of necessity to have been made -parallel with the inclination of John’s. Of the expression we shall say -nothing; the features are regular, good-natured, intelligent, like those -we are accustomed to see in Christ, but without the very smallest -particle of sensibility, so that we should almost be unable to tell what -New Testament story this head would be welcome to. - -We are here met and aided by the circumstance that connoisseurs assert, -that Leonardo himself painted the head of the Saviour at Castellazzo, -and ventured to do in another’s work what he had not been willing to -undertake in his own principal figure. As we have not the original -before us, we must say of the copy that it agrees entirely with the -conception which we form of a noble man whose breast is weighed down by -poignant suffering of soul, which he has endeavored to alleviate by a -familiar word, but has thereby only made matters worse instead of -better. - -By these processes of comparison, then, we have come sufficiently near -the method of this extraordinary artist, such as he has clearly -explained and demonstrated it in writings and pictures, and fortunately -it is in our power to take a step still further in advance. There is, -namely, preserved in the Ambrosiana library a drawing incontestably -executed by Leonardo, upon bluish paper, with a little white and colored -chalk. Of this the chevalier Vossi has executed the most accurate -_fac-simile_, which is also before us. A noble youthful face, drawn from -nature, evidently with a view to the head of Christ at the Supper. Pure, -regular features, smooth hair, the head bent to the left side, the eyes -cast down, the mouth half opened, the _tout ensemble_ brought into the -most marvellous harmony by a slight touch of sorrow. Here indeed we have -only the man who does not conceal a suffering of soul, but the problem, -how, without extinguishing this promise, at the same time to express -sublimity, independence, power, the might of godhead, is one which even -the most gifted earthly pencil might well find hard to solve. In this -youthful physiognomy which hovers between Christ and John, we see the -highest attempt to hold fast by nature when the supermundane is in -question. - - - - - PAUL JANET AND HEGEL.[65] - - - [In the following article the passages quoted are turned into - English, and the original French is omitted for the sake of brevity - and lucid arrangement. As the work reviewed is accessible to most - readers, a reference to the pages from which we quote will answer - all purposes.—EDITOR.] - -Since the death of Hegel in 1831, his philosophy has been making a slow -but regular progress into the world at large. At home in Germany it is -spoken of as having a right wing, a left wing, and a centre; its -disciples are very numerous when one counts such widely different -philosophers as Rosenkrantz, Michelet, Kuno Fischer, Erdmann, J. H. -Fichte, Strauss, Feuerbach, and their numerous followers. Sometimes when -one hears who constitute a “wing” of the Hegelian school, he is reminded -of the “_lucus a non_” principle of naming, or rather of misnaming -things. But Hegelianism has, as we said, made its way into other -countries. In France we have the Æsthetics “partly translated and partly -analyzed,” by Professor Bénard; the logic of the small Encyclopædia, -translated with copious notes, by Professor Vera, who has gone bravely -on, with what seems with him to be a work of love, and given us the -“Philosophy of Nature” and the “Philosophy of Spirit,” and promises us -the “Philosophy of Religion”—all accompanied with abundant introduction -and commentary. We hear of others very much influenced by Hegel: M. -Taine, for example, who writes brilliant essays. In English, too, we -have a translation of the “Philosophy of History,” (in Bohn’s Library;) -a kind of translation and analysis of the first part of the third volume -of the Logic, (Sloman & Wallon, London, 1855); and an extensive and -elaborate work on “The Secret of Hegel,” by James Hutchison Stirling. We -must not forget to mention a translation of Schwegler’s History of -Philosophy—a work drawn principally from Hegel’s labors—by our American -Professor Seelye: and also (just published) a translation of the same -book by the author of the “Secret of Hegel.” Articles treating of Hegel -are to be found by the score—seek them in every text-book on philosophy, -in every general Cyclopædia, and in numerous works written for or -against German Philosophy. Some of these writers tell us in one breath -that Hegel was a man of prodigious genius, and in the next they convict -him of confounding the plainest of all common sense distinctions. Some -of them find him the profoundest of all thinkers, while others cannot -“make a word of sense out of him.” There seems to be a general -understanding in this country and England on one point: all agree that -he was a Pantheist. Theodore Parker, Sir William Hamilton, Mansell, -Morell, and even some of the English defenders of Hegelianism admit -this. Hegel holds, say some, that God is a _becoming_; others say that -he holds God to be _pure being_. These men are careful men -apparently—but only _apparently_, for it must be confessed that if Hegel -has written any books at all, they are, every one of them, devoted to -the task of showing the inadequacy of such abstractions when made the -highest principle of things. - -The ripest product of the great German movement in philosophy, which -took place at the beginning of this century, Hegel’s philosophy is -likewise the concretest system of thought the world has seen. This is -coming to be the conviction of thinkers more and more every day as they -get glimpses into particular provinces of his labor. Bénard thinks the -Philosophy of Art the most wonderful product of modern thinking, and -speaks of the Logic—which he does not understand—as a futile and -perishable production. Another thinks that his Philosophy of History is -immortal, and a third values extravagantly his Philosophy of Religion. -But the one who values his Logic knows how to value all his labors. The -History of Philosophy is the work that impresses us most with the -unparalleled wealth of his thought; he is able to descend through all -history, and give to each philosopher a splendid thought as the centre -of his system, and yet never is obliged to confound different systems, -or fail in showing the superior depth of modern thought. While we are -admiring the depth and clearness of Pythagoras, we are surprised and -delighted to find the great thought of Heraclitus, but Anaxagoras is a -new surprise; the Sophists come before us bearing a world-historical -significance, and Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle lead us successively to -heights such as we had not dreamed attainable by any thinking. - -But thought is no _immediate_ function, like the process of breathing or -sleeping, or fancy-making: it is the profoundest mediation of spirit, -and he who would get an insight into the speculative thinkers of -whatever time, must labor as no mere flesh and blood can labor, but only -as spirit can labor: with agony and sweat of blood. A philosophy which -should explain the great complex of the universe, could hardly be -expected to be transparent to uncultured minds at the first glance. Thus -it happens that many critics give us such discouraging reports upon -their return from a short excursion into the true wonder-land of -philosophy. The Eternal Verities are miraculous only to those eyes which -have gazed long upon them after shutting out the glaring sunlight of the -senses. - -Those who criticise a philosophy must imply a philosophical method of -their own, and thus measure themselves while they measure others. A -literary man who criticises Goethe, or Shakespeare, or Homer, is very -apt to lay himself bare to the shaft of the adversary. There are, -however, in our time, a legion of writers who pass judgment as -flippantly upon a system of the most comprehensive scope—and which they -confess openly their inability to understand—as upon a mere opinion -uttered in a “table-talk.” Even some men of great reputation give -currency to great errors. Sir William Hamilton, in his notes to Reid’s -Philosophy of “Touch,” once quoted the passage from the second part of -Fichte’s _Bestimmung des Menschen_, (wherein onesided idealism is pushed -to its downfall,) in order to show that Fichte’s Philosophy ended in -Nihilism. The _Bestimmung des Menschen_ was a mere popular writing in -which Fichte adopted the Kantian style of exhibiting the self-refutation -of sense and reflection, in order to rest all ultimate truth in the -postulates of the Practical Reason. Accordingly he shows the practical -results of his own system in the third part of the work in question, and -enforces the soundest ethical views of life. He never thought of -presenting his theoretical philosophy in that work. Thus, too, in -Hamilton’s refutation of Cousin and Schelling: he polemicises against -all “Doctrines of the Absolute,” saying that _to think is to limit; -hence to think God would be to determine or limit Him_; and hence is -inferred the impossibility of thinking God as he truly is. This, of -course, is not pushed to its results by his followers, for then its -skeptical tendency would become obvious. Religion demands that we shall -do the Will of God; this Will must, therefore, be known. But, again, -Will is the realization or self-determination of one’s nature—from it -the character proceeds. Thus in knowing God’s will we know his character -or nature. If we cannot do this at all, no religion is possible; and in -proportion as Religion is possible, the Knowledge of God is possible. - -If it be said that the Absolute is unthinkable, in this assertion it is -affirmed that all predicates or categories of thought are inapplicable -to the Absolute, for to think is to predicate of some object, the -categories of thought; and in so far as these categories apply, to that -extent is the Absolute thinkable. Since _Existence_ is a category of -thought, it follows from this position that to predicate existence of -the Absolute is impossible; “a questionable predicament” truly for the -Absolute. According to this doctrine—that all thought is limitation—God -is made Pure Being, or Pure Thought. This is also the result of Indian -Pantheism, and of all Pantheism; this doctrine concerning the mere -negative character of thought, in fact, underlies the Oriental tenet -that consciousness is finitude. To be consistent, all Hamiltonians -should become Brahmins, or, at least, join some sect of modern -Spiritualists, and thus embrace a religion that corresponds to their -dogma. However, let us not be so unreasonable as to insist upon the -removal of inconsistency—it is all the good they have. - -After all this preliminary let us proceed at once to examine the work of -Professor Paul Janet, which we have named at the head of our article: -“_Essai sur la dialectique dans Platon et dans Hegel_.” - -After considering the Dialectic of Plato in its various aspects, and -finding that it rests on the principle of contradiction, M. Janet -grapples Hegel, and makes, in order, the following points: - -I. TERMINOLOGY.—He tells us that the great difficulty that lies in the -way of comprehending German Philosophy is the abstract terminology -employed, which is, in fact, mere scholasticism preserved and applied to -modern problems. No nation of modern times, except the Germans, have -preserved the scholastic form. He traces the obscurity of modern German -philosophy to “Aristotle subtilized by the schools.” This he contrasts -with the “simple and natural philosophy of the Scotch.” [This -“simplicity” arises from the fact that the Scotch system holds that -immediate sensuous knowing is valid. Of course this implies that they -hold that the immediate existence of objects is a true existence—that -whatever is, exists thus and so without any further grounds. This is the -denial of all philosophy, for it utterly ignores any occasion whatever -for it. But it is no less antagonistic to the “natural science” of the -physicist: he, the physicist, finds the immediate object of the senses -to be no permanent or true phase, but only a transitory one; the object -is involved with other beings—even the remotest star—and changes when -they change. It is force and matter (two very abstract categories) that -are to him the permanent and true existence. But force and matter cannot -be seen by the senses; they can only be thought.] Our author proceeds to -trace the resemblance between Hegel and Wolff: both consider and analyze -the pure concepts, beginning with Being. To M. Janet this resemblance -goes for much, but he admits that “Hegel has modified this order (that -of Wolff) and rendered it more systematic.” If one asks “_How_ more -systematic?” he will not find the answer. “The scholastic _form_ is -retained, but not the _thought_,” we are told. That such statements are -put forward, even in a book designed for mere surface-readers may well -surprise us. That the mathematical method of Wolff or Spinoza—a method -which proceeds by definitions and external comparison, holding meanwhile -to the principle of contradiction—that such a method should be -confounded with that of Hegel which proceeds dialectically, i. e. -through the internal movement of the categories to their contradiction -or limit, shows the student of philosophy at once that we are dealing -with a _littérateur_, and not with a philosopher. So far from retaining -the form of Wolff it is the great object of Hegel (see his long prefaces -to the “Logik” and the “Phänomenologie des Geistes”) to supplant that -form by what he considers the true method—that of the _objective_ -itself. The objective method is to be distinguished from the arbitrary -method of external reflection which selects its point of view somewhere -outside of the object considered, and proceeds to draw relations and -comparisons which, however edifying, do not give us any exhaustive -knowledge. It is also to be distinguished from the method of mere -empirical observation which collects without discrimination a mass of -characteristics, accidental and necessary, and never arrives at a -vivifying soul that unites and subordinates the multiplicity. The -objective method seizes somewhat in its definition and traces it through -all the phases which necessarily unfold when the object is placed in the -form of _relation to itself_. An object which cannot survive the process -of self-relation, perishes, i. e. it leads to a more concrete object -which is better able to endure. This method, as we shall presently see, -is attributed to Plato by M. Janet. - -The only resemblance that remains to be noted between the scholastics -and Hegel is this: they both treat of subtle distinctions in thought, -while our modern “common sense” system goes only so far as to -distinguish very general and obvious differences. This is a questionable -merit, and the less ado made about it by such as take pride in it, the -better for them. - -Our author continues: “The principal difficulty of the system of Kant is -our ignorance of the ancient systems of logic. The Critique of Pure -Reason is modelled on the scholastic system.” Could we have a more -conclusive refutation of this than the fact that the great professors of -the ancient systems grossly misunderstand Kant, and even our essayist -himself mistakes the whole purport of the same! Hear him contrast Kant -with Hegel: “Kant sees in Being only the form of Thought, while Hegel -sees in Thought only the form of Being.” This he says is the great -difference between the Germans and French, interpreting it to mean: -“that the former pursues the route of deduction, and the latter that of -experience”! - -He wishes to consider Hegel under three heads: 1st, The Beginning; 2d, -the dialectical deduction of the Becoming, and 3d, the term Dialectic. - -II. THE BEGINNING.—According to M. Janet, Hegel must have used this -syllogism in order to find the proper category with which to commence -the Logic. - -(a) The Beginning should presuppose nothing; - -(b) Pure Being presupposes nothing; - -(c) Hence Pure Being is the Beginning. - -This syllogism he shows to be inconclusive: for there are two -beginnings, (a) in the order of knowledge, (b) in the order of -existence. Are they the same? He answers: “No, the thinking -being—because it thinks—knows itself before it knows the being which it -thinks.” Subject and object being identical in that act, M. Janet in -effect says, “it thinks itself before it thinks itself”—an argument that -the scholastics would hardly have been guilty of! The beginning is -really made, he says, with internal or external _experience_. He quotes -(page 316) from Hegel a passage asserting that _mediation_ is essential -to knowing. This he construes to mean that “the determined or concrete -(the world of experience) is the essential condition of knowing!” -Through his misapprehension of the term “mediation,” we are prepared for -all the errors that follow, for “mediation in knowing” means with Hegel -that it involves a _process_, and hence can be true only in the form of -a system. The “internal and external experience” appertains to what -Hegel calls immediate knowing. It is therefore not to be wondered at -that M. Janet thinks Hegel contradicts himself by holding Pure Being to -be the Beginning, and afterwards affirming mediation to be necessary. He -says (page 317), “In the order of knowing it is the mediate which is -necessarily first, while in the order of existence the immediate is the -commencement.” Such a remark shows him to be still laboring on the first -problem of Philosophy, and without any light, for no _Speculative_ -Philosopher (like Plato, Aristotle, Leibnitz, or Hegel) ever held that -Pure Being—or the immediate—is the first in the order of existence, but -rather that God or Spirit (self-thinking, “pure act,” Νοῦς, “Logos,” -&c.) is the first in the order of existence. In fact, M. Janet praises -Plato and Aristotle for this very thing at the end of his volume, and -thereby exhibits the unconsciousness of his procedure. Again, “The pure -thought is the end of philosophy, and not its beginning.” If he means by -this that the culture of consciousness ends in arriving at pure thought -or philosophy, we have no objection to offer, except to the limiting of -the application of the term Philosophy to its preliminary stage, which -is called the Phenomenology of Spirit. The arrival at pure thought marks -the beginning of the use of terms in a universal sense, and hence is the -beginning of philosophy proper. But M. Janet criticises the distinction -made by Hegel between Phenomenology and Psychology, and instances Maine -de Biran as one who writes Psychology in the sense Hegel would write -Phenomenology. But M. Biran merely manipulates certain unexplained -phenomena,—like the Will, for example—in order to derive categories like -force, cause, &c. But Hegel shows in his Phenomenology the dialectical -unfolding of consciousness through all its phases, starting from the -immediate certitude of the senses. He shows how certitude becomes -knowledge of truth, and wherein it differs from it. But M. Janet (p. -324) thinks that Hegel’s system, beginning in empirical Psychology, -climbs to pure thought, “and then draws up the ladder after it.” - -III. THE BECOMING.—We are told by the author that consciousness -determining itself as Being, determines itself as _a_ being, and not as -_the_ being. If this be so we cannot think _pure being_ at all. Such an -assertion amounts to denying the universal character of the Ego. If the -position stated were true, we could think neither being nor any other -object. - -On page 332, he says, “This contradiction (of Being and non-being) which -in the ordinary logic would be the negative of the _posited notion_, is, -in the logic of Hegel, only an excitant or stimulus, which somehow -determines spirit to find a third somewhat in which it finds the other -conciliated.” He is not able to see any procedure at all. He sees the -two opposites, and thinks that Hegel empirically hunts out a concept -which implies both, and substitutes it for them. M. Janet thinks (pp. -336-7) that Hegel has exaggerated the difficulties of conceiving the -identity of Being and nought. (p. 338) “If the difference of Being and -nought can be neither expressed nor defined, if they are as identical as -different—if, in short, the idea of Being is only the idea of the pure -void, I will say, not merely that Being transforms itself into Nothing, -or passes into its contrary; I will say that there are not two -contraries, but only one term which I have falsely called Being in the -thesis, but which is in reality only Non-being without restriction—the -pure zero.” He quotes from Kuno Fischer (p. 340) the following remarks -applicable here: - - “If Being were in reality the pure void as it is ordinarily taken, - Non-being would not express the same void a second time; but it - would then be the non-void, i. e. the abhorrence of the void, or the - immanent contradiction of the void.”—(and again from his “Logik und - Metaphysik” II. § 29): “The logical Being contradicts itself; for - thought vanishes in the immovable repose of Being. But as Being - comes only from thought (for it is the act of thought), it - contradicts thus itself in destroying thought. Consequently thought - manifests itself as the negation of Being—that is to say, as - _Non-being_. The Non-being (logical) is not the total suppression of - Being—the pure zero—it is not the mathematical opposition of Being - to itself as a negative opposed to a positive, but it is the - dialectical negative of itself, the immanent contradiction of Being. - Being contradicts itself, hence is Non-being, and in the concept of - Non-being, thought discovers the immanent contradiction of - Being—thought manifests itself at first as Being, and in turn the - logical Being manifests itself as Non-being; thought can hence say, - “I am the Being which is not.” - -“Such,” continues our author, “is the deduction of M. Fischer. It seems -to me very much inferior in clearness to that of Hegel.” How he could -say this is very mysterious when we find him denying all validity to -Hegel’s demonstration. Although Fischer’s explanation is mixed—partly -dialectical and partly psychological—yet, as an explanation, it is -correct. But as psychology should not be dragged into Logic, which is -the evolution of the forms of pure thinking, we must hold strictly to -the dialectic if we would see the “Becoming.” The psychological -explanation gets no further than the relation of Being and nought as -concepts. The Hegelian thought on this point is not widely different -from that of Gorgias, as given us by Sextus Empiricus, nor from that of -Plato in the Sophist. Let us attempt it here: - -Being is the pure simple; as such it is considered under the form of -self-relation. But as it is wholly undetermined, and has no content, it -is pure nought or absolute negation. As such it is the negation by -itself or the negation of itself, and hence its own opposite or Being. -Thus the simple falls through self-opposition into duality, and this -again becomes simple if we attempt to hold it asunder, or give it any -validity by itself. Thus if Being is posited as having validity in and -by itself without determination, (_omnis determinatio est negatio_), it -becomes a pure void in nowise different from nought, for difference is -determination, and neither Being nor nought possess it. What is the -validity of the nought? A negative is a relative, and a negative by -itself is a negative related to itself, which is a self-cancelling. Thus -Being and nought, posited objectively as having validity, prove -dissolving forms and pass over into each other. Being is a _ceasing_ and -nought is a _beginning_, and these are the two forms of _Becoming_. The -Becoming, dialectically considered, proves itself inadequate likewise. - -IV. THE DIALECTIC.—To consider an object dialectically we have merely to -give it universal validity; if it contradicts itself then, _we_ are not -in anywise concerned for the result; we will simply stand by and accept -the result, without fear that the true will not appear in the end. The -negative turned against itself makes short work of itself; it is only -when the subjective reflection tries to save it by hypotheses and -reservations that a merely negative result is obtained. - -(Page 369): “In Spinozism the development of Being is Geometric; in the -System of Hegel it is organic.” What could have tempted him to use these -words, it is impossible to say, unless it was the deep-seated national -proclivity for epigrammatic statements. This distinction means nothing -less (in the mouth of its original author) than what we have already -given as the true difference between Wolff’s and Hegel’s methods; but M. -Janet has long since forgotten his earlier statements. (Page 369) He -says, “Hegel’s method is a faithful expression of the movement of -nature,” from which he thinks Hegel derived it empirically! - -On page 372 he asks: “Who proves to us that the dialectic stops at -_Spirit_ as its last term? Why can I not conceive a spirit absolutely -superior to mine, in whom the identity between subject and object, the -intelligible and intelligence would be more perfect than it is with this -great Philosopher [Hegel]? ***** In fact, every philosopher is a man, -and so far forth is full of obscurity and feebleness.” Spirit is the -last term in philosophy for the reason that it stands in complete -self-relation, and hence contains its antithesis within itself; if it -could stand in opposition to anything else, then it would contain a -contradiction, and be capable of transition into a higher. M. Janet asks -in effect: “Who proves that the dialectic stops at God as the highest, -and why cannot I conceive a higher?” Judging from his attempt at -understanding Hegel, however, he is not in a fair way to conceive “a -spirit in whom the identity between subject and object” is more perfect -than in Hegel. “What hinders” is his own culture, his own self; “_Du -gleichst dem Geist den du begreifst, nicht mir_,” said the World-spirit -to Faust. - -He asks, (p. 374): “When did the ‘pure act’ commence?” From Eternity; it -always commences, and is always complete, says Hegel. “According to -Hegel, God is made from nought, by means of the World.” Instead of this, -Hegel holds that God is self-created, and the world eternally created by -him (the Eternally-begotten Son). “What need has God of Nature?” God is -Spirit; hence conscious; hence he makes himself an object to himself; in -this act he creates nature; hence Nature is His reflection. (P. 386): -“The Absolute in Hegel is spirit only on condition that it thinks, and -thinks _itself_; hence it is not _essentially_ Spirit, but only -_accidentally_.” To “_think itself_” is to be conscious, and, without -this, God would have no personality; and hence if Hegel were to hold any -other doctrine than the one attributed to him, he would be a Pantheist. -But these things are not mere dogmas with Hegel; they appear as the -logical results of the most logical of systems. “But in Plato, God is a -Reason _in activity_, a living thought.” M. Janet mentions this to show -Plato’s superiority; he thinks that it is absurd for Hegel to attribute -_thinking_ to God, but thinks the same thing to be a great merit in -Plato. (P. 392): “Behold the Platonic deduction [or dialectic]: being -given a pure idea, he shows that this idea, if it were _all alone_, [i. -e. made universal, or placed in self-relation, or posited as valid for -itself,] would be contradictory of itself, and consequently could not -be. Hence, if it exists, it is on condition that it mingles with another -idea. Take, for example, the multiple: by itself, it loses itself in the -indiscernible, for it would be impossible without unity.” This would do -very well for a description of the Dialectic in Hegel if he would lay -more stress on the positive side of the result. Not merely does the -“pure idea mingle with another”—i. e. pass over to its opposite—but it -_returns_ into itself by the continuation of its own movement, and -thereby reaches a concrete stage. Plato sometimes uses this complete -dialectical movement, and ends affirmatively; sometimes he uses only the -partial movement and draws negative conclusions. - -How much better M. Janet’s book might have been—we may be allowed to -remark in conclusion—had he possessed the earnest spirit of such men as -Vera and Hutchison Stirling! Stimulated by its title, we had hoped to -find a book that would kindle a zeal for the study of the profoundest -philosophical subject, as treated by the profoundest of thinkers. - -Footnote 65: - - “Essai sur la dialectique dans Platon et dans Hegel,” par Paul Janet, - Membre de L’Institut, professeur à la Faculté des lettres de - Paris.—Paris, (Ladrange,) 1860. - - - - - ● Transcriber’s Notes: - ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). - Text that was in bold face is enclosed by equals signs (=bold=). - ○ Footnotes have been moved to follow the articles in which they are - referenced. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE -PHILOSOPHY, VOL. 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