The Journal of Speculative Philosophy, Vol. I, Nos. 1-4, 1867
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Title: The Journal of Speculative Philosophy, Vol. I, Nos. 1-4, 1867

Author: Various

Editor: William Torrey Harris

Release date: April 17, 2021 [eBook #65097]

Language: English

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*** 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 Æsthetics (translation). | Jas. A. Martling. | 36, 91, 169, 221
Dialogue on Music. | E. Sobolowski. | 224
Editorials. | Editor. | 127
Fichte’s Introduction to the Science of Knowledge (translation). | A. E. Kroeger. | 23
Criticism of Philosophical Systems (translation). | A. E. Kroeger. | 79, 137
Genesis. | A. Bronson Alcott. | 165
Goethe’s Theory of Colors. | Editor. | 63
Essay on Da Vinci’s “Last Supper” (translation). | D. J. Snider & T. Davidson. | 242
Herbert Spencer. | Editor. | 6
Introduction to Philosophy. | Editor. | 57, 114, 187, 236
In the Quarry. | Anna C. Brackett. | 192
Leibnitz’s Monadology (translation). | F. H. Hedge. | 129
Letters on Faust. | H. C. Brockmeyer. | 178
Metaphysics of Materialism. | D. G. Brinton. | 176
Music as a Form of Art. | Editor. | 120
Notes on Milton’s Lycidas. | Anna C. Brackett. | 87
Paul Janet and Hegel. | Editor. | 250
Philosophy of Baader (translation from Dr. Hoffmann). | A. Strothotte. | 190
Raphael’s Transfiguration. | Editor. | 53
Schelling’s Introduction to Idealism (translation). | Tom Davidson. | 159
“ ” “ the Philosophy of Nature (transl’n). | Tom Davidson. | 193
Schopenhauer’s Dialogue on Immortality (translation). | C. L. Bernays. | 61
” Doctrine of the Will (translation). | C. L. Bernays. | 232
Seed Life. | Anna C. Brackett. | 60
Second Part of Goethe’s Faust (translation). | D. J. Snider. | 65
“The Speculative.” | Editor. | 2
Thought on Shakespeare, A | Anna C. Brackett. | 240
To the Reader. | Editor. | 1

THE JOURNAL 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.]

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.

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.

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 acting; if you but think it as an active, 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.

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.

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.

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.]

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 eb, g, bb wherewith the bass solemnly introduced the third symphony (Eroica), and his inversions in the Scherzo bb, eb, g, bb, 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 | bb bb. 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.

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.

Footnotes

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.

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.)

3.  Primitifs.

4.  i. e., Accidental causes.

5.  Unique.

6.  Critique of Practical Reason; Critique of the Power of Judgment; and Critique of a Pure Doctrine of Religion.—Translator.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.”]

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.

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.

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.

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.

23.  Hence wherever the antithesis is cancelled or deranged, the metamorphosis becomes irregular. For what is disease even but metamorphosis?—Remark of the Original.

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.

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.

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.

27.  For it is the only thing that is given us to derive all other things from.

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.

29.  That is, distribution exists only, when the antithesis in a product is not absolutely but only relatively cancelled.

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.

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.

32.  Baader on the Pythagorean Square. 1798. (Remark of the original.)

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.)

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.

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.

36.  Every body must be thought as reproduced at every step—and therefore also every total product.

37.  The universal, however, is never perceived, for the simple reason that it is universal.

38.  Whereby what was said above is confirmed,—that falling toward the centre is a compound motion.

39.  The reciprocal cancelling of opposite motions.

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.

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.

42.  If we designate the factors as + and - electricity, then, in the second stage, + electricity had a relative preponderance over - electricity.

43.  If no longer the individual factors of the two products, but the whole products themselves are absolutely opposed to each other.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.]

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.

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.)

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.

53.  That is, the organic product can be thought only as subsisting under the hostile pressure of an external nature.

54.  The chemical process, too, has not substrateless or simple factors; it has products for factors.

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.)

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.)

57.  The two factors can never be one, but must be separated into different products—in order that thus the difference may be permanent.

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.)

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.

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.)

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.)

62.  Compare above Remark, p. 197. (Remark of the original.)

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.

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.

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:

- Footnotes have been collected at the end of the text, and are linked for ease of reference.

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Table of Contents

The Journal of Speculative Philosophy, Vol. I.

PREFACE.

CONTENTS.

THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY. Vol. I. 1867. No. 1.

- TO THE READER.

- THE SPECULATIVE.

- HERBERT SPENCER.

- CHAPTER I. THE CRISIS IN NATURAL SCIENCE.

- CHAPTER II. THE “FIRST PRINCIPLES” OF THE “UNKNOWABLE.”

- THE UNKNOWABLE.

- Infinite Progress.

- Essence and Phenomenon.

- CHAPTER III. THE “FIRST PRINCIPLES” OF THE “KNOWABLE.”

- THE KNOWABLE.

- THE CORRELATION OF FORCES.

- PSYCHOLOGY.

- ONTOLOGY.

- THEOLOGY.

- COSMOLOGY.

- INTRODUCTION TO FICHTE’S SCIENCE OF KNOWLEDGE. TRANSLATED BY A. E. KROEGER.

- PRELIMINARY REMARKS.

- INTRODUCTION.

- ANALYTICAL AND CRITICAL ESSAY UPON THE ÆSTHETICS OF HEGEL. [Translated from the French of M. Ch. Bénard by J. A. Martling.]

- ANALYSIS.

- PART I. OF THE BEAUTIFUL IN ART.

- NOTES ON RAPHAEL’S “TRANSFIGURATION.”

- I. THE ENGRAVING.

- II. HISTORICAL.

- III. LEGEND.

- IV. CHARACTERIZATION.

- V. ORGANIC UNITY.

- VI. SENSE AND REASON VS. UNDERSTANDING.

- VII. ROMANTIC vs. CLASSIC.

- INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY. CHAPTER I.

- I.—A PRIORI AND A POSTERIORI.

- II.—ANALYTICAL AND SYNTHETICAL.

- III.—APODEICTICAL.

- IV. SPACE AND TIME.

- V. MIND.

- SEED LIFE. BY E. V.

- A DIALOGUE ON IMMORTALITY. BY ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER. (Translated from the German, by Chas. L. Bernays.)

- GOETHE’S THEORY OF COLORS. From an exposition given before the St. Louis Philosophical Society, Nov. 2nd, 1866.

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.]

- A CRITICISM OF PHILOSOPHICAL SYSTEMS. [Translated from the German of J. G. Fichte, by A. E. Kroeger.]

- III.

- IV.

- NOTES ON MILTON’S LYCIDAS. BY ANNA C. BRACKETT.

- 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.

- I. Of Symbolic Art.

- Of the Reflex Symbol.

- II. Of Classic Art.

- III. Of Romantic Art.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- I.

- II.

- III.

- IV.

- V.

- CHAPTER IV.

- I.

- II.

- III.

- MUSIC AS A FORM OF ART. [Read before the St. Louis Art Society, February, 1867.]

- I. Upon Art-Criticism.

- II. Upon the Interpretation of Art.

- III. Beethoven’s Sonata in C sharp minor. (Opus 27, No. 2.)

- Adagio.

- Allegretto.

- Finale (Presto agitato).

- IV. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, (Part II.)

- THE ALCHEMISTS. [“Remarks upon Alchemy and the Alchemists, showing that the Philosopher’s Stone was a Symbol.”—Published by James Miller, New York, 1867.]

- EDITORIALS.

- ORIGINALITY.

- CONTENTS OF THE JOURNAL.

- STYLE.

THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY. Vol. I. 1867. No. 3.

- THE MONADOLOGY. [Translated from the French of Leibnitz, by F. H. Hedge.]

- A CRITICISM OF PHILOSOPHICAL SYSTEMS. [Translated from the German of J. G. Fichte, by A. E. Kroeger.]

- I.

- VII.

- VIII.

- IX.

- X.

- XI.

- XII.

- INTRODUCTION TO IDEALISM. [From the German of Schelling. Translated by Tom Davidson.]

- I.—IDEA OF TRANSCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHY.

- II.—COROLLARIES.

- III.—PRELIMINARY ARRANGEMENT OF TRANSCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHY.

- IV.—ORGAN OF TRANSCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHY.

- GENESIS. By A. Bronson Alcott.

- I.—VESTIGES.

- II.—THE DEUCE.

- III.—SERPENT SYMBOL.

- IV.—EMBRYONS.

- V.—PROMETHEUS.

- VI.—IDEAL METHOD.

- VII.—DIALOGIC.

- ANALYSIS OF HEGEL’S ÆSTHETICS. Translated from the French of Ch. Benard, by J. A. Martling.

- Part III. System of the Particular Arts.

- THE METAPHYSICS OF MATERIALISM. By D. G. Brinton.

- LETTERS ON FAUST. By H. C. Brockmeyer.

- I.

- II.

- III.

- IV.

- V.

- INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY.

- CHAPTER V. NECESSITY, CHANCE, FREEDOM. I.

- II.

- III.

- IV.

- V.

- VI.

- VII.

- CHAPTER VI. OF MEDIATION.

- ABSTRACTION.

- IMMEDIATE KNOWING.

- THE PHILOSOPHY OF BAADER.

- IN THE QUARRY. By A. C. B.

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.

- II. SCIENTIFIC CHARACTER OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY.

- III. NATURAL PHILOSOPHY IS SPECULATIVE PHYSICS.

- IV. ON THE POSSIBILITY OF SPECULATIVE PHYSICS.

- V. OF A SYSTEM OF SPECULATIVE PHYSICS GENERALLY.

- VI. INTERNAL ORGANIZATION OF THE SYSTEM OF SPECULATIVE PHYSICS.

- 1.

- 2.

- 3.

- 4.

- A.

- B.[24]

- GENERAL REMARK.

- C.

- ANALYSIS OF HEGEL’S ÆSTHETICS. [Translated from the French of M. Ch. Benard, by J. A. Martling.]

- A DIALOGUE ON MUSIC. By Edward Sobolewski.

- SCHOPENHAUER’S DOCTRINE OF THE WILL. Translated from the German, by C. L. Bernays.

- INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY.

- CHAPTER VII. COMPREHENSION AND IDEA. I.

- II.

- CHAPTER VIII. WHAT IS THE TRUE ACTUAL? I.—Reality and Potentiality.

- II.—Actuality.

- III.—The Actual is the Rational.

- IV.—“The Form of Eternity.”

- A THOUGHT ON SHAKESPEARE. By Anna C. Brackett.

- LEONARDO DA VINCI’S “LAST SUPPER,” As treated by Goethe.

- COPIES GENERALLY.

- COPIES OF THE SUPPER.

- LATEST COPY.

- COMPARISON.

- PAUL JANET AND HEGEL.[65]

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