The Journal of Speculative Philosophy, Vol. I.
THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY.
VOL. I.
EDITED BY WM. T. HARRIS.
ST. LOUIS, MO.:
GEORGE KNAPP & CO., PRINTERS AND BINDERS.
1867.
KRAUS REPRINT CO.
New York
1968
KRAUS REPRINT CO.
A U.S. Division of Kraus-Thomson Organization Limited
Printed in Germany
Lessingdruckerei in Wiesbaden
PREFACE.
In concluding the first volume of this Journal, the editor wishes to say
a few things regarding its contents, even at the risk of repeating, in
some cases, what has already been said. He hopes that his judgment in
the selection of articles will be, in the main, approved. In so novel an
undertaking it is not to be expected that the proper elevation and range
will be found at once. But the editor thinks that he has acquired some
valuable experience that will aid him in preparing the second volume.
The reader will notice, upon looking over the table of contents, that
about one-third of the articles relate to Art, and hence recommend
themselves more especially to those who seek artistic culture, and wish
at the same time to have clear conceptions regarding it.
It is, perhaps, a mistake to select so little that bears on physical
science, which is by far the most prominent topic of interest at the
present day. In order to provide for this, the editor hopes to print in
the next volume detailed criticisms of the “Positive Philosophy,”
appreciating its advantages and defects of method and system. The
“Development Theory,” the “Correlation of Physical, Vital and Mental
Forces,” the abstract theories in our text-books on Natural Philosophy,
regarding the nature of attraction, centrifugal and centripetal forces,
light, heat, electricity, chemical elements, &c., demand the
investigation of the speculative thinker. The exposition of Hegel’s
Phenomenology of Spirit will furnish pertinent thoughts relating to
method.
While the large selection of translations has met with approval from
very high sources, yet there has been some disappointment expressed at
the lack of original articles. Considerably more than half of the
articles have been original entirely, while all the translations are
new. The complaint, however, relates more especially to what its authors
are pleased to call the Un-American character of the contents of the
Journal. Here the editor feels like pleading ignorance as an excuse.—In
what books is one to find the true “American” type of Speculative
Philosophy? Certain very honorable exceptions occur to every one, but
they are not American in a popular sense. We, as a people, buy immense
editions of John Stuart Mill, Herbert Spencer, Comte, Hamilton, Cousin,
and others; one can trace the appropriation and digestion of their
thoughts in all the leading articles of our Reviews, Magazines and books
of a thoughtful character. If this is American philosophy, the editor
thinks that it may be very much elevated by absorbing and digesting more
refined aliment. It is said that of Herbert Spencer’s works nearly
twenty thousand have been sold in this country, while in England
scarcely the first edition has been bought. This is encouraging for the
American thinker: what lofty spiritual culture may not become broadly
and firmly rooted here where thoughtful minds are so numerous? Let this
spirit of inquiry once extend to thinkers like Plato and Aristotle,
Schelling and Hegel—let these be digested and organically reproduced—and
what a phalanx of American thinkers we may have to boast of! For after
all it is not “American _thought_” so much as American _thinkers_ that
we want. To _think_, in the highest sense, is to transcend all _natural
limits_—such, for example, as national peculiarities, defects in
culture, distinctions in Race, habits, and modes of living—to be
_universal_, so that one can dissolve away the external hull and seize
the substance itself. The peculiarities stand in the way;—were it not
for these, we should find in Greek or German Philosophy just the forms
we ourselves need. Our province as _Americans_ is to rise to purer forms
than have hitherto been attained, and thus speak a “solvent word” of
more potency than those already uttered. If this be the goal we aim at,
it is evident that we can find no other means so well adapted to rid us
of our own idiosyncracies as the study of the greatest thinkers of all
ages and all times. May this Journal aid such a consummation!
In conclusion, the editor would heartily thank all who have assisted him
in this enterprise, by money and cheering words; he hopes that they will
not withdraw in the future their indispensable aid. To others he owes
much for kind assistance rendered in preparing articles for the printer.
Justice demands that special acknowledgment should be made here of the
services of Miss Anna C. Brackett, whose skill in proof-reading, and
subtle appreciation of philosophic thought have rendered her editorial
assistance invaluable.
ST. LOUIS, _December, 1867_.
CONTENTS.
Alchemists, The _Editor._ 126
Bénard’s Essay on Hegel’s _Jas. A. 36,
Æsthetics (translation). Martling._ 91,
169,
221
Dialogue on Music. _E. 224
Sobolowski._
Editorials. _Editor._ 127
Fichte’s Introduction to the _A. E. 23
Science of Knowledge Kroeger._
(translation).
Criticism of Philosophical _A. E. 79,
Systems (translation). Kroeger._ 137
Genesis. _A. Bronson 165
Alcott._
Goethe’s Theory of Colors. _Editor._ 63
Essay on Da Vinci’s “Last _D. J. 242
Supper” (translation). Snider & T.
Davidson._
Herbert Spencer. _Editor._ 6
Introduction to Philosophy. _Editor._ 57,
114,
187,
236
In the Quarry. _Anna C. 192
Brackett._
Leibnitz’s Monadology _F. H. 129
(translation). Hedge._
Letters on Faust. _H. C. 178
Brockmeyer._
Metaphysics of Materialism. _D. G. 176
Brinton._
Music as a Form of Art. _Editor._ 120
Notes on Milton’s Lycidas. _Anna C. 87
Brackett._
Paul Janet and Hegel. _Editor._ 250
Philosophy of Baader _A. 190
(translation from Dr. Strothotte._
Hoffmann).
Raphael’s Transfiguration. _Editor._ 53
Schelling’s Introduction to _Tom 159
Idealism (translation). Davidson._
“ ” “ the _Tom 193
Philosophy of Nature Davidson._
(transl’n).
Schopenhauer’s Dialogue on _C. L. 61
Immortality (translation). Bernays._
” Doctrine of the _C. L. 232
Will (translation). Bernays._
Seed Life. _Anna C. 60
Brackett._
Second Part of Goethe’s Faust _D. J. 65
(translation). Snider._
“The Speculative.” _Editor._ 2
Thought on Shakespeare, A _Anna C. 240
Brackett._
To the Reader. _Editor._ 1
THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY.
Vol. I. 1867. No. 1.
TO THE READER.
For the reason that a journal devoted exclusively to the interests of
Speculative Philosophy is a rare phenomenon in the English language,
some words may reasonably be expected from the Editors upon the scope
and design of the present undertaking.
There is no need, it is presumed, to speak of the immense religious
movements now going on in this country and in England. The tendency to
break with the traditional, and to accept only what bears for the soul
its own justification, is widely active, and can end only in the demand
that Reason shall find and establish a philosophical basis for all those
great ideas which are taught as religious dogmas. Thus it is that side
by side with the naturalism of such men as Renan, a school of mystics is
beginning to spring up who prefer to ignore utterly all historical
wrappages, and cleave only to the speculative kernel itself. The vortex
between the traditional faith and the intellectual conviction cannot be
closed by renouncing the latter, but only by deepening it to speculative
insight.
Likewise it will be acknowledged that the national consciousness has
moved forward on to a new platform during the last few years. The idea
underlying our form of government had hitherto developed only one of its
essential phases—that of brittle individualism—in which national unity
seemed an external mechanism, soon to be entirely dispensed with, and
the enterprise of the private man or of the corporation substituted for
it. Now we have arrived at the consciousness of the other essential
phase, and each individual recognizes his substantial side to be the
State as such. The freedom of the citizen does not consist in the mere
Arbitrary, but in the realization of the rational conviction which finds
expression in established law. That this new phase of national life
demands to be digested and comprehended, is a further occasion for the
cultivation of the Speculative.
More significant still is the scientific revolution, working out
especially in the domain of physics. The day of simple empiricism is
past, and with the doctrine of “Correlation of forces” there has arisen
a stage of reflection that deepens rapidly into the purely speculative.
For the further elucidation of this important point the two following
articles have been prepared. It is hoped that the first one will answer
more definitely the question now arising in the mind of the reader,
“What is this Speculative Knowing of which you speak?” and that the
second one will show whither Natural Science is fast hastening.
With regard to the pretensions of this Journal, its editors know well
how much its literary conduct will deserve censure and need apology.
They hope that the substance will make up in some degree for
deficiencies in form; and, moreover, they expect to improve in this
respect through experience and the kind criticisms of friends.
THE SPECULATIVE.
“We need what Genius is unconsciously seeking, and, by some daring
generalization of the universe, shall assuredly discover, a
spiritual calculus, a _Novum Organon_, whereby nature shall be
divined in the soul, the soul in God, matter in spirit, polarity
resolved into unity; and that power which pulsates in all life,
animates and builds all organizations, shall manifest itself as one
universal deific energy, present alike at the outskirts and centre
of the universe, whose centre and circumference are one; omniscient,
omnipotent, self-subsisting, uncontained, yet containing all things
in the unbroken synthesis of its being.”—(“CALCULUS,” _one of
Alcott’s “Orphic Sayings.”_)
At the end of the sixth book of Plato’s Republic, after a
characterization of the two grades of sensuous knowing and the grade of
the understanding, “which is obliged to set out from hypotheses, for the
reason that it does not deal with principles but only with results,” we
find the speculative grade of knowing characterized as “that in which
the soul, setting out from an hypothesis, proceeds to an unhypothetical
principle, and makes its way without the aid of [sensuous] images, but
solely through ideas themselves.” The mathematical procedure which
begins by hypothecating definitions, axioms, postulates, and the like,
which it never examines nor attempts to deduce or prove, is the example
given by Plato of the method of the Understanding, while he makes the
speculative Reason “to posit hypotheses by the Dialectic, _not as fixed
principles_, but only as starting points, in order that, by removing
them, it may arrive at the unhypothetical—the principle of the
universe.”
This most admirable description is fully endorsed by Aristotle, and
firmly established in a two-fold manner:
1. In the Metaphysics (xi. 7) he shows ontologically, starting with
_motion_ as an hypothesis, that the _self-moved_ is the first principle;
and this he identifies with the speculative, and the being of God.
2. In the _De Anima_ (iii. 5-8) he distinguishes psychologically the
“active intellect” as the highest form of knowing, as that which is its
own object, (subject and object,) and hence as containing its own end
and aim in itself—as being infinite. He identifies this with the
Speculative result, which he found ontologically as the Absolute.
Spinoza in his Ethics (Prop. xl. Schol. ii., and Prop, xliv., Cor. ii.
of Part II.) has well described the Speculative, which he names
“_Scientia intuitiva_,” as the thinking of things under the form of
eternity, (_De natura rationis est res sub quadam specie æternitatis
percipere._)
Though great diversity is found in respect to form and systematic
exposition among the great philosophers, yet there is the most complete
unanimity, not only with respect to the transcendency of the
Speculative, but also with reference to the content of its knowing. If
the reader of different systems of Philosophy has in himself achieved
some degree of Speculative culture, he will at every step be delighted
and confirmed at the agreement of what, to the ordinary reader, seem
irreconcilable statements.
Not only do speculative writers agree among themselves as to the nature
of things, and the destiny of man and the world, but their results
furnish us in the form of pure thought what the artist has wrought out
in the form of beauty. Whether one tests architecture, sculpture,
painting, music or poetry, it is all the same. Goethe has said:
“As all Nature’s thousand changes
But one changeless God proclaim;
So in Art’s wide kingdoms ranges
One sole meaning, still the same:
This is Truth, eternal Reason,
Which from Beauty takes its dress,
And serene, through time and season,
Stands for aye in loveliness.”
While Art presents this content to the senses, Religion offers it to the
conception in the form of a dogma to be held by faith; the deepest
Speculative truth is allegorically typified in a historical form, so
that it acts upon the mind partly through fantasy and partly through the
understanding. Thus Religion presents the same content as Art and
Philosophy, but stands between them, and forms a kind of middle ground
upon which the purification takes place. “It is the purgatory between
the Inferno of Sense and the Paradise of Reason.” Its function is
mediation; a continual degrading of the sensuous and external, and an
elevation to the supersensual and internal. The transition of Religion
into Speculative Philosophy is found in the mystics. Filled with the
profound significance of religious symbolism, and seeing in it the
explanation of the universe, they essay to communicate their insights.
But the form of Science is not yet attained by them. They express
themselves, not in those universal categories that the Spirit of the
Race has formed in language for its utterance, but they have recourse to
symbols more or less inadequate because ambiguous, and of insufficient
universality to stand for the archetypes themselves. Thus “Becoming” is
the most pure germinal archetype, and belongs therefore to logic, or the
system of pure thought, and it has correspondences on concrete planes,
as e.g., _time_, _motion_, _life_, _&c._ Now if one of these concrete
terms is used for the pure logical category, we have mysticism. The
alchemists, as shown by a genial writer of our day, use the technique of
their craft to express the profound mysteries of spirit and its
regeneration. The Eleusinian and other mysteries do the like.
While it is one of the most inspiring things connected with Speculative
Philosophy to discover that the “Open Secret of the Universe” has been
read by so many, and to see, under various expressions, the same
meaning; yet it is the highest problem of Speculative Philosophy to
seize a method that is adequate to the expression of the “Secret;” for
its (the content’s) own method of genetic development must be the only
adequate one. Hence it is that we can classify philosophic systems by
their success in seizing the content which is common to Art and
Religion, as well as to Philosophy, in such a manner as to allow its
free evolution; to have as little in the method that is merely formal,
or extraneous to the idea itself. The rigid formalism of Spinoza—though
manipulated by a dear speculative spirit—is inadequate to the unfolding
of its content; for how could the mathematical method, which is that of
quantity or external determinations alone, ever suffice to unfold those
first principles which attain to the quantitative only in their result?
In this, the profoundest of subjects, we always find in Plato light for
the way. Although he has not given us complete examples, yet he has
pointed out the road of the true Speculative method in a way not to be
mistaken. Instead of setting out with first principles presupposed as
true, by which all is to be established, (as mathematics and such
sciences do), he asserts that the first starting points must be removed
as inadequate. We begin with the immediate, which is utterly
insufficient, and exhibits itself as such. We ascend to a more adequate,
by removing the first hypothesis; and this process repeats itself until
we come to the first principle, which of course bears its own evidence
in this, that it is absolutely universal and absolutely determined at
the same time; in other words it is the self-determining, the
“self-moved,” as Plato and Aristotle call it. It is its own other, and
hence it is the true infinite, for it is not limited but continued by
its other.
From this peculiarity results the difficulty of Speculative Philosophy.
The unused mind, accepting with naïveté the first proposition as
settled, finds itself brought into confusion when this is contradicted,
and condemns the whole procedure. The irony of Socrates, that always
begins by positing the ground of his adversary, and reducing it through
its own inadequateness to contradict itself, is of this character, and
the unsophisticated might say, and do say: “See how illogical is
Socrates, for he sets out to establish something, and arrives rather at
the destruction of it.” The _reductio ad absurdum_ is a faint imitation
of the same method. It is not sufficient to prove your own system by
itself, for each of the opposing systems can do that; but you must show
that any and all counter-hypotheses result in your own. God makes the
wrath of men to praise Him, and all imperfect things must continually
demonstrate the perfect, for the reason that they do not exist by reason
of their defects, but through what of truth there is in them, and the
imperfection is continually manifesting the _want_ of the perfect.
“Spirit,” says Hegel, “is self-contained being. But matter, which is
spirit outside of itself, [turned inside out,] continually manifests
this, its inadequacy, through gravity—attraction to a central point
beyond each particle. (If it could get at this central point, it would
have no extension, and hence would be annihilated.)”
The soul of this method lies in the comprehension of the negative. In
that wonderful exposé of the importance of the negative, which Plato
gives in the Parmenides and Sophist, we see how justly he appreciated
its true place in Philosophic Method. Spinoza’s “_omnis determinatio est
negatio_” is the most famous of modern statements respecting the
negative, and has been very fruitful in results.
One would greatly misunderstand the Speculative view of the negative
should he take it to mean, as some have done, “that the negative is as
essential as the positive.” For if they are two independent somewhats
over against each other, having equal validity, then all unity of system
is absolutely impossible—we can have only the Persian Ahriman and
Ormuzd; nay, not even these—for unless there is a primal unity, a
“_Zeruane-Akerene_”—the uncreated one, these are impossible as
opposites, for there can be no tension from which the strife should
proceed.
The Speculative has insight into the constitution of the positive out of
the negative. “That which has the form of Being,” says Hegel, “is the
self-related;” but relation of all kinds is negation, and hence whatever
has the form of being and is a positive somewhat, is a self-related
negative. Those three stages of culture in knowing, talked of by Plato
and Spinoza, may be characterized in a new way by their relation to this
concept.
The first stage of consciousness—that of immediate or sensuous
knowing—seizes objects by themselves—isolatedly—without their relations;
each seems to have validity in and for itself, and to be wholly positive
and real. The negative is the mere absence of the real thing; and it
utterly ignores it in its scientific activity.
But the second stage traces relations, and finds that things do not
exist in immediate independence, but that each is related to others, and
it comes to say that “Were a grain of sand to be destroyed, the universe
would collapse.” It is a necessary consequent to the previous stage, for
the reason that so soon as the first stage gets over its childish
engrossment with the novelty of variety, and attempts to seize the
individual thing, it finds its characteristic marks or properties. But
these consist invariably of relations to other things, and it learns
that these properties, without which the thing could have no distinct
existence, are the very destruction of its independence, since they are
its complications with other things.
In this stage the negative has entered and has full sway. For all that
was before firm and fixed, is now seen to be, not through itself, but
through others, and hence the being of everything is its negation. For
if this stone exists only through its relations to the sun, which is
_not_ the stone but something else, then the being of this stone is its
own negation. But the second stage only reduces all to dependence and
finitude, and does not show us how any real, true, or independent being
can be found to exist. It holds fast to the stage of mediation alone,
just as the first stage held by the _immediate_. But the dialectic of
this position forces it over into the third.
If things exist only in their relations, and relations are the negatives
of things, then all that appears positive—all being—must rest upon
negation. How is this? The negative is essentially a relative, but since
it as the only substrate (for all is relative), it can relate only to
itself. But self-relation is always identity, and here we have the
solution of the previous difficulty. All positive forms, all forms of
immediateness or being, all forms of identity, are self-relations,
consisting of a negative or relative, relating to itself. But the most
wonderful side of this, is the fact that since this relation is that of
the _negative_, it _negates_ itself in its very relation, and hence its
_identity_ is a producing of _non_-identity. Identity and distinction
are produced by the self-same process, and thus _self-determination_ is
the origin of all identity and distinction likewise. This is the
speculative stand-point in its completeness. It not only possesses
speculative content, but is able to evolve a speculative system
likewise. It is not only conscious of the principles, but of their
method, and thus all is transparent.
To suppose that this may be made so plain that one shall see it at first
sight, would be the height of absurdity. Doubtless far clearer
expositions can be made of this than those found in Plato or Proclus, or
even in Fichte and Hegel; but any and every exposition must incur the
same difficulty, viz: The one who masters it must undergo a thorough
change in his innermost. The “Palingenesia” of the intellect is as
essential as the “regeneration of the heart,” and is at bottom the same
thing, as the mystics teach us.
But this great difference is obvious superficially: In religious
regeneration it seems the yielding up of the self to an alien, though
beneficent, power, while in philosophy it seems the complete
identification of one’s self with it.
He, then, who would ascend into the thought of the best thinkers the
world has seen, must spare no pains to elevate his thinking to the plane
of pure thought. The completest discipline for this may be found in
Hegel’s Logic. Let one not despair, though he seem to be baffled seventy
and seven times; his earnest and vigorous assault is repaid by
surprisingly increased strength of mental acumen which he will be
assured of, if he tries his powers on lower planes after his attack has
failed on the highest thought.
These desultory remarks on the Speculative, may be closed with a few
illustrations of what has been said of the negative.
I. Everything must have limits that mark it off from other things, and
these limits are its negations, in which it ceases.
II. It must likewise have qualities which distinguish it from others,
but these likewise are negatives in the sense that they exclude it from
them. Its determining by means of qualities is the making it _not_ this
and _not_ that, but exactly what it is. Thus the affirmation of anything
is at the same time the negation of others.
III. Not only is the negative manifest in the above general and abstract
form, but its penetration is more specific. Everything has distinctions
from others in general, but also from _its_ other. _Sweet_ is opposed
not only to other properties in general, as _white_, _round_, _soft_,
etc., but to _its_ other, or _sour_. So, too, white is opposed to black,
soft to hard, heat to cold, etc., and in general a _positive_ thing to a
_negative_ thing. In this kind of relative, the negative is more
essential, for it seems to constitute the intimate nature of the
opposites, so that each is reflected in the other.
IV. More remarkable are the appearances of the negative in nature. The
element _fire_ is a negative which destroys the form of the combustible.
It reduces organic substances to inorganic elements, and is that which
negates the organic. Air is another negative element. It acts upon all
terrestrial elements; upon water, converting it into invisible vapor;
upon metals, reducing them to earths through corrosion—eating up iron to
form rust, rotting wood into mould—destructive or negative alike to the
mineral and vegetable world, like fire, to which it has a speculative
affinity. The grand type of all negatives in nature, such as air and
fire, is _Time_, the great devourer, and archetype of all changes and
movements in nature. Attraction is another appearance of the negative.
It is a manifestation in some body of an essential connection with
another which is not it; or rather it is an embodied self-contradiction:
“that other (the sun) which is not me (the earth) is my true being.” Of
course its own being is its own negation, then.
Thus, too, the plant is negative to the inorganic—it assimilates it; the
animal is negative to the vegetable world.
As we approach these higher forms of negation, we see the negative
acting against itself, and this constitutes a process. The food that
life requires, which it negates in the process of digestion, and
assimilates, is, in the life process, again negated, eliminated from the
organism, and replaced by new elements. A negation is made, and this is
again negated. But the higher form of negation appears in the generic;
“The species lives and the individual dies.” The generic continually
transcends the individual—going forth to new individuals and deserting
the old—a process of birth and decay, both negative processes. In
conscious Spirit both are united in one-movement. The generic here
enters the individual as pure _ego_—the undetermined possibility of all
determinations. Since it is undetermined, it is negative to all special
determinations. But this _ego_ not only exists as subject, but also as
object—a process of self-determination or self-negation. And this
negation or particularization continually proceeds from one object to
another, and remains conscious under the whole, not dying, as the mere
animal does, in the transition from individual to individual. This is
the _aperçu_ of Immortality.
HERBERT SPENCER.
CHAPTER I.
THE CRISIS IN NATURAL SCIENCE.
During the past twenty years a revolution has been working in physical
science. Within the last ten it has come to the surface, and is now
rapidly spreading into all departments of mental activity.
Although its centre is to be found in the doctrine of the “Correlation
of Forces,” it would be a narrow view that counted only the expounders
of this doctrine, numerous as they are; the spirit of this movement
inspires a heterogeneous multitude—Carpenter, Grove, Mayer, Faraday,
Thompson, Tyndall and Helmholtz; Herbert Spencer, Stuart Mill, Buckle,
Draper, Lewes, Lecky, Max Müller, Marsh, Liebig, Darwin and Agassiz;
these names, selected at random, are suggested on account of the
extensive circulation of their books. Every day the press announces some
new name in this field of research.
What is the character of the old which is displaced, and of the new
which gets established?
By way of preliminary, it must be remarked that there are observable in
modern times three general phases of culture, more or less historic.
The first phase is thoroughly dogmatic: it accepts as of like validity
metaphysical abstractions, and empirical observations. It has not
arrived at such a degree of clearness as to perceive contradictions
between form and content. For the most part, it is characterized by a
reverence for external authority. With the revival of learning commences
the protest of spirit against this phase. Descartes and Lord Bacon begin
the contest, and are followed by the many—Locke, Newton, Leibnitz,
Clark, and the rest. All are animated with the spirit of that time—to
come to the matter in hand without so much mediation. Thought wishes to
rid itself of its fetters; religious sentiment, to get rid of forms.
This reaction against the former stage, which has been called by Hegel
the metaphysical, finds a kind of climax in the intellectual movement
just preceding the French revolution. Thought no longer is contented to
say “Cogito, ergo sum,” abstractly, but applies the doctrine in all
directions, “I think; in that deed, I am.” “I am a man only in so far as
I think. In so far as I think, I am an essence. What I get from others
is not mine. What I can comprehend, or dissolve in my reason, that is
mine.” It looks around and spies institutions—“clothes of spirit,” as
Herr Teufelsdroeck calls them. “What are you doing here, you sniveling
priest?” says Voltaire: “you are imposing delusions upon society for
your own aggrandizement. _I_ had no part or lot in making the church;
_cogito, ergo sum_; I will only have over me what I put there!”
“I see that all these complications of society are artificial,” adds
Rousseau; “man has made them; they are not good, and let us tear them
down and make anew.” These utterances echo all over France and Europe.
“The state is merely a machine by which the few exploiter the many”—“off
with crowns!” Thereupon they snatch off the crown of poor Louis, and his
head follows with it. “Reason” is enthroned and dethroned. Thirty years
of war satiates at length this negative second period, and the third
phase begins. Its characteristic is to be constructive, not to accept
the heritage of the past with passivity, nor wantonly to destroy, but to
realize itself in the world of objectivity—the world of laws and
institutions.
The first appearance of the second phase of consciousness is
characterized by the grossest inconsistencies. It says in general, (see
D’Holbach’s “Système de la Nature”): “The immediate, only, is true; what
we know by our senses, alone has reality; all is matter and force.” But
in this utterance it is unconscious that matter and force are purely
general concepts, and not objects of immediate consciousness. What we
see and feel is not matter or force in general, but only some special
form. The self-refutation of this phase may be exhibited as follows:
I. “What is known is known through the senses: it is matter and force.”
II. But by the senses, the particular only is perceived, and this can
never be _matter_, but merely a _form_. The general is a mediated
result, and not an object of the senses.
III. Hence, in positing matter and force as the content of sensuous
knowing, they unwittingly assert mediation to be the content of
immediateness.
The decline of this period of science results from the perception of the
contradiction involved. Kant was the first to show this; his labors in
this field may be summed up thus:
The universal and necessary is not an empirical result. (General laws
cannot be sensuously perceived.) The constitution of the mind itself,
furnishes the ground for it:—first, we have an _a priori_ basis (time
and space) necessarily presupposed as the condition of all sensuous
perception; and then we have categories presupposed as the basis of
every generalization whatever. Utter any general proposition: for
example the one above quoted—“all is matter and force”—and you merely
posit two categories—Inherence and Causality—as objectively valid. In
all universal and necessary propositions we announce only the subjective
conditions of experience, and not anything in and for itself true (i. e.
applicable to things in themselves).
At once the popular side of this doctrine began to take effect. “We know
only phenomena; the true object in itself we do not know.”
This doctrine of phenomenal knowing was outgrown in Germany at the
commencement of the present century. In 1791—ten years after the
publication of the Critique of Pure Reason—the deep spirit of Fichte
began to generalize Kant’s labors, and soon he announced the legitimate
results of the doctrine. Schelling and Hegel completed the work of
transforming what Kant had left in a negative state, into an affirmative
system of truth. The following is an outline of the refutation of
Kantian scepticism:
I. Kant reduces all objective knowledge to phenomenal: we furnish the
form of knowing, and hence whatever we announce in general concerning
it—and all that we call science has, of course, the form of
generality—is merely our subjective forms, and does not belong to the
thing in itself.
II. This granted, say the later philosophers, it follows that the
subjective swallows up all and becomes itself the universal (subject and
object of itself), and hence Reason is the true substance of the
universe. Spinoza’s _substance_ is thus seen to become _subject_. We
partake of God as intellectually seeing, and we see only God as object,
which Malebranche and Berkeley held with other Platonists.
1. The categories (e. g. Unity, Reality, Causality, Existence, etc.)
being merely subjective, or given by the constitution of the mind
itself—for such universals are presupposed by all experience, and hence
not derived from it—it follows:
2. If we abstract what we know to be subjective, that we abstract all
possibility of a thing in itself, too. For “existence” is a category,
and hence if subjective, we may reasonably conclude that nothing
objective can have existence.
3. Hence, since one category has no preference over another, and we
cannot give one of them objectivity without granting it to all others,
it follows that there can be no talk of _noumena_, or of things in
themselves, _existing_ beyond the reach of the mind, for such talk
merely applies what it pronounces to be subjective categories,
(existence) while at the same time it denies the validity of their
application.
III. But since we remove the supposed “_noumena_,” the so-called
phenomena are not opposed any longer to a correlate beyond the
intelligence, and the _noumenon_ proves to be _mind itself_.
An obvious corollary from this is, that by the self-determination of
mind in pure thinking we shall find the fundamental laws of all
phenomena.
Though the Kantian doctrine soon gave place in Germany to deeper
insights, it found its way slowly to other countries. Comte and Sir Wm.
Hamilton have made the negative results very widely known—the former, in
natural science; the latter, in literature and philosophy. Most of the
writers named at the beginning are more or less imbued with Comte’s
doctrines, while a few follow Hamilton. For rhetorical purposes, the
Hamiltonian statement is far superior to all others; for practical
purposes, the Comtian. The physicist wishing to give his undivided
attention to empirical observation, desires an excuse for neglecting
pure thinking; he therefore refers to the well-known result of
philosophy, that we cannot know anything of ultimate causes—we are
limited to phenomena and laws. Although it must be conceded that this
consolation is somewhat similar to that of the ostrich, who cunningly
conceals his head in the sand when annoyed by the hunters, yet great
benefit has thereby accrued to science through the undivided zeal of the
investigators thus consoled.
When, however, a sufficiently large collection has been made, and the
laws are sought for in the chaotic mass of observations, then _thought_
must be had. Thought is the only crucible capable of dissolving “the
many into the one.” Tycho Brahe served a good purpose in collecting
observations, but a Kepler was required to discern the celestial harmony
involved therein.
This discovery of laws and relations, or of relative unities, proceeds
to the final stage of science, which is that of the _absolute
comprehension_.
Thus modern science, commencing with the close of the metaphysical
epoch, has three stages or phases:
I. The first rests on mere isolated facts of experience; accepts the
first phase of things, or that which comes directly before it, and hence
may be termed the stage of _immediateness_.
II. The second relates its thoughts to one another and compares them; it
developes inequalities; tests one through another, and discovers
dependencies everywhere; since it learns that the first phase of objects
is phenomenal, and depends upon somewhat lying beyond it; since it
denies truth to the immediate, it may be termed the stage of
_mediation_.
III. A final stage which considers a phenomenon in its totality, and
thus seizes it in its _noumenon_, and is the stage of the
_comprehension_.
To resume: the _first_ is that of sensuous knowing; the _second_, that
of reflection (the understanding); the _third_, that of the reason (or
the speculative stage).
In the sensuous knowing, we have crude, undigested masses all
co-ordinated; each is in and for itself, and perfectly valid without the
others. But as soon as reflection enters, dissolution is at work. Each
is thought in sharp contrast with the rest; contradictions arise on
every hand. The third stage finds its way out of these quarrelsome
abstractions, and arrives at a synthetic unity, at a system, wherein the
antagonisms are seen to form an organism.
The first stage of the development closes with attempts on all hands to
put the results in an encyclopædiacal form. Humboldt’s Cosmos is a good
example of this tendency, manifested so widely. Matter, masses, and
_functions_ are the subjects of investigation.
Reflection investigates _functions_ and seizes the abstract category of
force, and straightway we are in the second stage. Matter, as such,
loses its interest, and “correlation of forces” absorbs all attention.
Force is an arrogant category and will not be co-ordinated with matter;
if admitted, we are led to a pure dynamism. This will become evident as
follows:
I. Force implies confinement (to give it direction); it demands,
likewise, an “occasion,” or soliciting force to call it into activity.
II. But it cannot be confined except by force; its occasion must be a
force likewise.
III. Thus, since its confinement and “occasion” are forces, force can
only act upon forces—upon matter only in so far as that is a force. Its
nature requires confinement in order to manifest it, and hence it cannot
act or exist except in unity with other forces which likewise have the
same dependence upon it that it has upon them. _Hence a force has no
independent subsistence, but is only an element of a combination of
opposed forces_, which combination is a unity existing in an opposed
manner (or composed of forces in a state of tension). This deeper unity
which we come upon as the ground of force is properly named _law_.
From this, two corollaries are to be drawn: (1.) That matter is merely a
name for various forces, as resistance, attraction and repulsion, etc.
(2.) That force is no ultimate category, but, upon reflection, is seen
to rest upon law as a deeper category (not law as a mere similarity of
phenomena, but as a true unity underlying phenomenal multiplicity).
From the nature of the category of force we see that whoever adopts it
as the ultimate, embarks on an ocean of dualism, and instead of “seeing
everywhere the one and all” as did Xenophanes, he will see everywhere
the self opposed, the contradictory.
The crisis which science has now reached is of this nature. The second
stage is at its commencement with the great bulk of scientific men.
To illustrate the self-nugatory character ascribed to this stage we
shall adduce some of the most prominent positions of Herbert Spencer,
whom we regard as the ablest exponent of this movement. These
contradictions are not to be deprecated, as though they indicated a
decline of thought; on the contrary, they show an increased activity,
(though in the stage of mere reflection,) and give us good omens for the
future. The era of stupid mechanical thinkers is over, and we have
entered upon the active, _chemical_ stage of thought, wherein the
thinker is trained to consciousness concerning his abstract categories,
which, as Hegel says, “drive him around in their whirling circle.”
Now that the body of scientific men are turned in this direction, we
behold a vast upheaval towards philosophic thought; and this is entirely
unlike the isolated phenomenon (hitherto observed in history) of a
single group of men lifted above the surrounding darkness of their age
into clearness. We do not have such a phenomenon in our time; it is the
spirit of the nineteenth century to move by masses.
CHAPTER II.
THE “FIRST PRINCIPLES” OF THE “UNKNOWABLE.”
The _British Quarterly_ speaking of Spencer, says: “These ‘First
Principles’ are merely the foundation of a system of Philosophy, bolder,
more elaborate and comprehensive, perhaps, than any other which has been
hitherto designed in England.”
The persistence and sincerity, so generally prevailing among these
correlationists, we have occasion to admire in Herbert Spencer. He seems
to be always ready to sacrifice his individual interest for truth, and
is bold and fearless in uttering, what he believes it to be.
For critical consideration no better division can be found than that
adopted in the “First Principles” by Mr. Spencer himself, to wit: 1st,
the unknowable, 2nd, the knowable. Accordingly, let us examine first his
theory of
THE UNKNOWABLE.
When Mr. Spencer announces the content of the “unknowable” to be
“ultimate religious and scientific ideas,” we are reminded at once of
the old adage in jurisprudence—“_Omnis definitio in jure civili est
periculosa_;” the definition is liable to prove self-contradictory in
practice. So when we have a content assigned to the unknowable we at
once inquire, whence come the distinctions in the unknowable? If unknown
they are not distinct to us. When we are told that Time, Space, Force,
Matter, God, Creation, etc., are unknowables, we must regard these words
as corresponding to no distinct objects, but rather as all of the same
import to us. It should be always borne in mind that _all universal
negatives are self-contradictory_. Moreover, since all judgments are
made by subjective intelligences, it follows that all general assertions
concerning the nature of the intellect affect the judgment itself. The
naïveté with which certain writers wield these double-edged weapons is a
source of solicitude to the spectator.
When one says that he knows that he knows nothing, he asserts knowledge
and denies it in the same sentence. If one says “all knowledge is
relative,” as Spencer does, (p. 68, _et seq._, of First Principles,) he
of course asserts that his knowledge of the fact is relative and not
absolute. If a distinct content is asserted of ignorance, the same
contradiction occurs.
The perception of this principle by the later German philosophers at
once led them out of the Kantian nightmare, into positive truth. The
principle may be applied in general to any subjective scepticism. The
following is a general scheme that will apply to all particular
instances:
I. “We cannot know things in themselves; all our knowledge is
subjective; it is confined to our own states and changes.”
II. If this is so, then still more is what we name the “objective” only
a state or change of us as subjective; it is a mere fiction of the mind
so far as it is regarded as a “beyond” or thing in itself.
III. Hence we _do_ know the objective; for the scepticism can only
legitimately conclude that the objective which we do know is of a nature
kindred with reason; and that by an _a priori_ necessity we can affirm
that not only all knowable must have this nature, but also _all possible
existence_ must.
In this we discover that the mistake on the part of the sceptic consists
in taking self-conscious intelligence as something one-sided or
subjective, whereas it must be, according to its very definition,
subject and object in one, and thus universal.
The difficulty underlying this stage of consciousness is that the mind
has not been cultivated to a clear separation of the imagination from
the thinking. As Sir Wm. Hamilton remarks, (Metaphysics, p. 487,)
“Vagueness and confusion are produced by the confounding of objects so
different as the images of sense and the unpicturable notions of
intelligence.”
Indeed the great “law of the conditioned” so much boasted of by that
philosopher himself and his disciples, vanishes at once when the
mentioned confusion is avoided. Applied to space it results as follows:
I.—_Thought of Space._
1. Space, if finite, must be limited from without;
2. But such external limitations would require space to exist in;
3. And hence the supposed limits of space that were to make it finite do
in fact _continue it_.
It appears, therefore, that space is of such a nature that it can only
end in, or be limited by _itself_ and thus is universally _continuous_
or _infinite_.
II.—_Imagination of Space._
If the result attained by pure thought is correct, space is infinite,
and if so, it cannot be imagined. If, however, it should be found
possible to compass it by imagination, it must be conceded that there
really is a contradiction in the intelligence. That the result of such
an attempt coincides with our anticipations we have Hamilton’s
testimony—“imagination sinks exhausted.”
Therefore, instead of this result contradicting the first, as Hamilton
supposes, it really confirms it.
In fact if the mind is disciplined to separate pure thinking from mere
imagining, the infinite is not difficult to think. Spinoza saw and
expressed this by making a distinction between “infinitum actu (or
rationis),” and “infinitum imaginationis,” and his first and second
axioms are the immediate results of thought elevated to this clearness.
This distinction and his “_omnis determinatio est negatio_,” together
with the development of the third stage of thinking (according to
reason), “_sub quadam specie æternitatis_,”—these distinctions are the
priceless legacy of the clearest-minded thinker of modern times; and it
behooves the critic of “human knowing” to consider well the results that
the “human mind” has produced through those great masters—Plato and
Aristotle, Spinoza and Hegel.
Herbert Spencer, however, not only betrays unconsciousness of this
distinction, but employs it in far grosser and self-destructive
applications. On page 25, (“First Principles,”) he says: “When on the
sea shore we note how the hulls of distant vessels are hidden below the
horizon, and how of still remoter vessels only the uppermost sails are
visible, we realize with tolerable clearness the slight curvature of
that portion of the sea’s surface which lies before us. But when we seek
in imagination to follow out this curved surface as it actually exists,
slowly bending round until all its meridians meet in a point eight
thousand miles below our feet, we find ourselves utterly baffled. We
cannot conceive in its real form and magnitude even that small segment
of our globe which extends a hundred miles on every side of us, much
less the globe as a whole. The piece of rock on which we stand can be
mentally represented with something like completeness; we find ourselves
able to think of its top, its sides, and its under surface at the same
time, or so nearly at the same time that they seem all present in
consciousness together; and so we can form what we call a conception of
the rock, but to do the like with the earth we find impossible.” “We
form of the earth not a conception properly so-called, but only a
symbolic conception.”
Conception here is held to be adequate when it is formed of an object of
a given size; when the object is above that size the conception thereof
becomes symbolical. Here we do not have the exact limit stated, though
we have an example given (a rock) which is conceivable, and another (the
earth) which is not.
“We must predicate nothing of objects too great or too multitudinous to
be mentally represented, or we must make our predications by means of
extremely inadequate representations of such objects, mere symbols of
them.” (27 page.)
But not only is the earth an indefinitely multiple object, but so is the
rock; nay, even the smallest grain of sand. Suppose the rock to be a rod
in diameter; microscope magnifying two and a half millions of diameters
would make its apparent magnitude as large as the earth. It is thus only
a question of relative distance from the person conceiving, and this
reduces it to the mere sensuous image of the retina. Remove the earth to
the distance of the moon, and our conception of it would, upon these
principles, become quite adequate. But if our conception of the moon be
held inadequate, then must that of the rock or the grain of sand be
equally inadequate.
Whatever occupies space is continuous and discrete; i. e., may be
divided into parts. It is hence a question of relativity whether the
image or picture of it correspond to it.
The legitimate conclusion is that all our conceptions are symbolic, and
if that property invalidates their reliability, it follows that we have
no reliable knowledge of things perceived, whether great or small.
Mathematical knowledge is conversant with pure lines, points, and
surfaces; hence it must rest on inconceivables.
But Mr. Spencer would by no means concede that we do not know the shape
of the earth, its size, and many other inconceivable things about it.
Conception is thus no criterion of knowledge, and all built upon this
doctrine (i. e. depending upon the conceivability of a somewhat) falls
to the ground.
But he applies it to the questions of the divisibility of matter (page
50): “If we say that matter is infinitely divisible, we commit ourselves
to a supposition not realizable in thought. We can bisect and rebisect a
body, and continually repeating the act until we reduce its parts to a
size no longer physically divisible, may then mentally continue the
process without limit.”
Setting aside conceivability as indifferent to our knowledge or
thinking, we have the following solution of this point:
I. That which is extended may be bisected (i. e. has two halves).
II. Thus two extensions arise, which, in turn, have the same property of
divisibility that the first one had.
III. Since, then, bisection is a process entirely indifferent to the
nature of extension (i. e. does not change an extension into two
non-extendeds), it follows that body is infinitely divisible.
We do not have to test this in imagination to verify it; and this very
truth must be evident to him who says that the progress must be
“continued without limit.” For if we examine the general conditions
under which any such “infinite progress” is possible, we find them to
rest upon the presupposition of a real infinite, thus:
Infinite Progress.
I. Certain attributes are found to belong to an object, and are not
affected by a certain process. (For example, divisibility as a process
in space does not affect the continuity of space, which makes that
process possible. Or again, the process of limiting space does not
interfere with its continuity, for space will not permit any limit
except space itself.)
II. When the untutored reflection endeavors to apprehend a relation of
this nature, it seizes one side of the dualism and is hurled to the
other. (It bisects space, and then finds itself before two objects
identical in nature with the first; it has effected nothing; it repeats
the process, and, by and by getting exhausted, wonders whether it could
meet a different result if its powers of endurance were greater. Or else
suspecting the true case, says; “no other result would happen if I went
on forever.”)
III. Pure thought, however, grasps this process as a totality, and sees
that it only arises through a self-relation. The “progress” is nothing
but a return to itself, the same monotonous round. It would be a similar
attempt to seek the end of a circle by travelling round it, and one
might make the profound remark: “If my powers were equal to the task, I
should doubtless come to the end.” This difficulty vanishes as soon as
the experience is made that the line returns into itself. “It is the
same thing whether said once or repeated forever,” says Simplicius,
treating of this paradox.
The “Infinite Progress” is the most stubborn fortress of Scepticism. By
it our negative writers establish the impotency of Reason for various
ulterior purposes. Some wish to use it as a lubricating fluid upon
certain religious dogmas that cannot otherwise be swallowed. Others wish
to save themselves the trouble of thinking out the solutions to the
Problem of Life. But the Sphinx devours him who does not faithfully
grapple with, and solve her enigmas.
Mephistopheles (a good authority on this subject) says of Faust, whom he
finds grumbling at the littleness of man’s mind:
“Verachte nur Vernunft und Wissenchaft,
Des Menschen allerhöchste Kraft!
Und hätt’er sich auch nicht dem Teufel übergeben,
Er müsste doch zu Grunde gehen.”
Only prove that there is a large field of the unknowable and one has at
once the _vade mecum_ for stupidity. Crude reflection can pour in its
distinctions into a subject, and save itself from the consequences by
pronouncing the basis incomprehensible. It also removes _all_
possibility of Theology, or of the Piety of the Intellect, and leaves a
very narrow margin for religious sentiment, or the Piety of the Heart.
The stage of Science represented by the French Encyclopædists was
immediately hostile to each and every form of religion. This second
stage, however, has a choice. It can, like Hamilton or Mansel, let
religious belief alone, as pertaining to the unknown and
unknowable—which may be _believed_ in as much as one likes; or it may
“strip off,” as Spencer does, “determinations from a religion,” by which
it is distinguished from other religions, and show their truth to
consist in a common doctrine held by all, to-wit: “The truth of things
is unknowable.”
Thus the scientific man can baffle all attacks from the religious
standpoint; nay, he can even elicit the most unbounded approval, while
he saps the entire structure of Christianity.
Says Spencer (p. 46): “Science and Religion agree in this, that the
power which the Universe manifests to us is utterly inscrutable.” He
goes on to show that though this harmony exists, yet it is broken by the
inconsistency of Religion: “For every religion, setting out with the
tacit assertion of a mystery, forthwith proceeds to give some solution
of this mystery, and so asserts that it is not a mystery passing human
comprehension.” In this confession he admits that all religions agree in
professing to _reveal_ the solution of the Mystery of the Universe to
man; and they agree, moreover, that man, as simply a being of sense and
reflection, cannot comprehend the revelation; but that he must first
pass through a profound mediation—be _regenerated_, not merely in his
heart, but in _intellect_ also. The misty limitations (“vagueness and
confusion”) of the imagination must give way to the purifying dialectic
of pure thought before one can see the Eternal Verities.
These revelations profess to make known the nature of the Absolute.
They call the Absolute “Him,” “Infinite,” “Self-created,”
“Self-existent,” “Personal,” and ascribe to this “Him” attributes
implying profound mediation. All definite forms of religion, all
definite theology, must at once be discarded according to Spencer’s
principle. Self-consciousness, even, is regarded as impossible by him
(p. 65): “Clearly a true cognition of self implies a state in which
the knowing and known are one, in which subject and object are
identified; and this Mr. Mansel rightly holds to be the annihilation
of both.” He considers it a degradation (p. 109) to apply personality
to God: “Is it not possible that there is a mode of being as much
transcending intelligence and will as these transcend mechanical
motion?” And again (p. 112) he holds that the mere “negation of
absolute knowing contains more religion than all dogmatic theology.”
(P. 121,) “All religions are envelopes of truth, which reveal to the
lower and conceal to the higher.” (P. 66,) “Objective and subjective
things are alike inscrutable in their substance and genesis.”
“Ultimate religious and scientific ideas (p. 68) alike turn out to be
mere symbols of the actual, and not cognitions of it.” (P. 69,) “We
come to the negative result that the reality existing behind all
appearances must ever be unknown.”
In these passages we see a dualism posited in this form: “Everything
immediate is _phenomenal_, a manifestation of the hidden and inscrutable
essence.” This essence is the unknown and unknowable; yet it _manifests_
itself in the immediate or phenomenal.
The first stage of thought was unconscious that it dealt all the time
with a mediated result (a dualism) while it assumed an immediate; that
it asserted all truth to lie in the sensuous object, while it named at
the same time “_matter_ and _force_,” categories of reflection.
The second stage has got over _that_ difficulty, but has fallen into
another. For if the phenomenon _manifested_ the essence, it could not be
said to be “unknowable, hidden, and inscrutable.” But if the essence is
_not_ manifested by the phenomenon, then we have the so-called
phenomenon as a self-existent, and therefore independent of the
so-called essence, which stands coördinated to it as another existent,
which cannot be known because it does not manifest itself to us. Hence
the “phenomenon” is no _phenomenon_, or manifestation of aught but
itself, and the “essence” is simply a fiction of the philosopher.
Hence his talk about essence is purely gratuitous, for there is not
shown the need of one.
A dialectical consideration of essence and phenomenon will result as
follows:
Essence and Phenomenon.
I. If essence is seized as independent or absolute being, it may be
taken in two senses:
_a._ As entirely unaffected by “otherness” (or limitation) and entirely
undetermined; and this would be pure nothing, for it cannot distinguish
itself or be distinguished from pure nothing.
_b._ As relating to itself, and hence making itself a duality—becoming
its own other; in this case the “other” is a vanishing one, for it is at
the same time identical and non-identical—a process in which the essence
may be said to appear or become _phenomenal_. The entire process is the
absolute or self-related (and hence independent). It is determined, but
by itself, and hence not in a finite manner.
II. The Phenomenon is thus seen to arise through the self-determination
of essence, and has obviously the following characteristics:
_a._ It is the “other” of the essence, and yet the own self of the
essence existing in this opposed manner, and thus self-nugatory; and
this non-abiding character gives it the name of phenomenon (or that
which merely _appears_, but is no permanent essence).
_b._ If this were simply another to the essence, and not the
self-opposition of the same, then it would be through itself, and
_itself_ the essence in its first (or immediate) phase. But this is the
essence only as negated, or as returned from the otherness.
_c._ This self-nugatoriness is seen to arise from the contradiction
involved in its being other to itself, i. e. outside of its true being.
_Without_ this self-nugatoriness it would be an abiding, an essence
itself, and hence no phenomenon; _with_ this self-nugatoriness the
phenomenon simply exhibits or “manifests” the essence; in fact, with the
appearance and its negation taken together, we have before us a totality
of essence and phenomenon.
III. Therefore: _a._ The phenomenal is such because it is not an abiding
somewhat. It is dependent upon other or essence. _b._ Whatever it
posesses belongs to that upon which it depends, i. e. belongs to
essence. _c._ In the self-nugatoriness of the phenomenal we have the
entire essence manifested.
This latter point is the important result, and may-be stated in a less
strict and more popular form thus: The real world (so-called) is said to
be in a state of change—origination and decay. Things pass away and
others come in their places. Under this change, however, there is a
permanent called Essence.
The imaginative thinking finds it impossible to realize such an abiding
as exists through the decay of all external form, and hence pronounces
it unknowable. But pure thought seizes it, and finds it a pure
self-relation or process of return to itself, which accordingly has
duality, thus: _a._ The positing or producing of a somewhat or an
immediate, and, _b._ The cancelling of the same. In this duality of
beginning and ceasing, this self-relation completes its circle, and is
thus, _c._ the entire movement.
All categories of the understanding (cause and effect, matter and form,
possibility, etc.) are found to contain this movement when dissolved.
And hence they have self-determination for their presupposition and
explanation. It is unnecessary to add that unless one gives up trying to
_imagine_ truth, that this is all very absurd reasoning. (At the end of
the sixth book of Plato’s Republic, ch. xxi., and in the seventh book,
ch. xiii., one may see how clearly this matter was understood two
thousand, and more, years ago.)
To manifest or reveal is to make known; and hence to speak of the
“manifestation of a hidden and inscrutable essence” is to speak of the
making known of an unknowable.
Mr. Spencer goes on; no hypothesis of the universe is
possible—creation not conceivable, for that would be something out of
nothing—self-existence not conceivable, for that involves unlimited
past time.
He holds that “all knowledge is _relative_,” for all explanation is the
reducing of a cognition to a more general. He says, (p. 69,) “Of
necessity, therefore, explanation must eventually bring us down to the
inexplicable—the deepest truth which we can get at must be
unaccountable.” This much valued insight has a positive side as well as
the negative one usually developed:
I. (_a._) To explain something we subsume it under a more general.
(_b._) The “_summum genus_” cannot be subsumed, and
(_c._) Hence is inexplicable.
II. But those who conclude from this that we base our knowledge
ultimately upon faith (from the supposed fact than we cannot prove our
premises) forget that—
(_a._) If the subsuming process ends in an unknown, then all the
subsuming has resulted in nothing; for to subsume something under an
unknown does not explain it. (Plato’s Republic, Book VII, chap. xiii.)
(_b._) The more general, however, is the more simple, and hence the
“_summum genus_” is the purely simple—it is Being. But the simpler the
clearer, and the pure simple is the absolutely clear.
(_c._) At the “_summum genus_” subsumption becomes the principle of
identity—being is being; and thus stated we have simple self-relation as
the origin of all clearness and knowing whatsoever.
III. Hence it is seen that it is not the mere fact of subsumption that
makes something clear, but rather it is the reduction of it to identity.
In pure being as the _summum genus_, the mind contemplates the pure form
of knowing—“a is a,” or “a subject is a predicate”—(a is b). The pure
“is” is the empty form of mental affirmation, the pure copula; and thus
in the _summum genus_ the mind recognizes the pure form of itself. All
objectivity is at this point dissolved into the thinking, and hence the
subsumption becomes identity—(being = _ego_, or “_cogito, ergo sum_”;)
the process turns round and becomes synthetic, (“dialectic” or
“genetic,” as called by some). From this it is evident that
self-consciousness is the basis of all knowledge.
CHAPTER III.
THE “FIRST PRINCIPLES” OF THE “KNOWABLE.”
As might be expected from Spencer’s treatment of the _unknowable_, the
_knowable_ will prove a confused affair; especially since to the
above-mentioned “inscrutability” of the absolute, he adds the doctrine
of an “obscure consciousness of it,” holding, in fact, that the knowable
is only a relative, and that it cannot be known without at the same time
possessing a knowledge of the unknowable.
(P. 82) he says: “A thought involves relation, difference and likeness;
whatever does not present each of them does not admit of cognition. And
hence we may say that the unconditioned as presenting none of these, is
trebly unthinkable.” And yet he says, (p. 96): “The relative is itself
inconceivable except as related to a real non-relative.”
We will leave this infinite self-contradiction thus developed, and turn
to the positions established concerning the knowable. They concern the
nature of Force, Matter and Motion, and the predicates set up are
“persistence,” “indestructibility” and similar.
THE KNOWABLE.
Although in the first part “conceivability” was shown to be utterly
inadequate as a test of truth; that with it we could not even establish
that the earth is round, or that space is infinitely continuous, yet
here Mr. Spencer finds that inconceivability is the most convenient of
all positive proofs.
The first example to be noticed is his proof of the compressibility of
matter (p. 51): “It is an established mechanical truth that if a body
moving at a given velocity, strikes an equal body at rest in such wise
that the two move on together, their joint velocity will be but half
that of the striking body. Now it is a law of which the negative is
inconceivable, that in passing from any one degree of magnitude to
another all intermediate degrees must be passed through. Or in the case
before us, a body moving at velocity 4, cannot, by collision, be reduced
to velocity 2, without passing through all velocities between 4 and 2.
But were matter truly solid—were its units absolutely incompressible and
in unbroken contact—this ‘law of continuity, as it is called, would be
broken in every case of collision. For when, of two such units, one
moving at velocity 4 strikes another at rest, the striking unit must
have its velocity 4 instantaneously reduced to velocity 2; must pass
from velocity 4 to velocity 2 without any lapse of time, and without
passing through intermediate velocities; must be moving with velocities
4 and 2 at the same instant, which is impossible.” On page 57 he
acknowledges that any transition from one rate of motion to another is
inconceivable; hence it does not help the matter to “pass through
intermediate velocities.” It is just as great a contradiction and just
as inconceivable that velocity 4 should become velocity 3.9999+, as it
is that it should become velocity 2; for no change whatever of the
motion can be thought (as he confesses) without having two motions in
one time. Motion, in fact, is the synthesis of place and time, and
cannot be comprehended except as their unity. The argument here quoted
is only adduced by Mr. S. for the purpose of antithesis to other
arguments on the other side as weak as itself.
On page 241, Mr. Spencer deals with the question of the destructibility
of matter: “The annihilation of matter is unthinkable for the same
reason that the creation of matter is unthinkable.” (P. 54): “Matter in
its ultimate nature is as absolutely incomprehensible as space and
time.” The nature of matter is unthinkable, its creation or
destructibility is unthinkable, and in this style of reasoning we can
add that its _indestructibility_ is likewise unthinkable; in fact the
argument concerning self-existence will apply here. (P. 31):
“Self-existence necessarily means existence without a beginning; and to
form a conception of self-existence is to form a conception of existence
without a beginning. Now by no mental effort can we do this. To conceive
existence through infinite past time, implies the conception of infinite
past time, which is an impossibility.” Thus, too, we might argue in a
strain identical; indestructibility implies existence through infinite
future time, but by no mental effort can infinite time be conceived. And
thus, too, we prove and disprove the persistence of force and motion.
When occasion requires, the ever-convenient argument of
“inconceivability” enters. It reminds one of Sir Wm. Hamilton’s
“imbecility” upon which are based “sundry of the most important
phenomena of intelligence,” among which he mentions the category of
causality. If causality is founded upon imbecility, and all experience
upon _it_, it follows that all empirical knowledge rests upon
imbecility.
On page 247, our author asserts that the first law of motion “is in our
day being merged in the more general one, that motion, like matter, is
indestructible.” It is interesting to observe that this so-called “First
law of motion” rests on no better basis than very crude reflection.
“When not influenced by external forces, a moving body will go on in a
straight line with a uniform velocity,” is Spencer’s statement of it.
This abstract, supposed law has necessitated much scaffolding in Natural
Philosophy that is otherwise entirely unnecessary; it contradicts the
idea of momentum, and is thus refuted:
I. A body set in motion continues in motion after the impulse has ceased
from without, for the reason that it retains momentum.
II. Momentum is the product of weight by velocity, and weight is the
attraction of the body in question to another body external to it. If
all bodies external to the moving body were entirely removed, the latter
would have no weight, and hence the product of weight by velocity would
be zero.
III. The “external influences” referred to in the so-called “law,” mean
chiefly attraction. Since no body could have momentum except through
weight, another name for attraction, it follows that all free motion has
reference to another body, and hence is curvilinear; thus we are rid of
that embarrassing “straight line motion” which gives so much trouble in
mechanics. It has all to be reduced back again through various processes
to curvilinear movement.
We come, finally, to consider the central point of this system:
THE CORRELATION OF FORCES.
Speaking of persistence of force, Mr. Spencer concedes (p. 252) that
this doctrine is not demonstrable from experience. He says (p. 254):
“Clearly the persistence of force is an ultimate truth of which no
inductive proof is possible.” (P. 255): “By the persistence of force we
really mean the persistence of some power which transcends our knowledge
and conception.” (P. 257): “The indestructibility of matter and the
continuity of motion we saw to be really corollaries from the
impossibility of establishing in thought a relation between something
and nothing.” (Thus what was established as a mental impotence is now
made to have objective validity.) “Our inability to conceive matter and
motion destroyed is our inability to suppress consciousness itself.” (P.
258): “Whoever alleges that the inability to conceive a beginning or end
of the universe is a _negative_ result of our mental structure, cannot
deny that our consciousness of the universe as persistent is a positive
result of our mental structure. And this persistence of the universe is
the persistence of that unknown cause, power, or force, which is
manifested to us through all phenomena.” This “positive result of our
mental structure” is said to rest on our “inability to conceive the
limitation of consciousness” which is “simply the obverse of our
inability to put an end to the thinking subject while still continuing
to think.” (P. 257): “To think of something becoming nothing, would
involve that this substance of consciousness having just existed under a
given form, should next assume no form, or should cease to be
consciousness.”
It will be observed here that he is endeavoring to solve the First
Antinomy of Kant, and that his argument in this place differs from
Kant’s proof of the “Antithesis” in this, that while Kant proves that
“The world [or universe] has no beginning,” etc., by the impossibility
of the origination of anything in a “void time,” that Mr. Spencer proves
the same thing by asserting it to be a “positive result of our mental
structure,” and then proceeds to show that this is a sort of “inability”
which has a subjective explanation; it is, according to him, merely the
“substance of consciousness” objectified and regarded as the law of
reality.
But how is it with the “Thesis” to that Antinomy, “The world _has_ a
beginning in time?” Kant proves this apagogically by showing the
absurdity of an “infinite series already elapsed.” That our author did
not escape the contradiction has already been shown in our remarks upon
the “indestructibility of matter.” While he was treating of the
unknowable it was his special province to prove that self-existence is
unthinkable. (P. 31): He says it means “existence without a beginning,”
and “to conceive existence through infinite past time, implies the
conception of infinite past time, which is an impossibility.” Thus we
have the Thesis of the Antinomy supported in his doctrine of the
“unknowable,” and the antithesis of the same proved in the doctrine of
the knowable.
We shall next find him involved with Kant’s Third Antinomy.
The doctrine of the correlation is stated in the following passages:
(P. 280): “Those modes of the unknowable, which we call motion, heat,
light, chemical affinity, etc., are alike transformable into each other,
and into those modes of the unknowable which we distinguish as
sensation, emotion, thought: these, in their turns, being directly or
indirectly re-transformable into the original shapes. That no idea or
feeling arises, save as a result of some physical force expended in
producing it, is fast becoming a common-place of science; and whoever
duly weighs the evidence, will see that nothing but an overwhelming bias
in favor of a preconceived theory can explain its non-acceptance. How
this metamorphosis takes place—how a force existing as motion, heat, or
light, can become a mode of consciousness—how it is possible for aërial
vibrations to generate the sensation we call sound, or for the forces
liberated by chemical changes in the brain to give rise to emotion—these
are mysteries which it is impossible to fathom.” (P. 284): “Each
manifestation of force can be interpreted only as the effect of some
antecedent force; no matter whether it be an inorganic action, an animal
movement, a thought, or a feeling. Either this must be conceded, or else
it must be asserted that our successive states of consciousness are
self-created.” “Either mental energies as well as bodily ones are
quantitatively correlated to certain energies expended in their
production, and to certain other energies they initiate; or else nothing
must become something and something, nothing. Since persistence of
force, being a _datum_ of consciousness, cannot be denied, its
unavoidable corollary must be accepted.”
On p. 294 he supports the doctrine that “motion takes the direction of
the least resistance,” mentally as well as physically.
Here are some of the inferences to be drawn from the passages quoted:
1. Every act is determined from without, and hence does not belong to
the subject in which it manifests itself.
2. To change the course of a force, is to make another direction “that
of the least resistance,” or to remove or diminish a resistance.
3. But to change a resistance requires force, which (in motion) must act
in “the direction of the least resistance,” and hence it is entirely
determined from without, and governed by the disposition of the forces
it meets.
4. Hence, of _will_, it is an absurdity to talk; _freedom_ or _moral
agency_ is an impossible phantom.
5. That there is self-determination in self-consciousness—that it is
“self-created”—is to Mr. Spencer the absurd alternative which at once
turns the scale in favor of the doctrine that mental phenomena are the
productions of external forces.
After this, what are we to say of the following? (P. 501):
“Notwithstanding all evidence to the contrary, there will probably have
arisen in not a few minds the conviction that the solutions which have
been given, along with those to be derived from them, are essentially
materialistic. Let none persist in these misconceptions.” (P. 502):
“Their implications are no more materialistic than they are
spiritualistic, and no more spiritualistic than they are materialistic.”
If we hold these positions by the side of Kant’s Third Antinomy, we
shall see that they all belong to the proof of the “Antithesis,” viz:
“There is no freedom, but everything in the world happens according to
the laws of nature.” The “Thesis,” viz: “That a causality of freedom is
necessary to account fully for the phenomena of the world,” he has not
anywhere supported. We find, in fact, only those thinkers who have in
some measure mastered the third phase of culture in thought, standing
upon the basis presented by Kant in the Thesis. The chief point in the
Thesis may be stated as follows: 1. If everything that happens
presupposes a previous condition, (which the law of causality states,)
2. This previous condition cannot be a permanent (or have been always in
existence); for, if so, its consequence, or the effect, would have
always existed. Thus the previous condition must be a thing which has
happened. 3. With this the whole law of causality collapses; for (_a_)
since each cause is an effect, (_b_) its determining power escapes into
a higher member of the series, and, (_c_) unless the law changes, wholly
vanishes; there result an indefinite series of effects with no cause;
each member of the series is a dependent, has its being in another,
which again has its being in another, and hence cannot support the
subsequent term.
Hence it is evident that this Antinomy consists, first: in the setting
up of the law of causality as having absolute validity, which is the
antithesis. Secondly, the experience is made that such absolute law of
causality is a self-nugatory one, and thus it is to be inferred that
causality, to be at all, presupposes an origination in a “self-moved,”
as Plato calls it. Aristotle (Metaphysics, xi. 6-7, and ix. 8) exhibits
this ultimate as the “self-active,” and the Scholastics take the same,
under the designation “_actus purus_,” for the definition of God.
The Antinomy thus reduced gives:
I. Thesis: Self-determination must lie at the basis of all causality,
otherwise causality cannot be at all.
II. Antithesis: If there is self-determination, “the unity of experience
(which leads us to look for a cause) is destroyed, and hence no such
case could arise in experience.”
In comparing the two proofs it is at once seen that they are of
different degrees of universality. The argument of the Thesis is based
upon the nature of the thing itself, i. e. a pure thought; while that of
the Antithesis loses sight of the idea of “_efficient_” cause, and seeks
mere continuity in the sequence of time, and thus exhibits itself as the
second stage of thought, which leans on the staff of fancy, i. e. mere
_representative_ thinking. This “unity of experience,” as Kant calls it,
is the same thing, stated in other words, that Spencer refers to as the
“positive result of our mental structure.” In one sense those are true
antinomies—those of Kant, Hamilton, _et al._—viz. in this: that the
“_representative_” stage of thinking finds itself unable to shake off
the sensuous picture, and think “_sub quadam specie æternitatis_.” To
the mind disciplined to the third stage of thought, these are no
antinomies; Spinoza, Leibnitz, Plato and Aristotle are not confused by
them. The Thesis, properly stated, is a true universal, and exhibits its
own truth, as that upon which the law of causality rests; and hence the
antithesis itself—less universal—resting upon the law of causality, is
based upon the Thesis. Moreover, the Thesis does not deny an infinite
succession in time and space, it only states that there must be an
efficient cause—just what the law of causality states, but shows, in
addition, that this efficient cause must be a “self-determined.”
On page 282 we learn that, “The solar heat is the final source of the
force manifested by society.” “It (the force of society) is based on
animal and vegetable products, and these in turn are dependent on the
light and heat of the sun.”
As an episode in this somewhat abstract discussion, it may be diverting
to notice the question of priority of discovery, touched upon in the
following note (p. 454): “Until I recently consulted his ‘Outlines of
Astronomy’ on another question, I was not aware that, so far back as
1833, Sir John Herschel had enunciated the doctrine that ‘the sun’s rays
are the ultimate source of almost every motion which takes place on the
surface of the earth.’ He expressly includes all geologic, meteorologic,
and vital actions; as also those which we produce by the combustion of
coal. The late George Stephenson appears to have been wrongly credited
with this last idea.”
In order to add to the thorough discussion of this important question,
we wish to suggest the claims of Thomas Carlyle, who, as far back as
1830, wrote the following passage in his _Sartor Resartus_ (Am. ed. pp.
55-6): “Well sang the Hebrew Psalmist: ‘If I take the wings of the
morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the Universe, God is
there.’ Thou, too, O cultivated reader, who too probably art no
psalmist, but a prosaist, knowing God only by tradition, knowest thou
any corner of the world where at least force is not? The drop which thou
shakest from thy wet hand, rests not where it falls, but to-morrow thou
findest it swept away; already, on the wings of the north wind, it is
nearing the tropic of Cancer. How it came to evaporate and not lie
motionless? Thinkest thou there is aught motionless, without force, and
dead?
“As I rode through the Schwartzwald, I said to myself: That little fire
which glows starlike across the dark-growing (nachtende) moor, where the
sooty smith bends over his anvil, and thou hopest to replace thy lost
horseshoe—is it a detached, separated speck, cut off from the whole
universe, or indissolubly joined to the whole? Thou fool, that
smithy-fire was primarily kindled at the sun; is fed by air that
circulates from beyond Noah’s deluge, from beyond the Dog star; it is a
little ganglion, or nervous centre in the great vital system of
immensity.”
We have, finally, to consider the correlation theory in connection with
equilibrium.
I. Motion results from destroyed equilibrium. The whole totality does
not correspond to itself, its ideal and real contradict each other. The
movement is the restoring of the equilibrium, or the bringing into unity
of the ideal and real. To illustrate: a spring (made of steel, rubber,
or any elastic material) has a certain form in which, it may exist
without tension; this may be called the ideal shape, or simply the
ideal. If the spring is forced to assume another shape, its real shape
becomes different from the ideal; its equilibrium is destroyed, and
force is manifested as a tendency to restore the equilibrium (or unity
of the ideal and real). Generalize this: all forces have the same
nature; (_a_) _expansive_ forces arise from the ideal existing without—a
gas, steam, for example, ideally takes up a more extended space than it
has really; it expands to fill it. Or (_b_) contractive forces: the
multiplicity ideally exists within; e. g. attraction of gravitation;
matter trying to find the centre of the earth, its ideal. The will acts
in this way: The ideal is changed first, and draws the real after it. I
first destroy, in thought and will, the identity of ideal and real; the
tension resulting is force. Thinking, since it deals with the universal
(or the potential _and_ the actual) is an original source of force, and,
as will result in the sequel from a reverse analysis (see below, V. 3,
_c_) the _only_ source of force.
II. Persistence of force requires an unrestorable equilibrium; in moving
to restore one equilibrium, it must destroy another—its equivalent.
III. But this contradicts the above developed conception of force as
follows: (_a_) Since force results from destroyed equilibrium, it
follows (_b_) that it requires as much force to destroy the equilibrium
as is developed in the restoring of it (and this notion is the basis of
the correlation theory). But (_c_) if the first equilibrium (already
destroyed) can only be restored by the destroying of another equal to
the same, it has already formed an equilibrium with the second, and the
occasion of the motion is removed.
If two forces are equal and opposed, which will give way?
By this dialectic consideration of force, we learn the insufficiency of
the theory of correlation as the ultimate truth. Instead of being “the
sole truth, which transcends experience by underlying it” (p. 258), we
are obliged to confess that this “persistence of force” rests on the
category of causality; its thin disguise consists in the substitution of
other words for the metaphysical expression, “Every effect must be equal
to its cause.” And this, when tortured in the crucible, confesses that
the only efficient cause is “_causi sui_;” hence the effect is equal to
its cause, because it is the cause.
And the correlation theory results in showing that force cannot be,
unless self-originated.
That self-determination is the inevitable result, no matter what
hypothesis be assumed, is also evident. Taking all counter-hypotheses
and generalizing them, we have this analysis:
I. Any and every being is determined from without through another. (This
theorem includes all anti-self-determination doctrines.)
II. It results from this that any and every being is dependent upon
another and is a finite one; it cannot be isolated without destroying
it. Hence it results that every being is an element of a whole that
includes _it_ as a subordinate moment.
III. Dependent being, as a subordinate element, cannot be said to
support any thing attached to it, for its own support is not in itself
but in another, namely, the whole that includes it. From this it results
that no dependent being can depend upon another dependent being, but
rather upon the including whole.
The including whole is therefore not a dependent; since it is for
itself, and each element is determined through it, and for it, it may be
called the _negative_ unity (or the unity which negates the independence
of the elements).
_Remark._—A chain of dependent beings collapses into one dependent
being. Dependence is not converted into independence by simple
multiplication. All dependence is thus an element of an independent
whole.
IV. What is the _character_ of this independent whole, this _negative
unity_? “Character” means determination, and we are prepared to say that
its determination cannot be through another, for then it would be a
dependent, and we should be referred again to the whole, including it.
Its determination by which the multiplicity of elements arises is hence
its own self-determination. Thus all finitude and dependence presupposes
as its condition, self-determination.
V. Self-determination more closely examined exhibits some remarkable
results, (which will throw light on the discussion of “Essence and
Phenomena” above):
(1.) It is “_causa sui_;” active and passive; existing dually as
determining and determined; this self-diremption produces a distinction
in itself which is again cancelled.
(2.) As determiner (or active, or cause), it is the pure universal—the
_possibility of any_ determinations. But as _determined_ (passive or
effect) it is the special, the particular, the one-sided reality that
enters into change.
(3.) But it is “negative unity” of these two sides, and hence an
individual. The pure universal whose negative relation to itself as
determiner makes the particular, completes itself to individuality
through this act.
(_a._) Since its pure universality is the substrate of its
determination, and at the same time a self-related activity (or
negativity), it at once becomes its own object.
(_b._) Its activity (limiting or determining)—a pure negativity—turned
to itself as object, dissolves the particular in the universal, and thus
continually realizes its subjectivity.
(_c._) Hence these two sides of the negative unity are more properly
subject and object, and since they are identical (_causa sui_) we may
name the result “self-consciousness.”
The absolute truth of all truths, then, is that self-consciousness is
the form of the Total. God is a Person, or rather _the_ Person. Through
His self-consciousness (thought of Himself) he makes Himself an object
to Himself (Nature), and in the same act cancels it again into His own
image (finite spirit), and thus comprehends Himself in this
self-revelation.
Two remarks must be made here: (1.) This is not “Pantheism;” for it
results that God is a Person; and secondly Nature is a self-cancelling
side in the process; thirdly, the so-called “finite spirit,” or man, is
immortal, since otherwise he would not be the last link of the chain;
but such he is, because he can develop out of his sensuous life to pure
thought, unconditioned by time and space, and hence he can surpass any
_fixed_ “higher intelligence,” no matter how high created.
(2.) It is the result that all profound thinkers have arrived at.
Aristotle (Metaphysics XI. 6 & 7) carries this whole question of motion
back to its presupposition in a mode of treatment, “_sub quadam specie
æternitatis_.” He concludes thus: “The thinking, however, of that which
is purely for itself, is a thinking of that which is most excellent in
and for itself.
“The thinking thinks itself, however, through participation in that
which is thought by it; it becomes this object in its own activity, in
such a manner that the subject and object are identical. For the
apprehending of thought and essence is what constitutes reason. The
activity of thinking produces that which is perceived; so that the
activity is rather that which Reason seems to have of a divine nature;
speculation [pure thinking] is the most excellent employment; if, then,
God is always engaged in this, as we are at times, He is admirable, and
if in a higher degree, more admirable. But He _is_ in this pure
thinking, and life too belongs to Him; for the activity of thought is
life. He is this activity. The activity, returning into itself, is the
most excellent and eternal life. We say, therefore, that God is an
eternal and the best living being. So that life and duration are
uninterrupted and eternal; for this is God.”
When one gets rid of those “images of sense” called by Spencer
“conceivables,” and arrives at the “unpicturable notions of
intelligence,” he will find it easy to reduce the vexed antinomies of
force, matter, motion, time, space and causality; arriving at the
fundamental principle—self-determination—he will be able to make a
science of Biology. The organic realm will not yield to dualistic
Reflection. Goethe is the great pioneer of the school of physicists that
will spring out of the present activity of Reflection when it shall have
arrived at a perception of its method.
_Resumé._—Mr. Spencer’s results, so far as philosophy is concerned, may
be briefly summed up under four general heads: 1. Psychology. 2.
Ontology. 3. Theology. 4. Cosmology.
PSYCHOLOGY.
(1.) Conception is a mere picture in the mind; therefore what cannot be
pictured cannot be conceived; therefore the Infinite, the Absolute, God,
Essence, Matter, Motion, Force—anything, in short, that involves
mediation—cannot be conceived; hence they are unknowable.
(2.) Consciousness is self-knowing; but that subject and object are one,
is impossible. We can neither know ourselves nor any real being.
(3.) All reasoning or explaining is the subsuming of a somewhat under a
more general category; hence the highest category is unsubsumed, and
hence inexplicable.
(4.) Our intellectual faculties may be improved to a certain extent, and
beyond this, no amount of training can avail anything. (Biology, vol. I,
p. 188.)
(5.) The “substance of consciousness” is the basis of our ideas of
persistence of Force, Matter, etc.
(6.) All knowing is relative; our knowledge of this fact, however, is
not relative but absolute.
ONTOLOGY.
(1.) All that we know is phenomenal. The reality passes all
understanding. In the phenomenon the essence is “manifested,” but still
it is not revealed thereby; it remains hidden behind it, inscrutable to
our perception.
(2.) And yet, since all our knowledge is relative, we have an obscure
knowledge of the hidden and inscrutable essence of the correlate of our
knowledge of phenomena. We know that it exists.
(3.) Though what is inconceivable is for that reason unknowable, yet we
know that persistence belongs to force, motion and matter; it is a
positive result of our “mental structure,” although we cannot conceive
either destructibility or indestructibility.
(4.) Though self-consciousness is an impossibility, yet it sometimes
occurs, since the “substance of consciousness” is the object of
consciousness when it decides upon the persistence of the Universe, and
of Force, Matter, etc.
THEOLOGY.
The Supreme Being is unknown and unknowable; unrevealed and
unrevealable, either naturally or supernaturally; for to reveal,
requires that some one shall comprehend what is revealed. The sole
doctrine of Religion of great value is the doctrine that God transcends
the human intellect. When Religion professes to reveal Him to man and
declare His attributes, then it is irreligious. Though God is the
unknown, yet personality, reason, consciousness, etc., are degrading
when applied to Him. The “Thirty-nine Articles” should be condensed into
one, thus: “There is an Unknown which I know that I cannot know.“
“Religions are envelopes of truth which reveal to the lower, and conceal
to the higher.” “They are modes of manifestation of the unknowable.”
COSMOLOGY.
“Evolution is a change from an indefinite, incoherent homogeneity, to a
definite, coherent heterogeneity; through continuous differentiations
and integrations.” This is the law of the Universe. All progresses to an
equilibration—to a moving equilibrium.
INTRODUCTION TO FICHTE’S SCIENCE OF KNOWLEDGE.
TRANSLATED BY A. E. KROEGER.
[NOTE.—In presenting this “Introduction” to the readers of the
Journal of Speculative Philosophy, we believe we afford them the
easiest means of gaining an insight into Fichte’s great work on the
Science of Knowledge. The present introduction was written by Fichte
in 1797, three years after the first publication of his full system.
It is certainly written in a remarkably clear and vigorous style, so
as to be likely to arrest the attention even of those who have but
little acquaintance with the rudiments of the Science of Philosophy.
This led us to give it the preference over other essays, also
written by Fichte, as Introductions to his Science of Knowledge. A
translation of the Science of Knowledge, by Mr. Kroeger, is at
present in course of publication in New York. This article is,
moreover, interesting as being a more complete unfolding of the
doctrine of Plato upon Method, heretofore announced.—ED.]
PRELIMINARY REMARKS.
De re, quæ agitur, petimus, ut homines, eam non opinionem, sed opus
esse, cogitent ac pro certo habeant, non sectæ nos alicujus, aut
placiti, sed utilitatis et amplitudinis humanæ fundamenta moliri.
Deinde, ut, suis commodis æqui, in commune consulant, et ipsi in
partem veniant.—_Baco de Verulamio._
The author of the Science of Knowledge was soon convinced, through a
slight acquaintance with the philosophical literature since the
appearance of Kant’s Critiques, that the object of this great man—to
effect a total reform in the study of philosophy, and hence of all
science—had resulted in a failure, since not one of his numerous
successors appeared to understand what he had really spoken of. The
author believed that he had understood the latter; he resolved to devote
his life to a representation—totally independent from Kant’s—of that
great discovery, and he will not give up this resolve. Whether he will
succeed better in making himself understood to his age, time alone can
show. At all events, he knows that nothing true and useful, which has
once been given to mankind, is lost, though only remote posterity should
learn how to use it.
Determined by my academical vocation, I wrote, in the first instance,
for my hearers, with whom it was in my power to explain myself in words
until I was understood.
This is not the place to testify how much cause I have to be satisfied
with my efforts, and to entertain, of some of my students, the best
hopes for science. That book of mine has also become known elsewhere,
and there are various opinions afloat concerning it amongst the learned.
A judgment, which even pretended to bring forth arguments, I have
neither read nor heard, except from my students; but I have both heard
and read a vast amount of derision, denunciation, and the general
assurance that everybody is heartily opposed to this doctrine, and the
confession that no one can understand it. As far as the latter is
concerned, I will cheerfully assume all the blame, until others shall
represent it so as to make it comprehensible, when students will
doubtless discover that my representation was not so very bad after all;
or I will assume it altogether and unconditionally, if the reader
thereby should be encouraged to study the present representation, in
which I shall endeavor to be as clear as possible. I shall continue
these representations so long as I am convinced that I do not write
altogether in vain. But I write in vain when nobody examines my
argument.
I still owe my readers the following explanations: I have always said,
and say again, that my system is the same as Kant’s. That is to say, it
contains the same view of the subject, but is totally independent of
Kant’s mode of representation. I have said this, not to cover myself by
a great authority, or to support my doctrine except by itself, but in
order to say the truth and to be just.
Perhaps it may be proven after twenty years. Kant is as yet a sealed
book, and what he has been understood to teach, is exactly what he
intended to eradicate.
My writings are neither to explain Kant, nor to be explained by his;
they must stand by themselves, and Kant must not be counted in the game
at all. My object is—let me say it frankly—not to correct or amplify
such philosophical reflections as may be current, be they called
anti-Kant or Kant, but to totally eradicate them, and to effect a
complete revolution in the mode of thinking regarding these subjects, so
that hereafter the Object will be posited and determined by Knowledge
(Reason), and not _vice versa_; and this seriously, not merely in words.
Let no one object: “If this system is true, certain axioms cannot be
upheld,” for I do not intend that anything should be upheld which this
system refutes.
Again: “I do not understand this book,” is to me a very uninteresting
and insignificant confession. No one can and shall understand my
writings, without having studied them; for they do not contain a lesson
heretofore taught, but something—since Kant has not been
understood—altogether new to the age.
Censure without argument tells me simply that my doctrine does not
please; and this confession is again very unimportant; for the question
is not at all, whether it pleases you or not, but whether it has been
proven. In the present sketch I write only for those, in whom there
still dwells an inner sense of love for truth; who still value science
and conviction, and who are impelled by a lively zeal to seek truth.
With those, who, by long spiritual slavery, have lost with the faith in
their own conviction their faith in the conviction of others; who
consider it folly if anybody attempts to seek truth for himself; who see
nothing in science but a comfortable mode of subsistence; who are
horrified at every proposition to enlarge its boundaries involving as a
new labor, and who consider no means disgraceful by which they can hope
to suppress him who makes such a proposition,—with those I have nothing
to do.
I should be sorry if _they_ understood me. Hitherto this wish of mine
has been realized; and I hope, even now, that these present lines will
so confuse them that they can perceive nothing more in them than mere
words, while that which represents their mind is torn hither and thither
by their ill-concealed rage.
INTRODUCTION.
I. Attend to thyself; turn _thine_ eye away from all that surrounds thee
and into _thine_ own inner self! Such is the first task imposed upon the
student by Philosophy. We speak of nothing that is without thee, but
merely of thyself.
The slightest self-observation must show every one a remarkable
difference between the various immediate conditions of his
consciousness, which we may also call representations. For some of them
appear altogether dependent upon our freedom, and we cannot possibly
believe that there is without us anything corresponding to them. Our
imagination, our will, appears to us as free. Others, however, we refer
to a Truth as their model, which is held to be firmly fixed, independent
of us; and in determining such representations, we find ourselves
conditioned by the necessity of their harmony with this Truth. In the
knowledge of them we do not consider ourselves free, as far as their
contents are concerned. In short: while some of our representations are
accompanied by the feeling of freedom, others are accompanied by the
feeling of necessity.
Reasonably the question cannot arise—why are the representations
dependent upon our freedom determined in precisely this manner, and not
otherwise? For in supposing them to be dependent upon our freedom, all
application of the conception of a ground is rejected; they are thus,
because I so fashioned them, and if I had fashioned them differently,
they would be otherwise.
But it is certainly a question worthy of reflection—what is the ground
of the system of those representations which are accompanied by the
feeling of necessity and of that feeling of necessity itself? To answer
this question is the object of philosophy; and, in my opinion, nothing
is philosophy but the Science which solves this problem. The system of
those representations, which are accompanied by the feeling of
necessity, is also called _Experience_—internal as well as external
experience. Philosophy, therefore, to say the same thing in other words,
has to find the ground of all Experience.
Only three objections can be raised against this. Somebody might deny
that representations, accompanied by the feeling of necessity, and
referred to a Truth determined without any action of ours, do ever occur
in our consciousness. Such a person would either deny his own knowledge,
or be altogether differently constructed from other men; in which latter
case his denial would be of no concern to us. Or somebody might say: the
question is completely unanswerable, we are in irremovable ignorance
concerning it, and must remain so. To enter into argument with such a
person is altogether superfluous. The best reply he can receive is an
actual answer to the question, and then all he can do is to examine our
answer, and tell us why and in what matters it does not appear
satisfactory to him. Finally, somebody might quarrel about the
designation, and assert: “Philosophy is something else than what you
have stated above, or at least something else besides.” It might be
easily shown to such a one, that scholars have at all times designated
exactly what we have just stated to be Philosophy, and that whatever
else he might assert to be Philosophy, has already another name, and
that if this word signifies anything at all, it must mean exactly this
Science. But as we are not inclined to enter upon any dispute about
words, we, for our part, have already given up the name of Philosophy,
and have called the Science which has the solution of this problem for
its object, the _Science of Knowledge_.
II. Only when speaking of something, which we consider accidental, i. e.
which we suppose might also have been otherwise, though it was not
determined by freedom, can we ask for its ground; and by this very
asking for its ground does it become accidental to the questioner. To
find the ground of anything accidental means, to find something else,
from the determinedness of which it can be seen why the accidental,
amongst the various conditions it might have assumed, assumed precisely
the one it did. The ground lies—by the very thinking of a ground—beyond
its Grounded, and both are, in so far as they are Ground and Grounded,
opposed to each other, related to each other, and thus the latter is
explained from the former.
Now Philosophy is to discover the ground of all experience; hence its
object lies necessarily _beyond all Experience_. This sentence applies
to all Philosophy, and has been so applied always heretofore, if we
except these latter days of Kant’s misconstruers and their facts of
consciousness, i. e. of inner experience.
No objection can be raised to this paragraph; for the premise of our
conclusion is a mere analysis of the above-stated conception of
Philosophy, and from the premise the conclusion is drawn. If somebody
should wish to remind us that the conception of a ground must be
differently explained, we can, to be sure, not prevent him from forming
another conception of it, if he so chooses; but we declare, on the
strength of our good right, that _we_, in the above description of
Philosophy, wish to have nothing else understood by that word. Hence, if
it is not to be so understood, the possibility of Philosophy, as we have
described it, must be altogether denied, and such a denial we have
replied to in our first section.
III. The finite intelligence has nothing beyond experience; experience
contains the whole substance of its thinking. The philosopher stands
necessarily under the same conditions, and hence it seems impossible
that he can elevate himself beyond experience.
But he can abstract; i. e. he can separate by the freedom of thinking
what in experience is united. In Experience, _the Thing_—that which is
to be determined in itself independent of our freedom, and in accordance
with which our knowledge is to shape itself—and the Intelligence—which
is to obtain a knowledge of it—are inseparably united. The philosopher
may abstract from both, and if he does, he has abstracted from
Experience and elevated himself above it. If he abstracts from the
first, he retains an intelligence _in itself_, i. e. abstracted from its
relation to experience; if he abstract from the latter, he retains the
Thing _in itself_, i. e. abstracted from the fact that it occurs in
experience; and thus retains the Intelligence in itself, or the “Thing
in itself,” as the explanatory ground of Experience. The former mode of
proceeding is called _Idealism_, the latter _Dogmatism_.
Only these two philosophical systems—and of that these remarks should
convince everybody—are possible. According to the first system the
representations, which are accompanied by the feeling of necessity, are
productions of the Intelligence, which must be presupposed in their
explanation; according to the latter system they are the productions of
a thing in itself which must be presupposed to explain them. If anybody
desired to deny this, he would have to prove that there is still another
way to go beyond experience than the one by means of abstraction, or
that the consciousness of experience contains more than the two
components just mentioned.
Now in regard to the first, it will appear below, it is true, that what
we have here called Intelligence does, indeed, occur in consciousness
under another name, and hence is not altogether produced by abstraction;
but it will at the same time be shown that the consciousness of it is
conditioned by an abstraction, which, however, occurs naturally to
mankind.
We do not at all deny that it is possible to compose a whole system from
fragments of these incongruous systems, and that this illogical labor
has often been undertaken; but we do deny that more than these two
systems are possible in a logical course of proceeding.
IV. Between the object—(we shall call the explanatory ground of
experience, which a philosophy asserts, the _object of that philosophy_,
since it appears to be only through and for such philosophy)—between the
object of _Idealism_ and that of _Dogmatism_ there is a remarkable
distinction in regard to their relation to consciousness generally. All
whereof I am conscious is called object of consciousness. There are
three ways in which the object can be related to consciousness. Either
it appears to have been produced by the representation, or as existing
without any action of ours; and in the latter case, as either also
determined in regard to its qualitativeness, or as existing merely in
regard to its existence, while determinable in regard to its
qualitativeness by the free intelligence.
The first relation applies merely to an imaginary object; the second
merely to an object of Experience; the third applies only to an object,
which we shall at once proceed to describe.
I can determine myself by freedom to think, for instance, the Thing in
itself of the Dogmatists. Now if I am to abstract from the thought and
look simply upon myself, I myself become the object of a particular
representation. That I appear to myself as determined in precisely this
manner, and none other, e. g. as thinking, and as thinking of all
possible thoughts—precisely this Thing in itself, is to depend
exclusively upon my own freedom of self-determination; I have made
myself such a particular object out of my own free will. I have not made
_myself_; on the contrary, I am forced to think myself in advance as
determinable through this self-determination. Hence I am myself my own
object, the determinateness of which, under certain conditions, depends
altogether upon the intelligence, but the existence of which must always
be presupposed. Now this very “I” is the object of Idealism. The object
of this system does not occur actually as something real in
consciousness, not as a _Thing in itself_—for then Idealism would cease
to be what it is, and become Dogmatism—but as _“I” in itself_; not as an
object of Experience—for it is not determined, but is exclusively
determinable through my freedom, and without this determination it would
be nothing, and is really not at all—but as something beyond all
Experience.
The object of Dogmatism, on the contrary, belongs to the objects of the
first class, which are produced solely by free Thinking. The Thing in
itself is a mere invention, and has no reality at all. It does not occur
in Experience, for the system of Experience is nothing else than
Thinking accompanied by the feeling of necessity, and can not even be
said to be anything else by the dogmatist, who, like every philosopher,
has to explain its cause. True, the dogmatist wants to obtain reality
for it through the necessity of thinking it as ground of all experience,
and would succeed, if he could prove that experience can be, and can be
explained only by means of it. But this is the very thing in dispute,
and he cannot presuppose what must first be proven.
Hence the object of Idealism has this advantage over the object of
Dogmatism, that it is not to be deduced as the explanatory ground of
Experience—which would be a contradiction, and change this system itself
into a part of Experience—but that it is, nevertheless, to be pointed
out as a part of consciousness; whereas, the object of Dogmatism can
pass for nothing but a mere invention, which obtains validity only
through the success of the system.
This we have said merely to promote a clearer insight into the
distinction between the two systems, but not to draw from it conclusions
against the latter system. That the object of every philosophy, as
explanatory ground of Experience, must lie beyond all experience, is
required by the very nature of Philosophy, and is far from being
derogatory to a system. But we have as yet discovered no reasons why
that object should also occur in a particular manner within
consciousness.
If anybody should not be able to convince himself of the truth of what
we have just said, this would not make his conviction of the truth of
the whole system an impossibility, since what we have just said was only
intended as a passing remark. Still in conformity to our plan we will
also here take possible objections into consideration. Somebody might
deny the asserted immediate self-consciousness in a free act of the
mind. Such a one we should refer to the conditions stated above. This
self-consciousness does not obtrude itself upon us, and comes not of its
own accord; it is necessary first to act free, and next to abstract from
the object, and attend to one’s self. Nobody can be forced to do this,
and though he may say he has done it, it is impossible to say whether he
has done it correctly. In one word, this consciousness cannot be proven
to any one, but everybody must freely produce it within himself. Against
the second assertion, that the “Thing in itself” is a mere invention, an
objection could only be raised, because it were misunderstood.
V. Neither of these two systems can directly refute the other; for their
dispute is a dispute about the first principle; each system—if you only
admit its first axiom—proves the other one wrong; each denies all to the
opposite, and these two systems have no point in common from which they
might bring about a mutual understanding and reconciliation. Though they
may agree on the words of a sentence, they will surely attach a
different meaning to the words.
(Hence the reason why Kant has not been understood and why the Science
of Knowledge can find no friends. The systems of Kant and of the Science
of Knowledge are _idealistic_—not in the general indefinite, but in the
just described definite sense of the word; but the modern philosophers
are all of them dogmatists, and are firmly resolved to remain so. Kant
was merely tolerated, because it was possible to make a dogmatist out of
him; but the Science of Knowledge, which cannot be thus construed, is
insupportable to these wise men. The rapid extension of Kant’s
philosophy—when it was thus misunderstood—is not a proof of the
profundity, but rather of the shallowness of the age. For in this shape
it is the most wonderful abortion ever created by human imagination, and
it does little honor to its defenders that they do not perceive this. It
can also be shown that this philosophy was accepted so greedily only
because people thought it would put a stop to all serious speculation,
and continue the era of shallow Empiricism.)
First. Idealism cannot refute Dogmatism. True, the former system has the
advantage, as we have already said, of being enabled to point out its
explanatory ground of all experience—the free acting intelligence—as a
fact of consciousness. This fact the dogmatist must also admit, for
otherwise he would render himself incapable of maintaining the argument
with his opponent; but he at the same time, by a correct conclusion from
his principle, changes this explanatory ground into a deception and
appearance, and thus renders it incapable of being the explanatory
ground of anything else, since it cannot maintain its own existence in
its own philosophy. According to the Dogmatist, all phenomena of our
consciousness are productions of a _Thing in itself_, even our pretended
determinations by freedom, and the belief that we are free. This belief
is produced by the effect of the Thing upon ourselves, and the
determinations, which we deduced from freedom, are also produced by it.
The only difference is, that we are not aware of it in these cases, and
hence ascribe it to no cause, i. e. to our freedom. Every logical
dogmatist is necessarily a Fatalist; he does not deny the fact of
consciousness, that we consider ourselves free—for this would be against
reason;—but he proves from his principle that this is a false view. He
denies the independence of the _Ego_, which is the basis of the
Idealist, _in toto_, makes it merely a production of the Thing, an
accidence of the World; and hence the logical dogmatist is necessarily
also materialist. He can only be refuted from the postulate of the
freedom and independence of the _Ego_; but this is precisely what he
denies. Neither can the dogmatist refute the Idealist.
The principle of the former, the Thing in itself, is nothing, and has no
reality, as its defenders themselves must admit, except that which it is
to receive from the fact that experience can only be explained by it.
But this proof the Idealist annihilates by explaining experience in
another manner, hence by denying precisely what dogmatism assumes. Thus
the Thing in itself becomes a complete Chimera; there is no further
reason why it should be assumed; and with it the whole edifice of
dogmatism tumbles down.
From what we have just stated, is moreover evident the complete
irreconcilability of both systems; since the _results_ of the one
destroy those of the other. Wherever their union has been attempted the
members would not fit together, and somewhere an immense gulf appeared
which could not be spanned.
If any one were to deny this he would have to prove the possibility of
such a union—of a union which consists in an everlasting composition of
Matter and Spirit, or, which is the same, of Necessity and Liberty.
Now since, as far as we can see at present, both systems appear to have
the same speculative value, but since both cannot stand together, nor
yet either convince the other, it occurs as a very interesting question:
What can possibly tempt persons who comprehend this—and to comprehend it
is so very easy a matter—to prefer the one over the other; and why
skepticism, as the total renunciation of an answer to this problem, does
not become universal?
The dispute between the Idealist and the Dogmatist is, in reality, the
question, whether the independence of the _Ego_ is to be sacrificed to
that of the Thing, or _vice versa_? What, then, is it, which induces
sensible men to decide in favor of the one or the other?
The philosopher discovers from this point of view—in which he must
necessarily place himself, if he wants to pass for a philosopher, and
which, in the progress of Thinking, every man necessarily occupies
sooner or later,—nothing farther _than that he is forced to represent to
himself_ both: that he is free, and that there are determined things
outside of him. But it is impossible for man to stop at this thought;
the thought of a representation is but a half-thought, a broken off
fragment of a thought; something must be thought and added to it, as
corresponding with the representation independent of it. In other words:
the representation cannot exist alone by itself, it is only something in
connection with something else, and in itself it is nothing. This
necessity of thinking it is, which forces one from that point of view to
the question: What is the ground of the representations? or, which is
exactly the same, What is that which corresponds with them?
Now the _representation_ of the independence of the _Ego_ and that of
the Thing can very well exist together; but not the independence
_itself_ of both. Only one can be the first, the beginning, the
independent; the second, by the very fact of being the second, becomes
necessarily dependent upon the first, with which it is to be
connected—now, which of the two is to be made the first? Reason
furnishes no ground for a decision; since the question concerns not the
connecting of one link with another, but the commencement of the first
link, which as an absolute first act is altogether conditional upon the
freedom of Thinking. Hence the decision is arbitrary; and since this
arbitrariness is nevertheless to have a cause, the decision is dependent
upon _inclination_ and _interest_. The last ground, therefore, of the
difference between the Dogmatist and the Idealist is the difference of
their interest.
The highest interest, and hence the ground of all other interest, is
that which we feel _for ourselves_. Thus with the Philosopher. Not to
lose his Self in his argumentation, but to retain and assert it, this is
the interest which unconsciously guides all his Thinking. Now, there are
two grades of mankind; and in the progress of our race, before the last
grade has been universally attained, two chief kinds of men. The one
kind is composed of those who have not yet elevated themselves to the
full feeling of their freedom and absolute independence, who are merely
conscious of themselves in the representation of outward things. These
men have only a desultory consciousness, linked together with the
outward objects, and put together out of their manifoldness. They
receive a picture of their Self only from the Things, as from a mirror;
for their own sake they cannot renounce their faith in the independence
of those things, since they exist only together with these things.
Whatever they are they have become through the outer World. Whosoever is
only a production of the Things will never view himself in any other
manner; and he is perfectly correct, so long as he speaks merely for
himself and for those like him. The principle of the dogmatist is: Faith
in the things, for their own sake; hence, mediated Faith in their own
desultory self, as simply the result of the Things.
But whosoever becomes conscious of his self-existence and independence
from all outward things—and this men can only become by making something
of themselves, through their own Self, independently of all outward
things—needs no longer the Things as supports of his Self, and cannot
use them, because they annihilate his independence and turn it into an
empty appearance. The _Ego_ which he possesses, and which interests him,
destroys that Faith in the Things; he believes in his independence, from
inclination, and seizes it with affection. His Faith in himself is
_immediate_.
From this interest the various passions are explicable, which mix
generally with the defence of these philosophical systems. The dogmatist
is in danger of losing his Self when his system is attacked; and yet he
is not armed against this attack, because there is something within him
which takes part with the aggressor; hence, he defends himself with
bitterness and heat. The idealist, on the contrary, cannot well refrain
from looking down upon his opponent with a certain carelessness, since
the latter can tell him nothing which he has not known long ago and has
cast away as useless. The dogmatist gets angry, misconstrues, and would
persecute, if he had the power; the idealist is cold and in danger of
ridiculing his antagonist.
Hence, what philosophy a man chooses depends entirely upon what kind of
man he is; for a philosophical system is not a piece of dead household
furniture, which you may use or not use, but is animated by the soul of
the man who has it. Men of a naturally weak-minded character, or who
have become weak-minded and crooked through intellectual slavery,
scholarly luxury and vanity, will never elevate themselves to idealism.
You can show the dogmatist the insufficiency and inconsequence of his
system, of which we shall speak directly; you can confuse and terrify
him from all sides; but you cannot _convince_ him, because he is unable
to listen to and examine with calmness what he cannot tolerate. If
Idealism should prove to be the only real Philosophy, it will also
appear that a man must be born a philosopher, be educated to be one, and
educate himself to be one; but that no human art (no external force) can
make a philosopher out of him. Hence, this Science expects few
proselytes from men who have already formed their character; if our
Philosophy has any hopes at all, it entertains them rather from the
young generation, the natural vigor of which has not yet been submerged
in the weak-mindedness of the age.
VI. But dogmatism is totally incapable of explaining what it should
explain, and this is decisive in regard to its insufficiency. It is to
explain the representation of things, and proposes to explain them as an
effect of the Things. Now, the dogmatist cannot deny what immediate
consciousness asserts of this representation. What, then, does it assert
thereof? It is not my purpose here to put in a conception what can only
be gathered in immediate contemplation, nor to exhaust that which forms
a great portion of the Science of Knowledge. I will merely recall to
memory what every one, who has but firmly looked within himself, must
long since have discovered.
The Intelligence, as such, _sees itself_, and this seeing of its self is
immediately connected with all that appertains to the Intelligence; and
in this immediate uniting of _Being_ and _Seeing_ the nature of the
Intelligence consists. Whatever is in the Intelligence, whatever the
Intelligence is itself, the Intelligence is _for itself_, and only in so
far as it is this _for itself_ is it this, as Intelligence.
I think this or that object! Now what does this mean, and how do I
appear to myself in this Thinking? Not otherwise than thus: I produce
certain conditions within myself, if the object is a mere invention; but
if the objects are real and exist without my invention, I simply
contemplate, as a spectator, the production of those conditions within
me. They are within me only in so far as I contemplate them; my
contemplation and their Being are inseparably united.
A Thing, on the contrary, is to be this or that; but as soon as the
question is put: _For whom_ is it this? Nobody, who but comprehends the
word, will reply: For itself! But he will have to add the thought of an
Intelligence, _for_ which the Thing is to be; while, on the contrary,
the Intelligence is self-sufficient and requires no additional thought.
By thinking it as the Intelligence you include already that for which it
is to be. Hence, there is in the Intelligence, to express myself
figuratively, a twofold—Being and Seeing, the Real and the Ideal; and in
the inseparability of this twofold the nature of the Intelligence
consists, while the Thing is simply a unit—the Real. Hence Intelligence
and Thing are directly opposed to each other; they move in two worlds,
between which there is no bridge.
The nature of the Intelligence and its particular determinations
Dogmatism endeavors to explain by the principle of Causality; the
Intelligence is to be a production, the second link in a series.
But the principle of causality applies to a _real_ series, and not to a
double one. The power of the cause goes over into an Other opposed to
it, and produces therein a Being, and nothing further; a Being for a
possible outside Intelligence, but not for the thing itself. You may
give this Other even a mechanical power, and it will transfer the
received impression to the next link, and thus the movement proceeding
from the first may be transferred through as long a series as you choose
to make; but nowhere will you find a link which reacts back upon itself.
Or give the Other the highest quality which you can give a
thing—Sensibility—whereby it will follow the laws of its own inner
nature, and not the law given to it by the cause—and it will, to be
sure, react upon the outward cause; but it will, nevertheless, remain a
mere simple Being, a Being for a possible intelligence outside of it.
The Intelligence you will not get, unless you add it in thinking as the
primary and absolute, the connection of which, with this your
_independent_ Being, you will find it very difficult to explain.
The series is and remains a simple one; and you have not at all
explained what was to be explained. You were to prove the connection
between Being and Representation; but this you do not, nor can you do
it; for your principle contains merely the ground of a Being, and not of
a Representation, totally opposed to Being. You take an immense leap
into a world, totally removed from your principle. This leap they seek
to hide in various ways. Rigorously—and this is the course of consistent
dogmatism, which thus becomes materialism;—the soul is to them no Thing
at all, and indeed nothing at all, but merely a production, the result
of the reciprocal action of Things amongst themselves. But this
reciprocal action produces merely a change in the Things, and by no
means anything apart from the Things, unless you add an observing
intelligence. The similes which they adduce to make their system
comprehensible, for instance, that of the harmony resulting from sounds
of different instruments, make its irrationality only more apparent. For
the harmony is not in the instruments, but merely in the mind of the
hearer, who combines within himself the manifold into One; and unless
you have such a hearer there is no harmony at all.
But who can prevent Dogmatism from assuming the Soul as one of the
Things, _per se_? The soul would thus belong to what it has postulated
for the solution of its problem, and, indeed, would thereby be made the
category of cause and effect applicable to the Soul and the
Things—materialism only permitting a reciprocal action of the Things
amongst themselves—and thoughts might now be produced. To make the
Unthinkable thinkable, Dogmatism has, indeed, attempted to presuppose
Thing or the Soul, or both, in such a manner, that the effect of the
Thing was to produce a representation. The Thing, as influencing the
Soul, is to be such, as to make its influences representations; GOD, for
instance, in Berkley’s system, was such a thing. (His system is
dogmatic, not idealistic.) But this does not better matters; we
understand only mechanical effects, and it is impossible for us to
understand any other kind of effects. Hence, that presupposition
contains merely words, but there is no sense in it. Or the soul is to be
of such a nature that every effect upon the Soul turns into a
representation. But this also we find it impossible to understand.
In this manner Dogmatism proceeds everywhere, whatever phase it may
assume. In the immense gulf, which in that system remains always open
between Things and Representations, it places a few empty words instead
of an explanation, which words may certainly be committed to memory, but
in saying which nobody has ever yet thought, nor ever will think,
anything. For whenever one attempts to think the manner in which is
accomplished what Dogmatism asserts to be accomplished, the whole idea
vanishes into empty foam. Hence Dogmatism can only repeat its principle,
and repeat it in different forms; can only assert and re-assert the same
thing; but it cannot proceed from what it asserts to what is to be
explained, nor ever deduce the one from the other. But in this deduction
Philosophy consists. Hence Dogmatism, even when viewed from a
speculative stand-point, is no Philosophy at all, but merely an impotent
assertion. Idealism is the only possible remaining Philosophy. What we
have here said can meet with no objection; but it may well meet with
incapability of understanding it. That all influences are of a
mechanical nature, and that no mechanism can produce a representation,
nobody will deny, who but understands the words. But this is the very
difficulty. It requires a certain degree of independence and freedom of
spirit to comprehend the nature of the intelligence, which we have
described, and upon which our whole refutation of Dogmatism is founded.
Many persons have not advanced further with their Thinking than to
comprehend the simple chain of natural mechanism, and very naturally,
therefore, the Representation, if they choose to think it at all,
belongs, in their eyes, to the same chain of which alone they have any
knowledge. The Representation thus becomes to them a sort of Thing of
which we have divers examples in some of the most celebrated
philosophical writers. For such persons Dogmatism is sufficient: for
them there is no gulf, since the opposite does not exist for them at
all. Hence you cannot convince the Dogmatist by the proof just stated,
however clear it may be, for you cannot bring the proof to his
knowledge, since he lacks the power to comprehend it.
Moreover, the manner in which Dogmatism is treated here, is opposed to
the mild way of thinking which characterizes our age, and which, though
it has been extensively accepted in all ages, has never been converted
to an express principle except in ours; i. e. that philosophers must not
be so strict in their logic; in philosophy one should not be so
particular as, for instance, in Mathematics. If persons of this mode of
thinking see but a few links of the chain and the rule, according to
which conclusions are drawn, they at once fill up the remaining part
through their imagination, never investigating further of what they may
consist. If, for instance, an Alexander Von Ioch tells them: “All things
are determined by natural necessity; now our representations depend upon
the condition of Things, and our will depends upon our representations:
hence all our will is determined by natural necessity, and our opinion
of a free will is mere deception!”—then these people think it mightily
comprehensible and clear, although there is no sense in it; and they go
away convinced and satisfied at the stringency of this his
demonstration.
I must call to mind, that the Science of Knowledge does not proceed from
this mild way of thinking, nor calculate upon it. If only a single link
in the long chain it has to draw does not fit closely to the following,
this Science does not pretend to have established anything.
VII. Idealism, as we have said above, explains the determinations of
consciousness from the activity of the Intelligence, which, in its view,
is only active and absolute, not passive; since it is postulated as the
first and highest, preceded by nothing, which might explain its
passivity. From the same reason actual _Existence_ cannot well be
ascribed to the Intelligence, since such Existence is the result of
reciprocal causality, but there is nothing wherewith the Intelligence
might be placed in reciprocal causality. From the view of Idealism, the
Intelligence is a _Doing_, and absolutely nothing else; it is even wrong
to call it _an Active_, since this expression points to something
existing, in which the activity is inherent.
But to assume anything of this kind is against the principle of
Idealism, which proposes to deduce all other things from the
Intelligence. Now certain _determined_ representations—as, for instance,
of a world, of a material world in space, existing without any work of
our own—are to be deduced from the action of the Intelligence; but you
cannot deduce anything determined from an undetermined; the form of all
deductions, the category of ground and sequence, is not applicable here.
Hence the action of the Intelligence, which is made the ground, must be
a _determined_ action, and since the action of the Intelligence itself
is the highest ground of explanation, that action must be so determined
_by the Intelligence itself_, and not by anything foreign to it. Hence
the presupposition of Idealism will be this: the Intelligence acts, but
by its very essence it can only act in a certain manner. If this
necessary manner of its action is considered apart from the action, it
may properly be called Laws of Action. Hence, there are necessary laws
of the Intelligence.
This explains also, at the same time, the feeling of necessity which
accompanies the determined representations; the Intelligence experiences
in those cases, not an impression from without, but feels in its action
the limits of its own Essence. In so far as Idealism makes this only
reasonable and really explanatory presupposition of necessary laws of
the Intelligence, it is called _Critical_ or _Transcendental Idealism_.
A transcendent Idealism would be a system which were to undertake a
deduction of determined representations from the free and perfectly
lawless action of the Intelligence: an altogether contradictory
presupposition, since, as we have said above, the category of ground and
sequence is not applicable in that case.
The laws of action of the Intelligence, as sure as they are to be
founded in the one nature of the Intelligence, constitute in themselves
a system; that is to say, the fact that the Intelligence acts in this
particular manner under this particular condition _is_ explainable, and
explainable because under a condition it has always a determined mode of
action, which again is explainable from _one_ highest fundamental law.
In the course of its action the Intelligence gives itself its own laws;
and this legislation itself is done by virtue of a higher necessary
action or Representation. For instance: the law of Causality is not a
first original law, but only one of the many modes of combining the
manifold, and to be deduced from the fundamental law of this
combination; this law of combining the manifold is again, like the
manifold itself, to be deduced from higher laws.
Hence, even Critical Idealism can proceed in a twofold manner. Either it
deduces this system of necessary modes of action, and together with it
the objective representations arising therefrom, really from the
fundamental laws of the Intelligence, and thus causes gradually to arise
under the very eyes of the reader or hearer the whole extent of our
representations; or it gathers these laws—perhaps as they are already
immediately applied to objects; hence, in a lower condition, and then
they are called categories—gathers these laws somewhere, and now
asserts, that the objects are determined and regulated by them.
I ask the critic who follows the last-mentioned method, and who does not
deduce the assumed laws of the Intelligence from the Essence of the
Intelligence, where he gets the material knowledge of these laws, the
knowledge that they are just these very same laws; for instance, that of
Substantiality or Causality? For I do not want to trouble him yet with
the question, how he knows that they are mere immanent laws of the
Intelligence. They are the laws which are immediately applied to
objects, and he can only have obtained them by abstraction from these
objects, i. e. from Experience. It is of no avail if he takes them, by a
roundabout way, from logic, for logic is to him only the result of
abstraction from the objects, and hence he would do indirectly, what
directly might appear too clearly in its true nature. Hence he can prove
by nothing that his postulated Laws of Thinking are really Laws of
Thinking, are really nothing but immanent laws of the Intelligence. The
Dogmatist asserts in opposition, that they are not, but that they are
general qualities of Things, founded on the nature of Things, and there
is no reason why we should place more faith in the unproved assertion of
the one than in the unproved assertion of the other. This course of
proceeding, indeed, furnishes no understanding that and why the
Intelligence should act just in this particular manner. To produce such
an understanding, it would be necessary to premise something which can
only appertain to the Intelligence, and from those premises to deduce
before our eyes the laws of Thinking.
By such a course of proceeding it is above all incomprehensible how the
object itself is obtained; for although you may admit the unproved
postulates of the critic, they explain nothing further than the
_qualities_ and _relations_ of the Thing: (that it is, for instance, in
space, manifested in time, with accidences which must be referred to a
substance, &c.) But whence that which has these relations and qualities?
whence then the substance which is clothed in these forms? This
substance Dogmatism takes refuge in, and you have but increased the
evil.
We know very well: the Thing arises only from an act done in accordance
with these laws, and is, indeed, nothing else than _all these relations
gathered together by the power of imagination_; and all these relations
together are the Thing. The Object is the original Synthesis of all
these conceptions. Form and Substance are not separates; the whole
formness is the substance, and only in the analysis do we arrive at
separate forms.
But this the critic, who follows the above method, can only assert, and
it is even a secret whence he knows it, if he does know it. Until you
cause the whole Thing to arise before the eyes of the thinker, you have
not pursued Dogmatism into its last hiding places. But this is only
possible by letting the Intelligence act in its whole, and not in its
partial, lawfulness.
Hence, an Idealism of this character is unproven and unprovable. Against
Dogmatism it has no other weapon than the assertion that it is in the
right; and against the more perfected criticism no other weapon than
impotent anger, and the assurance that you can go no further than itself
goes.
Finally a system of this character puts forth only those laws, according
to which the objects of external experience are determined. But these
constitute by far the smallest portion of the laws of the Intelligence.
Hence, on the field of Practical Reason and of Reflective Judgment, this
half criticism, lacking the insight into the whole procedure of reason,
gropes about as in total darkness.
The method of complete transcendental Idealism, which the Science of
Knowledge pursues, I have explained once before in my Essay, _On the
conception of the Science of Knowledge_. I cannot understand why that
Essay has not been understood; but suffice it to say, that I am assured
it has not been understood. I am therefore compelled to repeat what I
have said, and to recall to mind that everything depends upon the
correct understanding thereof.
This Idealism proceeds from a single fundamental Law of Reason, which is
immediately shown as contained in consciousness. This is done in the
following manner: The teacher of that Science requests his reader or
hearer to think freely a certain conception. If he does so, he will find
himself forced to proceed in a particular manner. Two things are to be
distinguished here: the act of Thinking, which is required—the
realization of which depends upon each individual’s freedom,—and unless
he realizes it thus, he will not understand anything which the Science
of Knowledge teaches; and the necessary manner in which it alone can be
realized, which manner is grounded in the Essence of the Intelligence,
and does not depend upon freedom; it is something _necessary_, but which
is only discovered in and together with a free action; it is something
_discovered_, but the discovery of which depends upon an act of freedom.
So far as this goes, the teacher of Idealism shows his assertion to be
contained in immediate consciousness. But that this necessary manner is
the fundamental law of all reason, that from it the whole system of our
necessary representations, not only of a world and the determinedness
and relations of objects, but also of ourselves, as free and practical
beings acting under laws, can be deduced. All this is a mere
presupposition, which can only be proven by the actual deduction, which
deduction is therefore the real business of the teacher.
In realizing this deduction, he proceeds as follows: _He shows that the
first fundamental law which was discovered in immediate consciousness,
is not possible, unless a second action is combined with it, which again
is not possible without a third action; and so on, until the conditions
of the First are completely exhausted, and itself is now made perfectly
comprehensible in its possibility_. The teacher’s method is a continual
progression from the conditioned to the condition. The condition becomes
again conditioned, and its condition is next to be discovered.
If the presupposition of Idealism is correct, and if no errors have been
made in the deduction, the last result, as containing all the conditions
of the first act, must contain the system of all necessary
representations, or the total experience;—a comparison, however, which
is not instituted in Philosophy itself, but only after that science has
finished its work.
For Idealism has not kept this experience in sight, as the preknown
object and result, which it should arrive at; in its course of
proceeding it knows nothing at all of experience, and does not look upon
it; it proceeds from its starting point according to its rules, careless
as to what the result of its investigations might turn out to be. The
right angle, from which it has to draw its straight line, is given to
it; is there any need of another point to which the line should be
drawn? Surely not; for all the points of its line are already given to
it with the angle. A certain number is given to you. You suppose that it
is the product of certain factors. All you have to do is to search for
the product of these factors according to the well-known rules. Whether
that product will agree with the given number, you will find out,
without any difficulty, as soon as you have obtained it. The given
number is the total experience; those factors are: the part of immediate
consciousness which was discovered, and the laws of Thinking; the
multiplication is the Philosophizing. Those who advise you, while
philosophizing, also to keep an eye upon experience, advise you to
change the factors a little, and to multiply falsely, so as to obtain by
all means corresponding numbers; a course of proceeding as dishonest as
it is shallow. In so far as those final results of Idealism are viewed
as such, as consequences of our reasoning, they are what is called the
_a priori_ of the human mind; and in so far as they are viewed, also—if
they should agree with experience—as given in experience, they are
called _a posteriori_. Hence the _a priori_ and the _a posteriori_ are,
in a true Philosophy, not two, but one and the same, only viewed in two
different ways, and distinguished only by the manner in which they are
obtained. Philosophy anticipates the whole experience, _thinks_ it only
as necessary; and, in so far, Philosophy is, in comparison with real
experience, _a priori_. The number is _a posteriori_, if regarded as
given; the same number is _a priori_, if regarded as product of the
factors. Whosoever says otherwise knows not what he talks about.
If the results of a Philosophy do not agree with experience, that
Philosophy is surely wrong; for it has not fulfilled its promise of
deducing the whole experience from the necessary action of the
intelligence. In that case, either the presupposition of transcendental
Idealism is altogether incorrect, or it has merely been incorrectly
treated in the particular representation of that science. Now, since the
problem, to explain experience from its ground, is a problem contained
in human reason, and as no rational man will admit that human reason
contains any problem the solution of which is altogether impossible; and
since, moreover, there are only two ways of solving it, the dogmatic
system (which, as we have shown, cannot accomplish what it promises) and
the Idealistic system, every resolute Thinker will always declare that
the latter has been the case; that the presupposition in itself is
correct enough, and that no failure in attempts to represent it should
deter men from attempting it again until finally it must succeed. The
course of this Idealism proceeds, as we have seen, from a fact of
consciousness—but which is only obtained by a free act of Thinking—to
the total experience. Its peculiar ground is between these two. It is
not a fact of consciousness and does not belong within the sphere of
experience; and, indeed, how could it be called Philosophy if it did,
since Philosophy has to discover the ground of experience, and since the
ground lies, of course, beyond the sequence. It is the production of
free Thinking, but proceeding according to laws. This will be at once
clear, if we look a little closer at the fundamental assertion of
Idealism. It proves that the Postulated is not possible without a
second, this not without a third, &c., &c.; hence none of all its
conditions is possible alone and by itself, but each one is only
possible in its union with all the rest. Hence, according to its own
assertion, only the Whole is found in consciousness, and this Whole is
the experience. You want to obtain a better knowledge of it; hence you
must analyze it, not by blindly groping about, but according to the
fixed rule of composition, so that it arises under your eyes as a Whole.
You are enabled to do this because you have the power of abstraction;
because in free Thinking you can certainly take hold of each single
condition. For consciousness contains not only necessity of
Representations, but also freedom thereof; and this freedom again may
proceed according to rules. The Whole is given to you from the point of
view of necessary consciousness; you find it just as you find yourself.
But the _composition_ of this Whole, the order of its arrangement, is
produced by freedom. Whosoever undertakes this act of freedom, becomes
conscious of freedom, and thus establishes, as it were, a new field
within his consciousness; whosoever does not undertake it, for him this
new field, dependent thereupon, does not exist. The chemist composes a
body, a metal for instance, from its elements. The common beholder sees
the metal well known to him; the chemist beholds, moreover, the
composition thereof and the elements which it comprises. Do both now see
different objects? I should think not! Both see the same, only in a
different manner. The chemist’s sight is _a priori_; he sees the
separates; the ordinary beholder’s sight is _a posteriori_; he sees the
Whole. The only distinction is this: the chemist must first analyze the
Whole before he can compose it, because he works upon an object of which
he cannot know the rule of composition before he has analyzed it; while
the philosopher can compose without a foregoing analysis, because he
knows already the rule of his object, of reason.
Hence the content of Philosophy can claim no other reality than that of
necessary Thinking, on the condition that you desire to think of the
ground of Experience. The Intelligence can only be thought as active,
and can only be thought active in this particular manner! Such is the
assertion of Philosophy. And this reality is perfectly sufficient for
Philosophy, since it is evident from the development of that science
that there is no other reality.
This now described complete critical Idealism, the Science of Knowledge
intends to establish. What I have said just now contains the conception
of that science, and I shall listen to no objections which may touch
this conception, since no one can know better than myself what I intend
to accomplish, and to demonstrate the impossibility of a thing which is
already realized, is ridiculous.
Objections, to be legitimate, should only be raised against the
elaboration of that conception, and should only consider whether it has
fulfilled what it promised to accomplish or not.
ANALYTICAL AND CRITICAL ESSAY UPON THE ÆSTHETICS OF HEGEL.
[Translated from the French of M. Ch. Bénard by J. A. Martling.]
ANALYSIS.
Having undertaken to translate into our language the Æsthetics of Hegel,
we hope to render a new service to our readers, by presenting, in an
analysis at once cursory and detailed the outline of the ideas which
form the basis of that vast work. The thought of the author will appear
shorn of its rich developments; but it will be more easy to seize the
general spirit, the connection of the various parts of the work, and to
appreciate their value. In order not to mar the clearness of our work,
we shall abstain from mingling criticism with exposition; but reserve
for the conclusion a general judgment upon this book, which represents
even to-day the state of the philosophy of art in Germany.
The work is divided into three parts; the first treats _of the beautiful
in art in general_; _the second, of the general forms of art in its
historic development_; _the third contains the system of the arts—the
theory of architecture, sculpture, painting, music, and poetry_.
PART I.
OF THE BEAUTIFUL IN ART.
In an extended introduction, Hegel lays the foundations of the science
of the Beautiful: he defines its object, demonstrates its legitimacy,
and indicates its method; he then undertakes to determine the nature and
the end of art. Upon each of these points let us endeavor to state, in a
brief manner, his thought, and, if it is necessary, explain it.
Æsthetics _is the science of the Beautiful_. The Beautiful manifests
itself in nature and in art; but the variety and multiplicity of forms
under which beauty presents itself in the real world, does not permit
their description and systematic classification. The science of the
Beautiful has then as its principal object, art and its works; it is the
_philosophy of the fine arts_.
Is art a proper object of science? No, undoubtedly, if we consider it
only as an amusement or a frivolous relaxation. But it has a nobler
purpose. It will even be a misconception of its true aim to regard it
simply as an auxiliary of morals and religion. Although it often serves
as interpreter of moral and religious ideas, it preserves its
independence. Its proper object is to reveal truth under sensuous forms.
Nor is it allowable to say that it produces its effects by illusion.
Appearance, here, is truer than reality. The images which it places
under our eyes are more ideal, more transparent, and also more durable
than the mobile and fugitive existences of the real world. The world of
art is truer than that of nature and of history.
Can science subject to its formulas the free creations of the
imagination? Art and science, it is true, differ in their methods; but
imagination, also, has its laws; though free, it has not the right to be
lawless. In art, nothing is arbitrary; its ground _is the essence of
things_; its form is borrowed from the real world, and the Beautiful is
the accord, the harmony of the two terms. Philosophy recognizes in works
of art the eternal content of its meditations, the lofty conceptions of
intelligence, the passions of man, and the motives of his volition.
Philosophy does not pretend to furnish prescriptions to art, but is able
to give useful advice; it follows it in its procedures, it points out to
it the paths whereon it may go astray; it alone can furnish to criticism
a solid basis and fixed principles.
As to the method to be followed, two exclusive and opposite courses
present themselves. The one, _empiric_ and _historic_, seeks to draw
from the study of the master-pieces of art, the laws of criticism and
the principles of taste. The other, _rational_ and _a priori_, rises
immediately to the idea of the beautiful, and deduces from it certain
general rules. Aristotle and Plato represent these two methods. The
first reaches only a narrow theory, incapable of comprehending art in
its universality; the other, isolating itself on the heights of
metaphysics, knows not how to descend therefrom to apply itself to
particular arts, and to appreciate their works. The true method consists
in the union of these two methods, in their reconciliation and
simultaneous employment. To a positive acquaintance with works of art,
to the discrimination and delicacy of taste necessary to appreciate
them, there should be joined philosophic reflection, and the capacity of
seizing the Beautiful in itself, and of comprehending its
characteristics and immutable laws.
What is the nature of art? The answer to this question can only be the
philosophy of art itself; and, furthermore, this again can be perfectly
understood only in its connection with the other philosophic sciences.
One is here compelled to limit himself to general reflections, and to
the discussion of received opinions.
In the first place, art is a product of human activity, a creation of
the mind. What distinguishes it from science is this, that it is the
fruit of inspiration, not of reflection. On this account it can not be
learned or transmitted; it is a gift of genius. Nothing can possibly
supply a lack of talent in the arts.
Let us guard ourselves meanwhile from supposing that, like the blind
forces of nature, the artist does not know what he does, that reflection
has no part in his works. There is, in the first place, in the arts a
technical part which must be learned, and a skill which is acquired by
practice. Furthermore, the more elevated art becomes, the more it
demands an extended and varied culture, a study of the objects of
nature, and a profound knowledge of the human heart. This is eminently
true of the higher spheres of art, especially in Poetry.
If works of art are creations of the human spirit, they are not on that
account inferior to those of nature. They are, it is true, _living_,
only in appearance; but the aim of art is not to create living beings;
it seeks to offer to the spirit an image of life clearer than the
reality. In this, it _surpasses_ nature. There is also something divine
in man, and God derives no less honor from the works of human
intelligence than from the works of nature.
Now what is the cause which incites man to the production of such works?
Is it a caprice, a freak, or an earnest, fundamental inclination of his
nature?
It is the same principle which causes him to seek in science food for
his mind, in public life a theatre for his activity. In science he
endeavors to cognize the truth, pure and unveiled; in art, truth appears
to him not in its pure form, but expressed by images which strike his
sense at the same time that they speak to his intelligence. This is the
principle in which art originates, and which assigns to it a rank so
high among the creations of the human mind.
Although art is addressed to the sensibility, nevertheless its direct
aim is not to excite sensation, and to give birth to pleasure. Sensation
is changeful, varied, contradictory. It represents only the various
states or modifications of the soul. If then we consider only the
impressions which art produces upon us, we make abstraction of the truth
which it reveals to us. It becomes even impossible to comprehend its
grand effects; for the sentiments which it excites in us, are explicable
only through the ideas which attach to them.
The sensuous element, nevertheless, occupies a large place in art. What
part must be assigned to it? There are two modes of considering sensuous
objects in their connection with our mind. The first is that of simple
perception of objects by the senses. The mind then knows only their
individual side, their particular and concrete form; the essence, the
law, the substance of things escapes it. At the same time the desire
which is awakened in us, is a desire to appropriate them to our use, to
consume them, to destroy them. The soul, in the presence of these
objects, feels its dependence; it cannot contemplate them with a free
and disinterested eye.
Another relation of sensuous objects with spirit, is that of speculative
thought or science. Here the intelligence is not content to perceive the
object in its concrete form and its individuality; it discards the
individual side in order to abstract and disengage from it the law, the
universal, the essence. Reason thus lifts itself above the individual
form perceived by sense, in order to conceive the pure idea in its
universality.
Art differs both from the one and from the other of these modes; it
holds the mean between sensuous perception and rational abstraction. It
is distinguished from the first in that it does not attach itself to the
real but to the appearance, to the form of the object, and in that it
does not feel any selfish longing to consume it, to cause it to serve a
purpose, to utilize it. It differs from science in that it is interested
in this particular object, and in its sensuous form. What it loves to
see in it, is neither its materiality, nor the pure idea in its
generality, but an appearance, an image of the truth, something ideal
which appears in it; it seizes the connective of the two terms, their
accord and their inner harmony. Thus the want which it feels is wholly
contemplative. In the presence of this vision the soul feels itself
freed from all selfish desire.
In a word, art purposely creates images, appearances, designed to
represent ideas, to show to us the truth under sensuous forms. Thereby
it has the power of stirring the soul in its profoundest depths, of
causing it to experience the pure delight springing from the sight and
contemplation of the Beautiful.
The two principles are found equally combined in the artist. The
sensuous side is included in the faculty which creates—the imagination.
It is not by mechanical toil, directed by rules learned by heart that he
executes his works; nor is it by a process of reflection like that of
the philosopher who is seeking the truth. The mind has a consciousness
of itself, but it cannot seize in an abstract manner the idea which it
conceives; it can represent it only under sensuous forms. The image and
the idea coexist in thought, and cannot be separated. Thus the
imagination is itself a gift of nature. Scientific genius is rather a
general capacity than an innate and special talent. To succeed in the
arts, there is necessary a determinate talent which reveals itself early
under the form of an active and irresistible longing, and a certain
facility in the manipulation of the materials of art. It is this which
makes the painter, the sculptor, the musician.
Such is the nature of art. If it be asked, what is its end, here we
encounter the most diverse opinions. The most common is that which gives
imitation as its object. This is the foundation of nearly all the
theories upon art. Now of what use to reproduce that which nature
already offers to our view? This puerile talk, unworthy of spirit to
which it is addressed, unworthy of man who produces it, would only end
in the revelation of its impotency and the vanity of its efforts; for
the copy will always remain inferior to the original. Besides, the more
exact the imitation, the less vivid is the pleasure. That which pleases
us is not imitation, but creation. The very least invention surpasses
all the masterpieces of imitation.
In vain is it said that art ought to imitate beautiful Nature. To select
is no longer to imitate. Perfection in imitation is exactness; moreover,
choice supposes a rule; where find the criterion? What signifies, in
fine, imitation in architecture, in music, and even in poetry? At most,
one can thus explain descriptive poetry, that is to say, the most
prosaic kind. We must conclude, therefore, that if, in its compositions,
art employs the forms of Nature, and must study them, its aim is not to
copy and to reproduce them. Its mission is higher—its procedure freer.
Rival of nature, it represents ideas as well as she, and even better; it
uses her forms as symbols to express them; and it fashions even these,
remodels them upon a type more perfect and more pure. It is not without
significance that its works are styled the creations of the genius of
man.
A second system substitutes expression for imitation. Art accordingly
has for its aim, not to represent the external form of things, but their
internal and living principle, particularly the ideas, sentiments,
passions, and conditions of the soul.
Less gross than the preceding, this theory is no less false and
dangerous. Let us here distinguish two things: the idea and the
expression—the content and the form. Now, if Art is designed for
expression solely—if expression is its essential object—its content is
indifferent. Provided that the picture be faithful, the expression
lively and animated, the good and the bad, the vicious, the hideous, the
ugly, have the same right to figure here as the Beautiful. Immoral,
licentious, impious, the artist will have fulfilled his obligation and
reached perfection, when he has succeeded in faithfully rendering a
situation, a passion, an idea, be it true or false. It is clear that if
in this system the object of imitation is changed, the procedure is the
same. Art would be only an echo, a harmonious language; a living mirror,
where all sentiments and all passions would find themselves reflected,
the base part and the noble part of the soul contending here for the
same place. The true, here, would be the real, would include objects the
most diverse and the most contradictory. Indifferent as to the content,
the artist seeks only to represent it well. He troubles himself little
concerning truth in itself. Skeptic or enthusiast indifferently, he
makes us partake of the delirium of the Bacchanals, or the unconcern of
the Sophist. Such is the system which takes for a motto the maxim, _Art
is for art_; that is to say, mere expression for its own sake. Its
consequences, and the fatal tendency which it has at all times pressed
upon the arts, are well known.
A third system sets up _moral perfection_ as the aim of art. It cannot
be denied that one of the effects of art is to soften and purify manners
(_emollit mores_). In mirroring man to himself, it tempers the rudeness
of his appetites and his passions; it disposes him to contemplation and
reflection; it elevates his thought and sentiments, by leading them to
an ideal which it suggests,—to ideas of a superior order. Art has, from
all time, been regarded as a powerful instrument of civilization, as an
auxiliary of religion. It is, together with religion, the earliest
instructor of nations; it is besides a means of instruction for minds
incapable of comprehending truth otherwise than under the veil of a
symbol, and by images that address themselves to the sense as well as to
the spirit.
But this theory, although much superior to the preceding, is no more
exact. Its defect consists in confounding the moral effect of art with
its real aim. This confusion has inconveniences which do not appear at
the first glance. Let care be taken, meanwhile, lest, in thus assigning
to art a foreign aim, it be not robbed of its liberty, which is its
essence, and without which it has no inspiration—that thereby it be not
prevented from producing the effects which are to be expected from it.
Between religion, morals and art, there exists an eternal and intimate
harmony; but they are, none the less, essentially diverse forms of
truth, and, while preserving entire the bonds which unite them, they
claim a complete independence. Art has its peculiar laws, methods and
jurisdiction; though it ought not to wound the moral sense, yet it is
the sense of the Beautiful to which it is addressed. When its works are
pure, its effect on the soul is salutary, but its direct and immediate
aim is not this result. Seeking it, it risks losing it, and does lose
its own end. Suppose, indeed, that the aim of art should be to instruct,
under the veil of allegory; the idea, the abstract and general thought,
must be present in the spirit of the artist at the very moment of
composition. It seeks, then, a form which is adapted to that idea, and
furnishes drapery for it. Who does not see that this procedure is the
very opposite of inspiration? There can be born of it only frigid and
lifeless works; its effect will thus be neither moral nor religious; it
will produce only _ennui_.
Another consequence of the opinion which makes moral perfection the
object of art and its creations, is that this end is imposed so
completely upon art, and controls it to such a degree, that it has no
longer even a choice of subjects. The severe moralist would have it
represent moral subjects alone. Art is then undone. This system led
Plato to banish poets from his republic. If, then, it is necessary to
maintain the agreement of morality and art, and the harmony of their
laws, their distinct bases and independence must also be recognized. In
order to understand thoroughly this distinction between morals and art,
it is necessary to have solved the moral problem. Morality is the
realization of the “ought” by the free will; it is the conflict between
passion and reason, inclination and law, the flesh and the spirit. It
hinges upon an opposition. Antagonism is, indeed, the very law of the
physical and moral universe. But this opposition ought to be cancelled.
This is the destiny of beings who by their development and progress
continually realize themselves.
Now, in morals, this harmony of the powers of our being, which should
restore peace and happiness, does not exist. Morality proposes it as an
end to the free will. The aim and the realization are distinct. Duty
consists in an incessant striving. Thus, in one respect, morals and art
have the same principle and the same aim; the harmony of rectitude, and
happiness of actions and law. But that wherein they differ is, that in
morals the end is never wholly attained. It appears separated from the
means; the consequence is equally separated from the principle. The
harmony of rectitude and happiness ought to be the result of the efforts
of virtue. In order to conceive the identity of the two terms, it is
necessary to elevate one’s self to a superior point of view, which is
not that of morals. In empirical science equally, the law appears
distinct from the phenomenon, the essence separated from its form. In
order that this distinction may be cancelled, there is necessary a mode
of thinking which is superior to that of reflection, or of empirical
science.
Art, on the contrary, offers to us in a visible image, the realized
harmony of the two terms of existence, of the law of beings and their
manifestation, of essence and form, of rectitude and happiness. The
beautiful is essence realized, activity in conformity with its end, and
identified with it; it is the force which is harmoniously developed
under our eyes, in the innermost of existences, and which cancels the
contradictions of its nature: happy, free, full of serenity in the very
midst of suffering and of sorrow. The problem of art is then distinct
from the moral problem. The good is harmony sought for; beauty is
harmony realized. So must we understand the thought of Hegel; he here
only intimates it, but it will be fully developed in the sequel.
The true aim of art is then to represent the Beautiful, to reveal this
harmony. This is its only purpose. Every other aim, purification, moral
amelioration, edification, are accessories or consequences. The effect
of the contemplation of the Beautiful is to produce in us a calm and
pure joy, incompatible with the gross pleasures of sense; it lifts the
soul above the ordinary sphere of its thoughts; it disposes to noble
resolutions and generous actions by the close affinity which exists
between the three sentiments and the three ideas of the Good, the
Beautiful, and the Divine.
Such are the principal ideas which this remarkable introduction
contains. The remainder, devoted to the examination of works which have
marked the development of æsthetic science in Germany since Kant, is
scarcely susceptible of analysis, and does not so much deserve our
attention.
_The first part_ of the science of æsthetics, which might be called the
Metaphysics of the Beautiful, contains, together with the analysis of
the idea of the Beautiful, the general principles common to all the
arts. Thus Hegel here treats: _First, of the abstract idea of the
Beautiful; second, of the Beautiful in nature; third, of the Beautiful
in art, or of the ideal._ He concludes with an examination of the
qualities of the artist. But before entering upon these questions, he
thought it necessary to point out the place of art in human life, and
especially _its connections with religion and philosophy_.
The destination of man, the law of his nature, is to develop himself
incessantly, to stretch unceasingly towards the infinite. He ought, at
the same time, to put an end to the opposition which he finds in himself
between the elements and powers of his being; to place them in accord by
realizing and developing them externally. Physical life is a struggle
between opposing forces, and the living being can sustain itself only
through the conflict and the triumph of the force which constitutes it.
With man, and in the moral sphere, this conflict and progressive
enfranchisement are manifested under the form of freedom, which is the
highest destination of spirit. Freedom consists in surmounting the
obstacles which it encounters within and without, in removing the
limits, in effacing all contradiction, in vanquishing evil and sorrow,
in order to attain to harmony with the world and with itself. In actual
life, man seeks to destroy that opposition by the satisfaction of his
physical wants. He calls to his aid, industry and the useful arts; but
he obtains thus only limited, relative, and transient enjoyments. He
finds a nobler pleasure in science, which furnishes food for his ardent
curiosity, and promises to reveal to him the laws of nature and to
unveil the secrets of the universe. Civil life opens another channel to
his activity; he burns to realize his conceptions; he marches to the
conquest of the right, and pursues the ideal of justice which he bears
within him. He endeavors to realize in civil society his instinct of
sociability, which is also the law of his being, and one of the
fundamental inclinations of his moral nature.
But here, again, he attains an imperfect felicity; he encounters limits
and obstacles which he cannot surmount, and against which, his will is
broken. He cannot obtain the perfect realization of his ideas, nor
attain the ideal which his spirit conceives and toward which it aspires.
He then feels the necessity of elevating himself to a higher sphere
where all contradictions are cancelled; where the idea of the good and
of happiness in their perfect accord and their enduring harmony is
realized. This profound want of the soul is satisfied in three ways: in
_art_, in _religion_, and in _philosophy_. The function of art is to
lead us to the contemplation of the true, the infinite, under sensuous
forms; for the beautiful is the unity, the realized harmony of two
principles of existence, of the idea and the form, of the infinite and
the finite. This is the principle and the hidden essence of things,
beaming through their visible form. Art presents us, in its works, the
image of this happy accord where all opposition ceases, and where all
contradiction is cancelled. Such is the aim of art: to represent the
divine, the infinite, under sensuous forms. This is its mission; it has
no other and this it alone can fulfil. By this title it takes its place
by the side of religion, and preserves its independence. It takes its
rank also with philosophy, whose object is the knowledge of the true, of
absolute truth.
Alike then as to their general ground and aims, these three spheres are
distinguished by the form under which they become revealed to the spirit
and consciousness of man. Art is addressed to sensuous perception and to
the imagination; religion is addressed to the soul, to the conscience,
and to sentiment; philosophy is addressed to pure thought or to the
reason, which conceives the truth in an abstract manner.
Art, which offers us truth under sensuous forms, does not, however,
respond to the profoundest needs of the soul. The spirit is possessed of
the desire of entering into itself, of contemplating the truth in the
inner recesses of consciousness. Above the domain of art, then, religion
is placed, which reveals the infinite, and by meditation conveys to the
depths of the heart, to the centre of the soul, that which in art we
contemplate externally. As to philosophy, its peculiar aim is to
conceive and to comprehend, by the intellect alone, under an abstract
form, that which is given as sentiment or as sensuous representation.
I. _Of the Idea of the Beautiful._
After these preliminaries, Hegel enters upon the questions which form
the object of this first part. He treats, in the first place, of _the
idea of the beautiful_ in itself, in its abstract nature. Freeing his
thought from the metaphysical forms which render it difficult of
comprehension to minds not familiar with his system, we arrive at this
definition, already contained in the foregoing: the Beautiful is the
true, that is to say, the essence, the inmost substance of things; the
true, not such as the mind conceives it in its abstract and pure nature,
but as manifested to the senses under visible forms. It is the sensuous
_manifestation of the idea_, which is the soul and principle of things.
This definition recalls that of Plato: the Beautiful is the _splendor of
the true_.
What are the characteristics of the beautiful? First, it is infinite in
this sense, that it is the divine principle itself which is revealed and
manifested, and that the form which expresses it, in place of limiting
it, realizes it and confounds itself with it; second, it is free, for
true freedom is not the absence of rule and measure, it is force which
develops itself easily and harmoniously. It appears in the bosom of the
existences of the sensuous world, as their principle of life, of unity,
and of harmony, whether free from all obstacle, or victorious and
triumphant in conflict, always calm and serene.
The spectator who contemplates beauty feels himself equally free, and
has a consciousness of his infinite nature. He tastes a pure pleasure,
resulting from the felt accord of the powers of his being; a celestial
and divine joy, which has nothing in common with material pleasures, and
does not suffer to exist in the soul a single impure or gross desire.
The contemplation of the Beautiful awakens no such craving; it is
self-sufficing, and is not accompanied by any return of the me upon
itself. It suffers the object to preserve its independence for its own
sake. The soul experiences something analogous to divine felicity; it is
transported into a sphere foreign to the miseries of life and
terrestrial existence.
This theory, it is apparent, would need only to be developed to return
wholly to the Platonic theory. Hegel limits himself to referring to it.
We recognize here, also, the results of the Kantian analysis.
II. _Of the Beautiful in Nature._
Although science cannot pause to describe the beauties of nature, it
ought, nevertheless, to study, in a general manner, the characteristics
of the Beautiful, as it appears to us in the physical world and in the
beings which it contains. This is the subject of a somewhat extended
chapter, with the following title: _Of the Beautiful in Nature_. Hegel
herein considers the question from the particular point of view of his
philosophy, and he applies his theory of the _Idea_. Nevertheless, the
results at which he arrives, and the manner in which he describes the
forms of physical beauty, can be comprehended and accepted independently
of his system, little adapted, it must be confessed, to cast light upon
this subject.
The Beautiful in nature is the first manifestation of the Idea. The
successive degrees of beauty correspond to the development of life and
organization in beings. Unity is an essential characteristic of it.
Thus, in the mineral, beauty consists in the arrangement or disposition
of the parts, in the force which resides in them, and which reveals
itself in this unity. The solar system offers us a more perfect unity
and a higher beauty. The bodies in that system, while preserving entire
their individual existence, co-ordinate themselves into a whole, the
parts of which are independent, although attached to a common centre,
the sun. Beauty of this order strikes us by the regularity of the
movements of the celestial bodies. A unity more real and true is that
which is manifested in organized and living beings. The unity here
consists in a relation of reciprocity and of mutual dependence between
the organs, so that each of them loses its independent existence in
order to give place to a wholly ideal unity which reveals itself as the
principle of life animating them.
Life is beautiful in nature: for it is essence, force, the idea realized
under its first form. Nevertheless, beauty in nature is still wholly
external; it has no consciousness of itself; it is beautiful solely for
an intelligence which sees and contemplates it.
How do we perceive beauty in natural beings? Beauty, with living and
animate beings, is neither accidental and capricious movements, nor
simple conformity of those movements to an end—the uniform and mutual
connection of parts. This point of view is that of the naturalist, of
the man of science; it is not that of the Beautiful. Beauty is total
form in so far as it reveals the force which animates it; it is this
force itself, manifested by a totality of forms, of independent and free
movements; it is the internal harmony which reveals itself in this
secret accord of members, and which betrays itself outwardly, without
the eye’s pausing to consider the relation of the parts to the whole,
and their functions or reciprocal connection, as science does. The unity
exhibits itself merely externally as the principle which binds the
members together. It manifests itself especially through the
sensibility. The point of view of beauty is then that of pure
contemplation, not that of reflection, which analyzes, compares and
seizes the connection of parts and their destination.
This internal and visible unity, this accord, and this harmony, are not
distinct from the material element; they are its very form. This is the
principle which serves to determine beauty in its inferior grades, the
beauty of the crystal with its regular forms, forms produced by an
internal and free force. A similar activity is developed in a more
perfect manner in the living organism, its outlines, the disposition of
its members, the movements, and the expression of sensibility.
Such is beauty in individual beings. It is otherwise with it when we
consider nature in its totality, the beauty of a landscape, for example.
There is no longer question here about an organic disposition of parts
and of the life which animates them; we have under our eyes a rich
multiplicity of objects which form a whole, mountains, trees, rivers,
etc. In this diversity there appears an external unity which interests
us by its agreeable or imposing character. To this aspect there is added
that property of the objects of nature through which they awaken in us,
sympathetically, certain sentiments, by the secret analogy which exists
between them and the situations of the human soul.
Such is the effect produced by the silence of the night, the calm of a
still valley, the sublime aspect of a vast sea in tumult, and the
imposing grandeur of the starry heavens. The significance of these
objects is not in themselves; they are only symbols of the sentiments of
the soul which they excite. It is thus we attribute to animals the
qualities which belong only to man, courage, fortitude, cunning.
Physical beauty is a reflex of moral beauty.
To recapitulate, physical beauty, viewed in its ground or essence,
consists in the manifestation of the concealed principle, of the force
which is developed in the bosom of matter. This force reveals itself in
a manner more or less perfect, by unity in inert matter, and in living
beings by the different modes of organization.
Hegel then devotes a special examination to the external side, or to
beauty of form in natural objects. Physical beauty, considered
externally, presents itself successively under the aspects of
_regularity_ and _symmetry_, of _conformity_ to law and of _harmony_;
lastly, of _purity_ and simplicity of matter.
1. _Regularity_, which is only the repetition of a form equal to itself,
is the most elementary and simple form. In _symmetry_ there already
appears a diversity which breaks the uniformity. These two forms of
beauty pertain to _quantity_, and constitute mathematical beauty; they
are found in organic and inorganic bodies, minerals and crystals. In
plants are presented less regular, and freer forms. In the organization
of animals, this regular and symmetrical disposition becomes more and
more subordinated in proportion as we ascend to higher degrees of the
animal scale.
2. _Conformity to a law_ marks a degree still more elevated, and serves
as a transition to freer forms. Here there appears an accord more real
and more profound, which begins to transcend mathematical rigor. It is
no longer a simple numerical relation, where quantity plays the
principal rôle; we discover a relation of quality between different
terms. A law rules the whole, but it cannot be calculated; it remains a
hidden bond, which reveals itself to the spectator. Such is the oval
line, and above all, the undulating line, which Hogarth has given as the
line of beauty. These lines determine, in fact, the beautiful forms of
organic nature in living beings of a high order, and, above all, the
beautiful forms of the human body, of man and of woman.
3. _Harmony_ is a degree still superior to the preceding, and it
includes them. It consists in a totality of elements essentially
distinct, but whose opposition is destroyed and reduced to unity by a
secret accord, a reciprocal adaptation. Such is the harmony of forms and
colors, that of sounds and movements, Here the unity is stronger, more
_prononcé_, precisely because the differences and the oppositions are
more marked. Harmony, however, is not as yet true unity, spiritual
unity, that of the soul, although the latter possesses within it a
principle of harmony. Harmony alone, as yet, reveals neither the soul
nor the spirit, as one may see in music and dancing.
Beauty exists also in matter itself, abstraction being made of its form;
it consists, then, in the unity and _simplicity_ which constitutes
_purity_. Such is the purity of the sky and of the atmosphere, the
purity of colors and of sounds; that of certain substances—of precious
stones, of gold, and of the diamond. Pure and simple colors are also the
most agreeable.
After having described the beautiful in nature, in order that the
necessity of a beauty more exalted and more ideal shall be comprehended,
Hegel sets forth the _imperfections_ of real beauty. He begins with
animal life, which is the most elevated point we have reached, and he
dwells upon the characteristics and causes of that imperfection.
Thus, first in the animal, although the organism is more perfect than
that of the plant, what we see is not the central point of life; the
special seat of the operations of the force which animates the whole,
remains concealed from us. We see only the outlines of the external
form, covered with hairs, scales, feathers, skin; secondly, the human
body, it is true, exhibits more beautiful proportions, and a more
perfect form, because in it, life and sensibility are everywhere
manifested—in the color, the flesh, the freer movements, nobler
attitudes, &c. Yet here, besides the imperfections in details, the
sensibility does not appear equally distributed. Certain parts are
appropriated to animal functions, and exhibit their destination in their
form. Further, individuals in nature, placed as they are under a
dependence upon external causes, and under the influence of the
elements, are under the dominion of necessity and want. Under the
continual action of these causes, physical being is exposed to losing
the fulness of its forms and the flower of its beauty; rarely do these
causes permit it to attain to its complete, free and regular
development. The human body is placed under a like dependence upon
external agents. If we pass from the physical to the moral world, that
dependence appears still more clearly.
Everywhere there is manifested diversity, and opposition of tendencies
and interests. The individual, in the plenitude of his life and beauty,
cannot preserve the appearance of a free force. Each individual being is
limited and particularized in his excellence. His life flows in a narrow
circle of space and time; he belongs to a determinate species; his type
is given, his form defined, and the conditions of his development fixed.
The human body itself offers, in respect to beauty, a progression of
forms dependent on the diversity of races. Then come hereditary
qualities, the peculiarities which are due to temperament, profession,
age, and sex. All these causes alter and disfigure the purest and most
perfect primitive type.
All these imperfections are summed up in a word: the finite. Human life
and animal life realize their idea only imperfectly. Moreover,
spirit—not being able to find, in the limits of the real, the sight and
the enjoyment of its proper freedom—seeks to satisfy itself in a region
more elevated, that of _art_, or of the ideal.
III. _Of the beautiful in Art or of the Ideal._
Art has as its end and aim the representation of the ideal. Now what is
the _ideal_? It is beauty in a degree of perfection superior to real
beauty. It is force, life, spirit, the essence of things, developing
themselves harmoniously in a sensuous reality, which is its resplendent
image, its faithful expression; it is beauty disengaged and purified
from the accidents which veil and disfigure it, and which alter its
purity in the real world.
The ideal, in art, is not then the contrary of the real, but the real
idealized, purified, rendered conformable to its idea, and perfectly
expressing it. In a word, it is the perfect accord of the idea and the
sensuous form.
On the other hand, the true ideal is not life in its inferior
degrees—blind, undeveloped force—but the soul arrived at the
consciousness of itself, free, and in the full enjoyment of its
faculties; it is life, but spiritual life—in a word, spirit. The
representation of the spiritual principle, in the plenitude of its life
and freedom, with its high conceptions, its profound and noble
sentiments, its joys and its sufferings: this is the true aim of art,
the true ideal.
Finally, the ideal is not a lifeless abstraction, a frigid generality;
it is the spiritual principle under the form of the living individual,
freed from the bonds of the finite, and developing itself in its perfect
harmony with its inmost nature and essence.
We see, thus, what are the characteristics of the ideal. It is evident
that in all its degrees it is calmness, serenity, felicity, happy
existence, freed from the miseries and wants of life. This serenity does
not exclude earnestness; for the ideal appears in the midst of the
conflicts of life; but even in the roughest experiences, in the midst of
intense suffering, the soul preserves an evident calmness as a
fundamental trait. It is felicity in suffering, the glorification of
sorrow, smiling in tears. The echo of this felicity resounds in all the
spheres of the ideal.
It is important to determine, with still more precision, the relations
of the _ideal_ and the _real_.
The opposition of the ideal and the real has given rise to two
conflicting opinions. Some conceive of the ideal as something vague, an
abstract, lifeless generality, without individuality. Others extol the
natural, the imitation of the real in the most minute and prosaic
details. Equal exaggeration! The truth lies between the two extremes.
In the first place, the ideal may be, in fact, something external and
accidental, an insignificant form or appearance, a common existence. But
that which constitutes the ideal, in this inferior degree, is the fact
that this reality, imitated by art, is a creation of spirit, and becomes
then something artificial, not real. It is an image and a metamorphosis.
This image, moreover, is more permanent than its model, more durable
than the real object. In fixing that which is mobile and transient, in
eternizing that which is momentary and fugitive—a flower, a smile—art
surpasses nature and idealizes it.
But it does not stop here. Instead of simply reproducing these objects,
while preserving their natural form, it seizes their internal and
deepest character, it extends their signification, and gives to them a
more elevated and more general significance; for it must manifest the
universal in the individual, and render visible the idea which they
represent, their eternal and fixed type. It allows this character of
generality to penetrate everywhere, without reducing it to an
abstraction. Thus the artist does not slavishly reproduce all the
features of the object, and its accidents, but only the true traits,
those conformable to its idea. If, then, he takes nature as a model, he
still surpasses and idealizes it. Naturalness, faithfulness, truth,
these are not exact imitation, but the perfect conformity of the form to
the idea; they are the creation of a more perfect form, whose essential
traits represent the idea more faithfully and more clearly than it is
expressed in nature itself. To know how to disengage the operative,
energetic, essential and significant elements in objects,—this is the
task of the artist. The ideal, then, is not the real; the latter
contains many elements insignificant, useless, confused and foreign, or
opposed to the idea. The natural here loses its vulgar significance. By
this word must be understood the more exalted expression of spirit. The
ideal is a transfigured, glorified nature.
As to vulgar and common nature, if art takes it also for its object, it
is not for its own sake, but because of what in it is true, excellent,
interesting, ingenuous or gay, as in _genre_ painting, in Dutch painting
particularly. It occupies, nevertheless, an inferior rank, and cannot
make pretensions to a place beside the grand compositions of art.
But there are other subjects—a nature more elevated and more ideal. Art,
at its culminating stage, represents the development of the internal
powers of the soul, its grand passions, profound sentiments, and lofty
destinies. Now, it is clear that the artist does not find in the real
world, forms so pure and ideal that he may safely confine himself to
imitating and copying. Moreover, if the form itself be given, expression
must be added. Besides, he ought to secure, in a just measure, the union
of the individual and the universal, of the form and the idea; to create
a living ideal, penetrated with the idea, and in which it animates the
sensuous form and appearance throughout, so that there shall be nothing
in it empty or insignificant, nothing that is not alive with expression
itself. Where shall he find in the real world, this just measure, this
animation, and this exact correspondence of all the parts and of all the
details conspiring to the same end, to the same effect? To say that he
will succeed in conceiving and realizing the ideal, by making a
felicitous selection of ideas and forms, is to ignore the secret of
artistic composition; it is to misconceive the entirely spontaneous
method of genius,—inspiration which creates at a single effort,—to
replace it by a reflective drudgery, which only results in the
production of frigid and lifeless works.
It does not suffice to define the ideal in an abstract manner; the ideal
is exhibited to us in the works of art under very various and diverse
forms. Thus sculpture represents it under the motionless features of its
figures. In the other arts it assumes the form of movement and of
action; in poetry, particularly, it manifests itself in the midst of
most varied situations and events, of conflicts between persons animated
by diverse passions. How, and under what conditions, is each art in
particular called upon to represent thus the ideal? This will be the
object of the theory of the arts. In the general exposition of the
principles of art, we may, nevertheless, attempt to define the degrees
of this development, to study the principal aspects under which it
manifests itself. Such is the object of those considerations, the title
of which is, _Of the Determination of the Ideal_, and which the author
develops in this first part of the work. We can trace only summarily the
principal ideas, devoting ourselves to marking their order and
connection.
The gradation which the author establishes between the progressively
determined forms of the ideal is as follows:
1. The ideal, under the most elevated form, is the divine idea, the
divine such as the imagination can represent it under sensuous forms;
such is the Greek ideal of the divinities of Polytheism; such the
Christian ideal in its highest purity, under the form of God the Father,
of Christ, of the Virgin, of the Apostles, etc. It is given above all to
sculpture and painting, to present us the image of it. Its essential
characteristics are calmness, majesty, serenity.
2. In a degree less elevated, but more determined, in the circle of
human life, the ideal appears to us, with man, as the victory of the
eternal principles which fill the human heart, the triumph of the noble
part of the soul over the inferior and passionate. The noble, the
excellent, the perfect, in the human soul, is the moral and divine
principle which is manifested in it, which governs its will, and causes
it to accomplish grand actions; this is the true source of
self-sacrifice and of heroism.
3. But the idea, when it is manifested in the real world, can be
developed only under the form of _action_. Now, action itself has for
its condition a conflict between principles and persons, divided as to
interests, ideas, passions, and characters. It is this especially that
is represented by poetry—the art _par excellence_, the only art which
can reproduce an action in its successive phases, with its
complications, its sudden turns of fortune, its catastrophe and its
denouement.
_Action_, if one considers it more closely, includes the following
conditions: 1st. A world which serves it as a basis and theatre, _a form
of society_ which renders it possible, and is favorable to the
development of ideal figures. 2d. A determinate situation, in which the
personages are placed who render necessary the conflict between opposing
interests and passions, whence a collision may arise. 3d. An action,
properly so called, which develops itself in its essential moments,
which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. This action, in order to
afford a high interest, should revolve upon ideas of an elevated order,
which inspire and sustain the personages, ennobling their passions, and
forming the basis of their character.
Hegel treats, in a general manner, each of these points, which will
appear anew, under a more special form, in the study of poetry, and
particularly of epic and dramatic poetry.
1. The state of society most favorable to the ideal is that which allows
the characters to act with most freedom, to reveal a lofty and powerful
personality. This cannot be a social order, where all is fixed and
regulated by laws and a constitution. Nor can it be the savage state,
where all is subject to caprice and violence, and where man is dependent
upon a thousand external causes, which render his existence precarious.
Now the state intermediate between the barbarous state and an advanced
civilization, is the _heroic age_, that in which the epic poets locate
their action, and from which the tragic poets themselves have often
borrowed their subjects and their personages. That which characterizes
heroes in this epoch is, above all, the independence which is manifested
in their characters and acts. On the other hand, the hero is all of a
piece; he assumes not only the responsibility of his acts and their
consequences, but the results of actions he has not perpetrated, of the
faults or crimes of his race; he bears in his person an entire race.
Another reason why the ideal existences of art belong to the mythologic
ages, and to remote epochs of history, is that the artist or the poet,
in representing or recounting events, has a freer scope in his ideal
creations. Art, also, for the same reason, has a predilection for the
higher conditions of society, those of princes particularly, because of
the perfect independence of will and action which characterizes them. In
this respect, our actual society, with its civil and political
organization, its manners, administration, police, etc., is prosaic. The
sphere of activity of the individual is too restricted; he encounters
everywhere limits and shackles to his will. Our monarchs themselves are
subject to these conditions; their power is limited by institutions,
laws and customs. War, peace, and treaties are determined by political
relations independent of their will.
The greatest poets have not been able to escape these conditions; and
when they have desired to represent personages nearer to us, as Charles
Moor, or Wallenstein, they have been obliged to place them in revolt
against society or against their sovereign. Moreover, these heroes rush
on to an inevitable ruin, or they fall into the ridiculous situation, of
which the Don Quixote of Cervantes gives us the most striking example.
2. To represent the ideal in personages or in an action, there is
necessary not only a favorable world from which the subject is to be
borrowed, but a situation. This situation can be either indeterminate,
like that of many of the immobile personages of antique or religious
sculpture, or determinate, but yet of little earnestness. Such are also
the greater number of the situations of the personages of antique
sculpture. Finally, it may be earnest, and furnish material for a
veritable action. It supposes, then, an opposition, an action and a
reaction, a conflict, a collision. The beauty of the ideal consists in
absolute serenity and perfection. Now, collision destroys this harmony.
The problem of art consists, then, in so managing that the harmony
reappears in the denouement. Poetry alone is capable of developing this
opposition upon which the interest, particularly, of tragic art turns.
Without examining here the nature of the different _collisions_, the
study of which belongs to the theory of dramatic art, we must already
have remarked that the collisions of the highest order are those in
which the conflict takes place between moral forces, as in the ancient
tragedies. This is the subject of true classic tragedy, moral as well as
religious, as will be seen from what follows.
Thus the ideal, in this superior degree, is the manifestation of moral
powers and of the ideas of spirit, of the grand movements of the soul,
and of the characters which appear and are revealed in the development
of the representation.
3. In _action_, properly so-called, three things are to be considered
which constitute its ideal object: 1. The general interests, the ideas,
the universal principles, whose opposition forms the very foundation of
the action; 2. The personages; 3. Their character and their passions, or
the motives which impel them to act.
In the first place, the eternal principles of religion, of morality, of
the family, of the state—the grand sentiments of the soul, love, honor,
etc.—these constitute the basis, the true interest of the action. These
are the grand and true motives of art, the eternal theme of exalted
poetry.
To these legitimate and true powers others are, without doubt, added;
the powers of evil; but they ought not to be represented as forming the
real foundation and end of the action. “If the idea, the end and aim, be
something false in itself, the hideousness of the ground will allow
still less beauty of form. The sophistry of the passions may, indeed, by
a true picture, attempt to represent the false under the colors of the
true, but it places under our eyes only a whited sepulchre. Cruelty and
the violent employment of force can be endured in representation, but
only when they are relieved by the grandeur of the character and
ennobled by the aim which is pursued by the _dramatis personæ_.
Perversity, envy, cowardice, baseness, are only repulsive.
“Evil, in itself, is stripped of real interest, because nothing but the
false can spring from what is false; it produces only misfortune, while
art should present to us order and harmony. The great artists, the great
poets of antiquity, never give us the spectacle of pure wickedness and
perversity.”
We cite this passage because it exhibits the character and high moral
tone which prevails in the entire work, as we shall have occasion to
observe more than once hereafter.
If the ideas and interests of human life form the ground of the action,
the latter is accomplished by the characters upon whom the interest is
fastened. General ideas may, indeed, be personated by beings superior to
man, by certain divinities like those which figure in ancient epic
poetry and tragedy. But it is to man that action, properly so-called,
returns; it is he who occupies the scene. Now, how reconcile divine
action and human action, the will of the gods and that of man? Such is
the problem which has made shipwreck of so many poets and artists. To
maintain a proper equipoise it is necessary that the gods have supreme
direction, and that man preserve his freedom and his independence
without which he is no more than the passive instrument of the will of
the gods; fatality weighs upon all his acts. The true solution consists
in maintaining the identity of the two terms, in spite of their
difference; in so acting that what is attributed to the gods shall
appear at the same time to emanate from the inner nature of the
_dramatis personæ_ and from their character. The talent of the artist
must reconcile the two aspects. “The heart of man must be revealed in
his gods, personifications of the grand motives which allure him and
govern him within.” This is the problem resolved by the great poets of
antiquity, Homer, Æschylus, and Sophocles.
The general principles, those grand motives which are the basis of the
action, by the fact that they are living in the soul of the characters,
form, also, the very ground of the _passions_; this is the essence of
true pathos. Passion, here, in the elevated ideal sense, is, in fact,
not an arbitrary, capricious, irregular movement of the soul; it is a
noble principle, which blends itself with a great idea, with one of the
eternal verities of moral or religious order. Such is the passion of
Antigone, the holy love for her brother; such, the vengeance of Orestes.
It is an essentially legitimate power of the soul which contains one of
the eternal principles of the reason and the will. This is still the
ideal, the true ideal, although it appears under the form of a passion.
It relieves, ennobles and purifies it; it thus gives to the action a
serious and profound interest.
It is in this sense that passion constitutes the centre and true domain
of art; it is the principle of emotion, the source of true pathos.
Now, this moral verity, this eternal principle which descends into the
heart of man and there takes the form of great and noble passion,
identifying itself with the will of the _dramatis personæ_, constitutes,
also, their character. Without this high idea which serves as support
and as basis to passion, there is no true character. Character is the
culminating point of ideal representation. It is the embodiment of all
that precedes. It is in the creation of the characters, that the genius
of the artist or of the poet is displayed.
Three principal elements must be united to form the ideal character,
_richness_, _vitality_, and _stability_. Richness consists in not being
limited to a single quality, which would make of the person an
abstraction, an allegoric being. To a single dominant quality there
should be added all those which make of the personage or hero a real and
complete man, capable of being developed in diverse situations and under
varying aspects. Such a multiplicity alone can give vitality to the
character. This is not sufficient, however; it is necessary that the
qualities be moulded together in such a manner as to form not a simple
assemblage and a complex whole, but one and the same individual, having
peculiar and original physiognomy. This is the case when a particular
sentiment, a ruling passion, presents the salient trait of the character
of a person, and gives to him a fixed aim, to which all his resolutions
and his acts refer. Unity and variety, simplicity and completeness of
detail, these are presented to us in the characters of Sophocles,
Shakspeare, and others.
Lastly, what constitutes essentially the ideal in character is
consistency and stability. An inconsistent, undecided, irresolute
character, is the utter want of character. Contradictions, without
doubt, exist in human nature, but unity should be maintained in spite of
these fluctuations. Something identical ought to be found throughout, as
a fundamental trait. To be self-determining, to follow a design, to
embrace a resolution and persist in it, constitute the very foundation
of personality; to suffer one’s self to be determined by another, to
hesitate, to vacillate, this is to surrender one’s will, to cease to be
one’s self, to lack character; this is, in all cases, the opposite of
the ideal character.
Hegel on this subject strongly protests against the characters which
figure in modern pieces and romances, and of which Werther is the type.
These pretended characters, says he, represent only unhealthiness of
spirit, and feebleness of soul. Now true and healthy art does not
represent what is false and sickly, what lacks consistency and decision,
but that which is true, healthy and strong. The ideal, in a word, is the
idea realized; man can realize it only as a free person, that is to say,
by displaying all the energy and constancy which can make it triumph.
We shall find more than once, in the course of the work, the same ideas
developed with the same force and precision.
That which constitutes the very ground of the ideal is the inmost
essence of things, especially the lofty conceptions of the spirit, and
the development of the powers of the soul. These ideas are manifest in
an action in which are placed upon the scene the grand interests of
life, the passions of the human heart, the will and the character of
actors. But this action is itself developed in the midst of an external
nature which, moreover, lends to the ideal, colors and a determinate
form. These external surroundings must also be conceived and fashioned
in the meaning of the ideal, according to the laws of _regularity_,
_symmetry_, and _harmony_, of which mention has been made above. How
ought man to be represented in his relations with external nature? How
ought this prose of life to be idealized? If art, in fact, frees man
from the wants of material life, it cannot, however, elevate him above
the conditions of human existence, and suppress these connections.
Hegel devotes a special examination to this new phase of the question of
the ideal, which he designates by this title—_Of the external
determination of the ideal_.
In our days we have given an exaggerated importance to this external
side, which we have made the principal object. We are too unmindful that
art should represent the ideas and sentiments of the human soul, that
this is the true ground of its works. Hence all these minute
descriptions, this external care given to the picturesque element or to
the local color, to furniture, to costumes, to all those artificial
means employed to disguise the emptiness and insignificance of the
subject, the absence of ideas, the falsity of the situations, the
feebleness of the characters, and the improbability of the action.
Nevertheless, this side has its place in art, and should not be
neglected. It gives clearness, truthfulness, life, and interest to its
works, by the secret sympathy which exists between man and nature. It is
characteristic of the great masters to represent nature with perfect
truthfulness. Homer is an example of this. Without forgetting the
content for the form, picture for the frame, he presents to us a
faultless and precise image of the theatre of action. The arts differ
much in this respect. Sculpture limits itself to certain symbolic
indications; painting, which has at its disposal means more extended,
enriches with these objects the content of its pictures. Among the
varieties of poetry, the epic is more circumstantial in its descriptions
than the drama or lyric poetry. But this external fidelity should not,
in any art, extend to the representation of insignificant details, to
the making of them an object of predilection, and to subordinating to
them the developments which the subject itself claims. The grand point
in these descriptions is that we perceive a secret harmony between man
and nature, between the action and the theatre on which it occurs.
Another species of accord is established between man and the objects of
physical nature, when, through his free activity, he impresses upon them
his intelligence and will, and appropriates them to his own use; the
ideal consists in causing misery and necessity to disappear from the
domain of art, in revealing the freedom which develops itself without
effort under our eyes, and easily surmounts obstacles.
Such is the ideal considered under this aspect. Thus the gods of
polytheism themselves have garments and arms; they drink nectar and are
nourished by ambrosia. The garment is an ornament designed to heighten
the glory of the features, to give nobleness to the countenance, to
facilitate movement, or to indicate force and agility. The most
brilliant objects, the metals, precious stones, purple and ivory, are
employed for the same end. All concur to produce the effect of grace and
beauty.
In the satisfaction of physical wants the ideal consists, above all, in
the simplicity of the means. Instead of being artificial, factitious,
complex, the latter emanate directly from the activity of man, and
freedom. The heroes of Homer themselves slay the oxen which are to serve
for the feast, and roast them; they forge their arms, and prepare their
couches. This is not, as one might think, a relic of barbarous manners,
something prosaic; but we see, penetrating everywhere the delight of
invention, the pleasure of easy toil and free activity exercised on
material objects. Everything is peculiar to and inherent in his
character, and a means for the hero of revealing the force of his arm
and the skill of his hand; while, in civilized society, these objects
depend on a thousand foreign causes, on a complex adjustment in which
man is converted into a machine subordinated to other machines. Things
have lost their freshness and vitality; they remain inanimate, and are
no longer proper, direct creations of the human person, in which the man
loves to solace and contemplate himself.
A final point relative to the external _form of the ideal_ is that which
concerns the _relation of works of art to the public_, that is to say,
to the nation and epoch for which the artist or the poet composes his
works. Ought the artist, when he treats a subject, to consult, above
all, the spirit, taste and manners of the people whom he addresses, and
conform himself to their ideas? This is the means of exciting interest
in fabulous and imaginary or even historic persons. But then there is a
liability to distort history and tradition.
Ought he, on the other hand, to reproduce with scrupulous exactness the
manners and customs of another time, to give to the facts and the
characters their proper coloring and their original and primitive
costume? This is the problem. Hence arise two schools and two opposite
modes of representation. In the age of Louis XIV., for example, the
Greeks and Romans are conceived in the likeness of Frenchmen. Since
then, by a natural reaction, the contrary tendency has prevailed. Today
the poet must have the knowledge of an archeologist, and possess his
scrupulous exactness, and pay close attention, above all, to local
color, and historic verity has become the principal and essential aim of
art.
Truth here, as always, lies between the two extremes. It is necessary to
maintain, at the same time, the rights of art and these of the public,
to have a proper regard for the spirit of the epoch, and to satisfy the
exigencies of the subject treated. These are the very judicious rules
which the author states upon this delicate point.
The subject should be intelligible and interesting to the public to
which it is addressed. But this end the poet or the artist will attain
only so far as, by his general spirit, his work responds to some one of
the essential ideas of the human spirit and to the general interests of
humanity. The particularities of an epoch are not of true and enduring
interest to us.
If, then, the subject is borrowed from remote epochs of history, or from
some far-off tradition, it is necessary that, by our general culture, we
should be familiarized with it. It is thus only that we can sympathize
with an epoch and with manners that are no more. Hence the two essential
conditions; that the subject present the general human character, then
that it be in relation with our ideas.
Art is not designed for a small number of scholars and men of science;
it is addressed to the entire nation. Its works should be comprehended
and relished of themselves, and not after a course of difficult
research. Thus national subjects are the most favorable. All great poems
are national poems. The Bible histories have for us a particular charm,
because we are familiar with them from our infancy. Nevertheless, in the
measure that relations are multiplied between peoples, art can borrow
its subjects from all latitudes and from all epochs. It should, indeed,
as to the principal features, preserve, to the traditions, events, and
personages, to manners and institutions, their historic or traditional
character; but the duty of the artist, above all, is to place the idea
which constitutes its content in harmony with the spirit of his own age,
and the peculiar genius of his nation.
In this necessity lies the reason and excuse for what is called
anachronism in art. When the anachronism bears only upon external
circumstances it is unimportant. It becomes a matter of more moment if
we attribute to the characters, the ideas, and sentiments of another
epoch. Respect must be paid to historic truth, but regard must also be
had to the manners and intellectual culture of one’s own time. The
heroes of Homer themselves are more than were the real personages of the
epoch which he presents; and the characters of Sophocles are brought
still nearer to us. To violate thus the rules of historic reality, is a
necessary anachronism in art. Finally, another form of anachronism,
which the utmost moderation and genius can alone make pardonable, is
that which transfers the religious or moral ideas of a more advanced
civilization to an anterior epoch; when one attributes, for example, to
the ancients the ideas of the moderns. Some great poets have ventured
upon this intentionally; few have been successful in it.
The general conclusion is this: “The artist should be required to make
himself the cotemporary of past ages, and become penetrated himself with
their spirit. For if the substance of those ideas be true, it remains
clear for all time. But to undertake to reproduce with a scrupulous
exactness the external element of history, with all its details and
particulars,—in a word, all the rust of antiquity, is the work of a
puerile erudition, which attaches itself only to a superficial aim. We
should not wrest from art the right which it has to float between
reality and fiction.”
This first part concludes with an examination of the qualities necessary
to an artist, such as imagination, genius, inspiration, originality,
etc. The author does not deem it obligatory to treat at much length this
subject, which appears to him to allow only a small number of general
rules or psychological observations. The manner in which he treats of
many points, and particularly of the imagination, causes us to regret
that he has not thought it worth while to give a larger space to these
questions, which occupy the principal place in the majority of
æsthetical treatises; we shall find them again under another form in the
theory of the arts.
[The next number will continue this translation through the treatment of
the Symbolic, Classic, and Romantic forms of art.]
NOTES ON RAPHAEL’S “TRANSFIGURATION.”
[Read before the St. Louis Art Society in November, 1866.]
I. THE ENGRAVING.
He who studies the “Transfiguration” of Raphael is fortunate if he has
access to the engraving of it by Raphael Morghen. This engraver, as one
learns from the Encyclopædia, was a Florentine, and executed this—his
most elaborate work—in 1795, from a drawing of Tofanelli, after having
discovered that a copy he had partly finished from another drawing, was
very inadequate when compared with the original.
Upon comparison with engravings by other artists, it seems to me that
this engraving has not received all the praise it deserves; I refer
especially to the seizing of the “motives” of the picture, which are so
essential in a work of great scope, to give it the requisite unity. What
the engraver has achieved in the present instance, I hope to be able to
show in some degree. But one will not be able to verify my results if he
takes up an engraving by a less fortunate artist; e.g.: one by Pavoni,
of recent origin.
II. HISTORICAL.
It is currently reported that Raphael painted the “Transfiguration” at
the instance of Cardinal Giulio de Medici, and that in honor of the
latter he introduced the two saints—Julian and Lawrence—on the mount;
St. Julian suggesting the ill-fated Giuliano de Medici, the Cardinal’s
father, and St. Lawrence representing his uncle, “Lorenzo the
Magnificent,” the greatest of the Medici line, and greatest man of his
time in Italy. “The haughty Michael Angelo refused to enter the lists in
person against Raphael, but put forward as a fitting rival Sebastian del
Piombo, a Venetian.” Raphael painted, as his masterpiece, the
“Transfiguration,” and Sebastian, with the help of Michael Angelo,
painted the “Raising of Lazarus.” In 1520, before the picture was quite
finished, Raphael died. His favorite disciple, Giulio Romano, finished
the lower part of the picture (especially the demoniac) in the spirit of
Raphael, who had completed the upper portion and most of the lower.
III. LEGEND.
The Legend portrayed here—slightly varying from the one in the New
Testament, but not contradicting it—is as follows: Christ goes out with
his twelve disciples to Mount Tabor,(?) and, leaving the nine others at
the foot, ascends with the favored three to the summit, where the scene
of the Transfiguration takes place. While this transpires, the family
group approach with the demoniac, seeking help from a miraculous source.
Raphael has added to this legend the circumstance that two sympathetic
strangers, passing that way up the mount, carry to the Beatified One the
intelligence of the event below, and solicit his immediate and gracious
interference.
The Testament account leads us to suppose the scene to be Mount Tabor,
southeast of Nazareth, at whose base he had healed many, a few days
before, and where he had held many conversations with his disciples. “On
the following day, when they were come down, they met the family,” says
Luke; but Matthew and Mark do not fix so precisely the day.
IV. CHARACTERIZATION.
It may be safely affirmed that there is scarcely a picture in existence
in which the individualities are more strongly marked by internal
essential characteristics.
Above, there is no figure to be mistaken: Christ floats toward the
source of light—the Invisible Father, by whom _all_ is made visible that
is visible. On the right, Moses appears in strong contrast to Elias on
the left—the former the law-giver, and the latter the spontaneous,
fiery, eagle-eyed prophet.
On the mountain top—prostrate beneath, are the three disciples—one
recognizes on the right hand, John, gracefully bending his face down
from the overpowering light, while on the left James buries his face in
his humility. But Peter, the bold one, is fain to gaze directly on the
splendor. He turns his face up in the act, but is, as on another
occasion, mistaken in his estimate of his own endurance, and is obliged
to cover his eyes, involuntarily, with his hand.
Below the mount, are two opposed groups. On the right, coming from the
hamlet in the distance, is the family group, of which a demoniac boy
forms the centre. They, without doubt, saw Christ pass on his way to
this solitude, and, at length, concluded to follow him and test his
might which had been “noised abroad” in that region. It is easy to see
the relationship of the whole group. First the boy, actually
“possessed,” or a maniac; then his father—a man evidently predisposed to
insanity—supporting and restraining him. Kneeling at the right of the
boy is his mother, whose fair Grecian face has become haggard with the
trials she has endured from her son. Just beyond her is her brother, and
in the shade of the mountain, is her father. In the foreground is her
sister. Back of the father, to the right, is seen an uncle (on the
father’s side) of the demoniac boy, whose features and gestures show him
to be a simpleton, and near him is seen the face of the father’s sister,
also a weak-minded person. The parents of the father are not to be seen,
for the obvious reason that old age is not a characteristic of persons
predisposed to insanity. Again, it is marked that in a family thus
predisposed, some will be brilliant to a degree resembling genius, and
others will be simpletons. The whole group at the right are supplicating
the nine disciples, in the most earnest manner, for relief. The
disciples, grouped on the left, are full of sympathy, but their looks
tell plainly that they can do nothing. One, at the left and near the
front, holds the books of the Law in his right hand, but the letter
needs the spirit to give life, and the mere Law of Moses does not help
the demoniac, and only excites the sorrowful indignation of the
beautiful sister in the foreground.
The curious student of the New Testament may succeed in identifying the
different disciples: Andrew, holding the books of the Law, is Peter’s
brother, and bears a family resemblance. Judas, at the extreme left,
cannot be mistaken. Matthew looks over the shoulder of Bartholomew, who
is pointing to the demoniac; while Thomas—distinguished by his youthful
appearance—bends over toward the boy with a look of intense interest.
Simon (?), kneeling between Thomas and Bartholomew, is indicating to the
mother, by the gesture with his left hand, the absence of the Master.
Philip, whose face is turned towards Judas, is pointing to the scene on
the mount, and apparently suggesting the propriety of going for the
absent one. James, the son of Alpheus, resembles Christ in features, and
stands behind Jude, his brother, who points up to the mount while
looking at the father.
V. ORGANIC UNITY.
(_a_) Doubtless every true work of art should have what is called an
“organic unity.” That is to say, all the parts of the work should be
related to each other in such a way that a harmony of design arises. Two
entirely unrelated things brought into the piece would form two centres
of attraction and hence divide the work into two different works. It
should be so constituted that the study of one part leads to all the
other parts as being necessarily implied in it. This common life of the
whole work is the central idea which necessitates all the parts, and
hence makes the work an organism instead of a mere conglomerate or
mechanical aggregate,—a fortuitous concourse of atoms which would make a
chaos only.
(_b_) This central idea, however, cannot be represented in a work of art
without contrasts, and hence there must be antitheses present.
(_c_) And these antitheses must be again reduced to unity by the
manifest dependence of each side upon the central idea.
What is the central idea of this picture?
(_a_) Almost every thoughtful person that has examined it, has said:
“Here is the Divine in contrast with the Human, and the dependence of
the latter upon the former.” This may be stated in a variety of ways.
The Infinite is there above, and the Finite here below seeking it.
(_b_) The grandest antithesis is that between the two parts of the
Picture, the above and the below. The transfigured Christ, there,
dazzling with light; below, the shadow of mortal life, only illuminated
by such rays as come from above. _There_, serenity; and here, rending
calamity.
Then there are minor antitheses.
(1) Above we have a Twofold. The three celestial light-seekers who soar
rapturously to the invisible source of light, and below them, the three
disciples swooning beneath the power of the celestial vision. (2) Then
below the mountain we have a similar contrast in the two groups; the one
broken in spirit by the calamity that “pierces their own souls,” and the
other group powerfully affected by sympathy, and feeling keenly their
impotence during the absence of their Lord.
Again even, there appear other antitheses. So completely does the idea
penetrate the material in this work of art, that everywhere we see the
mirror of the whole. In the highest and most celestial we have the
antithesis of Christ and the twain; Moses the law or letter, Elias the
spirit or the prophet, and Christ the living unity. Even Christ himself,
though comparatively the point of repose of the whole picture, is a
contrast of soul striving against the visible body. So, too, the
antitheses of the three disciples, John, Peter, James,—grace, strength,
and humility. Everywhere the subject is exhaustively treated; the family
in its different members, the disciples with the different shades of
sympathy and concern. (The maniac boy is a perfect picture of a being,
torn asunder by violent internal contradiction.)
(_c_) The unity is no less remarkable. First, the absolute unity of the
piece, is the transfigured Christ. To it, mediately or immediately,
everything refers. All the light in the picture streams thence. All the
action in the piece has its motive power in Him;—first, the two
celestials soar to gaze in his light; then the three disciples are
expressing, by the posture of every limb, the intense effect of the same
light. On the left, the mediating strangers stand imploring Christ to
descend and be merciful to the miserable of this life. Below, the
disciples are painfully reminded of Him absent, by the present need of
his all-healing power, and their gestures refer to his stay on the
mountain top; while the group at the right, are frantic in supplications
for his assistance.
Besides the central unity, we find minor unities that do not contradict
the higher unity, for the reason that they are only reflections of it,
and each one carries us, of its own accord, to the higher unity, and
loses itself in it. To illustrate: Below, the immediate unity of all
(centre of interest) is the maniac boy, and yet he convulsively points
to the miraculous scene above, and the perfect unrest exhibited in his
attitude repels the soul irresistibly to seek another unity. The Christ
above, gives us a comparatively serene point of repose, while the unity
of the Below or finite side of the picture is an absolute antagonism,
hurling us beyond to the higher unity.
Before the approach of the distressed family, the others were intently
listening to the grave and elderly disciple, Andrew, who was reading and
expounding the Scriptures to them. This was a different unity, and would
have clashed with the organic unity of the piece; the approach of the
boy brings in a new unity, which immediately reflects all to the higher
unity.
VI. SENSE AND REASON _VS._ UNDERSTANDING.
At this point a few reflections are suggested to render more obvious,
certain higher phases in the unity of this work of art, which must now
be considered.
A work of art, it will be conceded, must, first of all, appeal to the
senses. Equally, too, its content must be an idea of the Reason, and
this is not so readily granted by every one. But if there were no idea
of the Reason in it, there would be no unity to the work, and it could
not be distinguished from any other work _not_ a work of art. Between
the Reason and the Senses there lies a broad realm, called the
“Understanding” by modern speculative writers. It was formerly called
the “discursive intellect.” The Understanding applies the criterion
“_use_.” It does not know _beauty_, or, indeed, anything which is _for
itself_; it knows only what is good for something else. In a work of
art, after it has asked what it is good for, it proceeds to construe it
all into prose, for it is the _prose faculty_. It must have the picture
tell us what is the _external fact_ in nature, and not trouble us with
any transcendental imaginative products. It wants imitation of nature
merely.
But the artist frequently neglects this faculty, and shocks it to the
uttermost by such things as the abridged mountain in this picture, or
the shadow cast toward the sun, that Eckermann tells of.
The artist must never violate the sensuous harmony, nor fail to have the
deeper unity of the Idea. It is evident that the sensuous side is always
cared for by Raphael.
Here are some of the effects in the picture that are purely sensuous and
yet of such a kind that they immediately call up the idea. The source of
light in the picture is Christ’s form; _below_, it is reflected in the
garments of the conspicuous figure in the foreground. Above, is Christ;
opposite and below, a female that suggests the Madonna. In the same
manner Elias, or the inspired prophet, is the opposite to the maniac
boy; the former inspired by the _celestial_; the latter, by the
_demonic_. So Moses, the law-giver, is antithetic to the old disciple
that has the roll of the Law in his hand. So, too, in the posture, Elias
floats freely, while Moses is brought against the tree, and mars the
impression of free self-support. The heavy tables of the Law seem to
draw him down, while Elias seems to have difficulty in descending
sufficiently to place himself in subordination to Christ.
Even the contradiction that the understanding finds in the abridgment of
the mountain, is corrected sensuously by the perspective at the right,
and the shade that the edge of the rock casts which isolates the above
so completely from the below.
We see that Raphael has brought them to a secluded spot just near the
top of the mountain. The view of the distant vale tells us as
effectually that this is a mountain top as could be done by a full
length painting of it. Hence the criticism rests upon a misunderstanding
of the fact Raphael has portrayed.
VII. ROMANTIC _vs._ CLASSIC.
Finally, we must recur to those distinctions so much talked of, in order
to introduce the consideration of the grandest strokes of genius which
Raphael has displayed in this work.
The distinction of Classic and Romantic Art, of Greek Art from
Christian: the former is characterized by a complete repose, or
equilibrium between the Sense and Reason—or between matter and form. The
idea seems completely expressed, and the expression completely adequate
to the idea.
But in Christian Art we do not find this equilibrium; but everywhere we
find an intimation that the idea is too transcendent for the matter to
express. Hence, Romantic Art is self contradictory—it _expresses_ the
_inadequacy_ of _expression_.
“I have that within which passeth show;
These but the _trappings_ and the _suits_ of woe.”
In Gothic Architecture, all strives upward and seems to derive its
support from above (i. e. the Spiritual, light). All Romantic Art points
to a _beyond_. The Madonnas seem to say: “I am a beyond which cannot be
represented in a sensuous form;” “a saintly contempt for the flesh
hovers about their features,” as some one has expressed it.
But in this picture, Christ himself, no more a child in the Madonna’s
arms, but even in his meridian glory, looks beyond, and expresses
dependence on a Being who is not and cannot be represented. His face is
serene, beatific; he is at unity with this Absolute Being, but the unity
is an internal one, and his upraised gaze towards the source of light is
a plain statement that the True which supports him is not a sensuous
one. “God dwelleth not in temples made with hands; but those who would
approach Him must do it in _spirit_ and in _truth_.”
This is the idea which belongs to the method of all modern Art; but
Raphael has not left this as the general spirit of the picture merely,
but has emphasized it in a way that exhibits the happy temper of his
genius in dealing with refractory subjects. And this last point has
proved too much for his critics. Reference is made to the two saints
painted at the left. How fine it would be, thought the Cardinal de
Medici, to have St. Lawrence and St. Julian painted in there, to
commemorate my father and uncle! They can represent mediators, and
thereby connect the two parts of the picture more closely!
Of course, Raphael put them in there! “Alas!” say his critics, “what a
fatal mistake! What have those two figures to do there but to mar the
work! All for the gratification of a selfish pride!”
Always trust an Artist to dispose of the Finite; he, of all men, knows
how to digest it and subordinate it to the idea.
Raphael wanted just such figures in just that place. Of course, the most
natural thing in the world that could happen, would be the ascent of
some one to bear the message to Christ that there was need of him below.
But what is the effect of that upon the work as a piece of Romantic Art?
It would destroy that characteristic, if permitted in certain forms.
Raphael, however, seizes upon this incident to show the entire spiritual
character of the upper part of the picture. The disciples are dazzled
so, that even the firm Peter cannot endure the light at all. Is this a
physical light? Look at the messengers that have come up the mountain!
Do their eyes indicate anything bright, not to say dazzling? They stand
there with supplicating looks and gestures, but see no transfiguration.
It must be confessed, Cardinal de Medici, that your uncle and father are
not much complimented, after all; they are merely natural men, and have
no inner sense by which to see the Eternal Verities that illume the
mystery of existence! Even if you are Cardinal, and they were Popes’
counselors, they never saw anything higher in Religion than what should
add comfort to us here below!
No! The transfiguration, as Raphael clearly tells us, was a Spiritual
one: Christ, on the mountain with his favored three disciples, opened up
such celestial clearness in his exposition of the truth, that they saw
Moses and Elias, as it were, combined in one Person, and a new Heaven
and a new Earth arose before them, and they were lost in that revelation
of infinite splendor.
In closing, a remark forces itself upon us with reference to the
comparative merits of Raphael and Michael Angelo.
Raphael is the perfection of Romantic Art. Michael Angelo is almost a
Greek. His paintings all seem to be pictures of statuary. In his
grandest—The Last Judgment—we have the visible presence as the highest.
Art with him could represent the Absolute. With Raphael it could only,
in its loftiest flights, express its own impotence.
Whether we are to consider Raphael or Michael Angelo as the higher
artist, must be decided by an investigation of the merits of the “Last
Judgment.”
INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY.
CHAPTER I.
The object of this series is to furnish, in as popular a form as
possible, a course of discipline for those who are beginning the study
of philosophy. Strictly _popular_, in the sense the word is used—i. e.
signifying that which holds fast to the ordinary consciousness of men,
and does not take flights beyond—I am well aware, no philosophy can be.
The nearest approach to it that can be made, consists in starting from
the common external views, and drawing them into the speculative, step
by step. For this purpose the method of definitions and axioms, with
deductions therefrom, as employed by Spinoza, is more appropriate at
first, and afterwards a gradual approach to the _Dialectic_, or true
philosophic method. In the mathematical method (that of Spinoza just
alluded to) the content may be speculative, but its form, never. Hence
the student of philosophy needs only to turn his attention to the
content at first; when that becomes in a measure familiar, he can then
the more readily pass over to the true form of the speculative content,
and thus achieve complete insight. A course of discipline in the
speculative content, though under an inadequate form, would make a grand
preparation for the study of Hegel or Plato; while a study of these, or,
in short, of any writers who employ speculative _methods_ in treating
speculative _content_—a study of these without previous acquaintance
with the content is well nigh fruitless. One needs only to read the
comments of translators of Plato upon his speculative passages, or the
prevailing verdicts upon Hegel, to be satisfied on this point.
The course that I shall here present will embody my own experience, to a
great extent, in the chronological order of its development. Each lesson
will endeavor to present an _aperçu_ derived from some great
philosopher. Those coming later will presuppose the earlier ones, and
frequently throw new light upon them.
As one who undertakes the manufacture of an elegant piece of furniture
needs carefully elaborated tools for that end, so must the thinker who
wishes to comprehend the universe be equipped with the tools of thought,
or else he will come off as poorly as he who should undertake to make a
carved mahogany chair with no tools except his teeth and finger nails.
What complicated machinery is required to transmute the rough ores into
an American watch! And yet how common is the delusion that no
elaboration of tools of thought is required to enable the commonest mind
to manipulate the highest subjects of investigation. The alchemy that
turned base metal into gold is only a symbol of that cunning alchemy of
thought that by means of the philosopher’s stone (scientific method)
dissolves the base _facts_ of experience into universal truths.
The uninitiated regards the philosophic treatment of a theme as
difficult solely by reason of its technical terms. “If I only understood
your use of words, I think I should find no difficulty in your thought.”
He supposes that under those bizarre terms there lurks only the meaning
that he and others put into ordinary phrases. He does not seem to think
that the concepts likewise are new. It is just as though an Indian were
to say to the carpenter, “I could make as good work as you, if I only
had the secret of using my finger-nails and teeth as you do the plane
and saw.” Speculative philosophy—it cannot be too early inculcated—does
_not_ “conceal under cumbrous terminology views which men ordinarily
hold.” The ordinary reflection would say that Being is the ground of
thought, while speculative philosophy would say that thought is the
ground of Being; whether of other being, or of itself as being—for it is
_causa sui_.
Let us now address ourselves to the task of elaborating our
technique—the tools of thought—and see what new worlds become accessible
through our mental telescopes and microscopes, our analytical scalpels
and psychological plummets.
I.—A PRIORI AND A POSTERIORI.
_A priori_, as applied to knowledge, signifies that which belongs to the
nature of the mind itself. Knowledge which is before experience, or not
dependent on it, is _a priori_.
_A posteriori_ or _empirical_ knowledge is derived from experience.
A criterion to be applied in order to test the application of these
categories to any knowledge in question, is to be found in
_universality_ and _necessity_. If the truth expressed has universal and
necessary validity it must be _a priori_, for it could not have been
derived from experience. Of empirical knowledge we can only say: “It is
true so far as experience has extended.” Of _a priori_ knowledge, on the
contrary, we affirm: “It is universally and necessarily true and no
experience of its opposite can possibly occur; from the very nature of
things it must be so.”
II.—ANALYTICAL AND SYNTHETICAL.
A judgment which, in the predicate, adds nothing new to the subject, is
said to be _analytical_, as e. g. “Horse is an animal;”—the concept
“animal” is already contained in that of “horse.”
_Synthetical_ judgments, on the contrary, add in the predicate something
new to the conception of the subject, as e. g. “This rose is red,” or
“The shortest distance between two points is a straight line;”—in the
first judgment we have “red” added to the general concept “rose;” while
in the second example we have _straightness_, which is quality, added to
_shortest_, which is quantity.
III.—APODEICTICAL.
Omitting the consideration of _a posteriori_ knowledge for the present,
let us investigate the _a priori_ in order to learn something of the
constitution of the intelligence which knows—always a proper subject for
philosophy. Since, moreover, the _a priori analytical_ (“A horse is an
animal”) adds nothing to our knowledge, we may confine ourselves, as
Kant does, to _a priori synthetical_ knowledge. The axioms of
mathematics are of this character. They are universal and necessary in
their application, and we know this without making a single practical
experiment. “Only one straight line can be drawn between two points,” or
the proposition: “The sum of the three angles of a triangle is equal to
two right angles,”—these are true in all possible experiences, and hence
transcend any actual experience. Take any _a posteriori_ judgment, e. g.
“All bodies are heavy,” and we see at once that it implies the
restriction, “So far as we have experienced,” or else is a mere
analytical judgment. The _universal and necessary_ is sometimes called
the _apodeictical_. The conception of the _apodeictical_ lies at the
basis of all true philosophical thinking. He who does not distinguish
between _apodeictic_ and _contingent_ judgments must pause here until he
can do so.
IV. SPACE AND TIME.
In order to give a more exhaustive application to our technique, let us
seek the universal conditions of experience. The mathematical truths
that we quoted relate to Space, and similar ones relate to Time. No
experience would be possible without presupposing Time and Space as its
logical condition. Indeed, we should never conceive our sensations to
have an origin outside of ourselves and in distinct objects, unless we
had the conception of Space _a priori_ by which to render it possible.
Instead, therefore, of our being able to generalize particular
experiences, and collect therefrom the idea of Space and Time in
general, we must have added the idea of Space and Time to our sensation
before it could possibly become an experience at all. This becomes more
clear when we recur to the _apodeictic_ nature of Space and Time. Time
and Space are thought as _infinites_, i. e. they can only be limited by
themselves, and hence are universally continuous. But no such conception
as _infinite_ can be derived analytically from an object of experience,
for it does not contain it. All objects of experience must be _within_
Time and Space, and not _vice versa_. All that is limited in extent and
duration presupposes Time and Space as its logical condition, and this
we know, not from the senses but from the constitution of Reason itself.
“The third side of a triangle is less than the sum of the two other
sides.” This we never measured, and yet we are certain that we cannot be
mistaken about it. It is so in all triangles, present, past, future,
actual, or possible. If this was an inference _a posteriori_, we could
only say: “It has been found to be so in all cases that have been
measured and reported to us.”
V. MIND.
Mind has a certain _a priori_ constitution; this is our inference. It
must be so, or else we could never have any experience whatever. It is
the only way in which the possibility of _apodeictic_ knowledge can be
accounted for. What I do not get from without I must get from within, if
I have it at all. Mind, it would seem from this, cannot be, according to
its nature, a finite affair—a thing with properties. Were it limited in
Time or Space, it could never (without transcending itself) conceive
Time and Space as universally continuous or infinite. Mind is not within
Time and Space, it is as universal and necessary as the _apodeictic_
judgments it forms, and hence it is the substantial essence of all that
exists. Time and Space are the logical conditions of finite existences,
and Mind is the logical condition of Time and Space. Hence it is
ridiculous to speak of _my_ mind and _your_ mind, for mind is rather the
universal substrate of all individuality than owned by any particular
individual.
These results are so startling to the one who first begins to think,
that he is tempted to reject the whole. If he does not do this, but
scrutinizes the whole fabric keenly, he will discover what he supposes
to be fallacies. We cannot anticipate the answer to his objections here,
for his objections arise from his inability to distinguish between his
imagination and his thinking and this must be treated of in the next
chapter. Here, we can only interpose an earnest request to the reader to
persevere and thoroughly refute the whole argument before he leaves it.
But this is only one and the most elementary position from which the
philosophic traveller sees the Eternal Verities. Every perfect
analysis—no matter what the subject be—will bring us to the same result,
though the degrees of concreteness will vary,—some leaving the solution
in an abstract and vague form,—others again arriving at a complete and
satisfactory view of the matter in detail.
SEED LIFE.
BY E. V.
Ah! woe for the endless stirring,
The hunger for air and light,
The fire of the blazing noonday
Wrapped round in a chilling night!
The muffled throb of an instinct
That is kin to the mystic To Be;
Strong muscles, cut with their fetters,
As they writhe with claim to be free.
A voice that cries out in the silence,
And is choked in a stifling air;
Arms full of an endless reaching,
While the “Nay” stands everywhere.
The burning of conscious selfhood,
That fights with pitiless fate!
God grant that deliverance stay not,
Till it come at last too late;
Till the crushed out instinct waver,
And fainter and fainter grow,
And by suicide, through unusing,
Seek freedom from its woe.
Oh! despair of constant losing
The life that is clutched in vain!
Is it death or a joyous growing
That shall put an end to pain?
A DIALOGUE ON IMMORTALITY.
BY ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER.
(Translated from the German, by Chas. L. Bernays.)
_Philalethes._—I could tell you that, after your death, you will be what
you were previous to your birth; I could tell you that we are never
born, and that we only seem to die—that we have always been precisely
the same that we are now, and that we shall always remain the same—that
_Time_ is the apparatus which prevents us from being aware of all this;
I could tell you that our consciousness stands always in the centre of
_Time_—never on one of its termini; and that any one among us,
therefore, has the immovable centre of the whole infinite _Time_ in
himself. I then could tell you that those who, by that knowledge, are
assured that the present time always originates in ourselves, can never
doubt the indestructibility of their own essence.
_Thrasymachus._—All of that is too long and too ambiguous for me. Tell
me, briefly, what I shall be after death.
_Phil._—All and nothing.
_Thras._—There we are! Instead of a solution to the problem you give me
a contradiction; that is an old trick.
_Phil._—To answer transcendental questions in language that is only made
for immanent perceptions, may in fact lead us into contradictions.
_Thras._—What do you mean by “transcendental” and “immanent”
perceptions?
_Phil._—Well! _Transcendental_ perception is rather the knowledge,
which, by exceeding any possibility of experience, tends to discover the
essence of things as they are by themselves; _immanent_ perception it
is, if it keeps inside of the limits of experience. In this case, it can
only speak of appearances. You, as an individual, end with your death.
Yet individuality is not your true and final essence, but only a mere
appearance of it. It is not the _thing in itself_, but only its
appearance, established in the form of time, thereby having a beginning
and an end. That which is essential in you, knows neither of beginning
nor ending, nor of Time itself; it knows no limits such as belong to a
given individuality, but exists in all and in each. In the first sense,
therefore, you will become nothing after your death; in the second
sense, you are and remain all. For that reason I said you would be all
and nothing. You desired a short answer, and I believe that hardly a
more correct answer could be given _briefly_. No wonder, too, that it
contains a contradiction; for your life is in Time, while your
immortality is in Eternity.
_Thras._—Without the continuation of my individuality, I would not give
a farthing for all your “immortality.”
_Phil._—Perhaps you could have it even cheaper. Suppose that I warrant
to you the continuation of your individuality, but under the condition
that a perfectly unconscious slumber of death for three months should
precede its resuscitation.
_Thras._—Well, I accept the condition.
_Phil._—Now, in an absolutely unconscious condition, we have no measure
of time; hence it is perfectly indifferent whether, whilst we lie asleep
in death in the unconscious world, three months or ten thousand years
are passing away. We do not know either of the one or of the other, and
have to accept some one’s word with regard to the duration of our sleep,
when we awake. Hence it is indifferent to you whether your individuality
is given back to you after three months or after ten thousand years.
_Thras._—That I cannot deny.
_Phil._—Now, suppose that after ten thousand years, one had forgotten to
awake you at all, then I believe that the long, long state of non-being
would become so habitual to you that your misfortune could hardly be
very great. Certain it is, any way, that you would know nothing of it;
nay, you would even console yourself very easily, if you were aware that
the secret mechanism which now keeps your actual appearance in motion,
had not ceased during all the ten thousand years for a single moment to
establish and to move other beings of the same kind.
_Thras._—In that manner you mean to cheat me out of my individuality, do
you? I will not be fooled in that way. I have bargained for the
continuation of my individuality, and none of your motives can console
me for the loss of that; I have it at heart, and I never will abandon
it.
_Phil._—It seems that you hold individuality to be so noble, so perfect,
so incomparable, that there can be nothing superior to it; you therefore
would not like to exchange it for another one, though in that, you could
live with greater ease and perfection.
_Thras._—Let my individuality be as it may, it is always myself. It is
I—I myself—who want to be. That is the individuality which I insist
upon, and not such a one as needs argument to convince me that it may be
my own or a better one.
_Phil._—Only look about you! That which cries out—“I, I myself, wish to
exist”—that is not yourself alone, but all that has the least vestige of
consciousness. Hence this desire of yours, is just that which is not
individual, but common rather to all without exception; it does not
originate in individuality, but in the very nature of existence itself;
it is essential to anybody who lives, nay, it is that through which it
is at all; it seems to belong only to the individual because it can
become conscious only in the individual. What cries in us so loud for
existence, does so only through the mediation of the individual;
immediately and essentially it is the _will_ to exist or to live, and
this _will_ is one and the same in all of us. Our existence being only
the free work of the will, existence can never fail to belong to it, as
far, at least, as that eternally dissatisfied will, _can_ be satisfied.
The individualities are indifferent to the will; it never speaks of
them; though it seems to the individual, who, in himself is the
immediate percipient of it, as if it spoke only of his own
individuality. The consequence is, that the individual cares for his own
existence with so great anxiety, and that he thereby secures the
preservation of his kind. Hence it follows that individuality is no
perfection, but rather a restriction or imperfection; to get rid of it
is not a loss but a gain. Hence, if you would not appear at once
childish and ridiculous, you should abandon that care for mere
individuality; for childish and ridiculous it will appear when you
perceive your own essence to be the universal will to live.
_Thras._—You yourself and all philosophers are childish and ridiculous,
and in fact it is only for a momentary diversion that a man of good
common sense ever consents to squander away an idle hour with the like
of you. I leave your talk for weightier matters.
[The reader will perceive by the positions here assumed that
Schopenhauer has a truly speculative stand-point; that he holds
self-determination to be the only substantial (or abiding) reality. But
while Aristotle and those like him have seized this more definitely as
the self-conscious thinking, it is evident that Schopenhauer seizes it
only from its immediate side, i. e. as the _will_. On this account he
meets with some difficulty in solving the problem of immortality, and
leaves the question of conscious identity hereafter, not a little
obscure. Hegel, on the contrary, for whom Schopenhauer everywhere
evinces a hearty contempt, does not leave the individual in any doubt as
to his destiny, but shows how individuality and universality coincide in
self-consciousness, so that the desire for eternal existence is fully
satisfied. This is the legitimate result that _Philalethes_ arrives at
in his last speech, when he makes the individuality a product of the
will; for if the will is the essential that he holds it to be, and the
product of its activity is individuality, of course individuality
belongs eternally to it. At the close of his _Philosophy of Nature_,
(Encyclopædia, vol. II.,) Hegel shows how death which follows life in
the mere animal—and in man as mere animal—enters consciousness as one of
its necessary elements, and hence does not stand opposed to it as it
does to animal life. Conscious being (_Spirit_ or _Mind_ as it may be
called,) is therefore immortal because it contains already, within
itself, its limits or determinations, and thus cannot, like finite
things, encounter dissolution through external ones.—ED.]
GOETHE’S THEORY OF COLORS.
From an exposition given before the St. Louis Philosophical Society,
Nov. 2nd, 1866.
I.—Color arises through the reciprocal action of light and darkness.
(_a._) When a light object is seen through a medium that dims it, it
appears of different degrees of yellow; if the medium is dark or dense,
the color is orange, or approaches red. Examples: the sun seen in the
morning through a slightly hazy atmosphere appears yellow, but if the
air is thick with mist or smoke the sun looks red.
(_b._) On the other hand a dark object, seen through a medium slightly
illuminated, looks blue. If the medium is very strongly illuminated, the
blue approaches a light blue; if less so, then indigo; if still less,
the deep violet appears. Examples: a mountain situated at a great
distance, from which very few rays of light come, looks blue, because we
see it through a light medium, the air illuminated by the sun. The sky
at high altitudes appears of a deep violet; at still higher ones, almost
perfectly black; at lower ones, of a faint blue. Smoke—an illuminated
medium—appears blue against a dark ground, but yellow or fiery against a
light ground.
(_c._) The process of bluing steel is a fine illustration of Goethe’s
theory. The steel is polished so that it reflects light like a mirror.
On placing it in the charcoal furnace a film of oxydization begins to
form so that the light is reflected through this dimming medium; this
gives a straw color. Then, as the film thickens, the color deepens,
passing through red to blue and indigo.
(_d._) The prism is the grand instrument in the experimental field of
research into light. The current theory that light, when pure, is
composed of seven colors, is derived from supposed actual verifications
with this instrument. The Goethean explanation is by far the simplest,
and, in the end, it propounds a question which the Newtonian theory
cannot answer without admitting the truth of Goethe’s theory.
II.—The phenomenon of refraction is produced by interposing different
transparent media between the luminous object and the illuminated one,
in such a manner that there arises an apparent displacement of one of
the objects as viewed from the other. By means of a prism the
displacement is caused to lack uniformity; one part of the light image
is displaced more than another part; several images, as it were, being
formed with different degrees of displacement, so that they together
make an image whose edges are blurred in the line of displacement. If
the displacement were perfectly uniform, no color would arise, as is
demonstrated by the achromatic prism or lens. The difference of degrees
of refraction causes the elongation of the image into a spectrum, and
hence a mingling of the edges of the image with the outlying dark
surface of the wall, (which dark surface is essential to the production
of the ordinary spectrum). Its _rationale_ is the following:
(_a_) The light image refracted by the prism is extended over the dark
on one side, while the dark on the other side is extended over it.
(_b_) The bright over the dark produces the blue in different degrees.
The side nearest the dark being the deepest or violet, and the side
nearest the light image being the lightest blue.
(_c_) On the other side, the dark over light produces yellow in
different degrees; nearest the dark we have the deepest color, (orange
approaching to red) and on the side nearest the light, the light yellow
or saffron tint.
(_d_) If the image is large and but little refracted (as with a water
prism) there will appear between the two opposite colored edges a
colorless image, proving that the colors arise from the mingling of the
light and dark edges, and not from any peculiar property of the prism
which should “decompose the ray of light,” as the current theory
expresses it. If the latter theory were correct the decomposition would
be throughout, and the whole image be colored.
(_e_) If the image is a small one, or it is very strongly refracted, the
colored edges come together in the middle, and the mingling of the light
yellow with the light blue produces _green_—a new color which did not
appear so long as the light ground appeared in the middle.
(_f_) If the refraction is still stronger, the edges of the opposite
colors lap still more, and the green vanishes. The Newtonian theory
cannot explain this, but it is to be expected according to Goethe’s
theory.
(_g_) According to Goethe’s theory, if the object were a dark one
instead of a light one, and were refracted on a light surface, the order
of colors would be reversed on each edge of the image. This is the same
experiment as one makes by looking through a prism at the bar of a
window appearing against the sky. Where in the light image we had the
yellow colors we should now expect the blue, for now it is dark over
light where before it was light over dark. So, also, where we had blue
we should now have yellow. This experiment may be so conducted that the
current doctrine that violet is refracted the most, and red the least,
shall be refuted.
(_h_) This constitutes the _experimentum crucis_. If the prism be a
large water prism, and a black strip be pasted across the middle of it,
parallel with its axis, so that in the midst of the image a dark shadow
intervenes, the spectrum appears inverted in the middle, so that the red
is seen where the green would otherwise appear, and those rays supposed
to be the least refrangible are found refracted the most.
(_i_) When the two colored edges do not meet in this latter experiment,
we have blue, indigo, violet, as the order on one side; and on the
other, orange, yellow, saffron; the deeper colors being next to the dark
image. If the two colored edges come together the union of the orange
with the violet produces the perfect red (called by Goethe “_purpur_”).
(_j_) The best method of making experiments is not the one that Newton
employed—that of a dark room and a pencil of light—but it is better to
look at dark and bright stripes on grounds of the opposite hue, or at
the bars of a window, the prism being held in the hand of the
investigator. In the Newtonian form of the experiment one is apt to
forget the importance of the dark edge where it meets the light.
[For further information on this interesting subject the English reader
is referred to Eastlake’s translation of Goethe’s Philosophy of Colors,
published in London.]
THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY.
Vol. I. 1867. No. 2.
SECOND PART OF GOETHE’S FAUST.
[Translated from Rosenkrantz’s “Deutsche Literatur,” by D. J. Snider.]
Goethe began nothing if the whole of the work did not hover before his
mind. By this determinateness of plan he preserved a most persevering
attachment to the materials of which he had once laid hold; they were
elements of his existence, which for him were immortal, because they
constituted his inmost being. He could put off their execution for
years, and still be certain that his love for them would return, that
his interest in them would animate him anew. Through this depth of
conception he preserved fresh to the end his original purpose; he needed
not to fear that the fire of the first enthusiasm would go out; at the
most different times he could take up his work again with youthful zeal
and strength. Thus in the circle of his poetical labors, two conceptions
that are in internal opposition to one another, accompanied him through
his whole life. The one portrays a talented but fickle man, who, in want
of culture, attaches himself to this person, then to that one, in order
to become spiritually independent. This struggle carries him into the
breadth of life, into manifold relations whose spirit he longs to seize
and appropriate; such is Wilhelm Meister. The other is the picture of an
absolutely independent personality that has cultivated its lordly power
in solitary loftiness, and aspires boldly to subject the world to
itself; such is Faust. In the development of both subjects there is a
decisive turning-point which is marked in the first by the “Travels;” in
the second, by the Second Part of the Tragedy. Up to this point, both in
Wilhelm Meister and in Faust, subjective conditions prevail, which
gradually purify themselves to higher views and aims. For the one, the
betrothal with Natalia closes the world of wild, youthful desire; for
the other, the death of Margaret has the same effect. The one steps into
civil society and its manifold activity, with the earnest endeavor to
comprehend all its elements, to acquire, preserve, and beautify
property, and to assist in illuminating and ennobling social relations;
the other takes likewise a practical turn, but from the summit of
Society, from the stand-point of the State itself. If, therefore, in the
apprenticeship and First Part of the Tragedy, on account of the excess
of subjective conditions, a closer connection of the character and a
passionate pathos are necessary, there appears, on the contrary, in the
Travels and Second part of the Tragedy a thoughtfulness which moderates
everything—a cool designingness; the particular elements are sharply
characterized, but the personages seem rather as supporters of universal
aims, in the accomplishment of which their own personality is submerged;
the Universal and its language is their pathos, and the interest in
their history, that before was so remarkably fascinating, is blunted of
its keenness.
We have seen Faust grow, fragment by fragment, before our eyes. So long
as there existed only a First Part, two views arose. The one maintained
that it was in this incompleteness what it should be, a wonderful Torso;
that this magnificent poem only as a fragment could reflect the World in
order to indicate that Man is able to grasp the Universe in a one-sided,
incomplete manner only; that as the poet touched the mysteries of the
World, but did not give a complete solution, so the Enigmatical, the
Prophetic, is that which is truly poetic, infinitely charming, really
mystic. This view was considered as genial, particularly because it left
to every one free play—in fact, invited every one in his imagination to
fill up the outlines; for it could not be defended from a philosophic
nor from an artistic standpoint. Knowing seeks not half knowledge, Art
aims not at halfness of execution. If Dante in his Divine Comedy had
neglected any element of nature or of history, if he had not wrought out
all with equal perseverance in corresponding proportion, could it be
said that his poem would stand higher without this completion? Or
conversely, shall we praise it as a merit that Novalis’ Ofterdingen has
remained mere fragments and sketches? This would be the same as if we
should admire the Cologne Cathedral less than we now do were it
complete. Another view supposed that a Second Part was indeed possible,
and the question arose, in what manner shall this possibility be
thought? Here again two opposite opinions showed themselves. According
to the one, Faust must perish; reconciliation with God would be
unbecoming to the northern nature of this Titanic character; the
teeth-gnashing defiance, the insatiate restlessness, the crushing doubt,
the heaven-deriding fierceness, must send him to hell. In this the
spirit of the old legend was expressed as it was at the time of the
Reformation—for in the middle ages the redemption of the sinner through
the intercession of the Virgin Mary first appeared—as the _Volksbuch_
simply but strikingly narrates it, as the Englishman, Marlowe, has
dramatized it so excellently in his Doctor Faustus. But all this was not
applicable to the Faust of Goethe, for the poet had in his mind an
alteration of the old legend, and so another party maintained that Faust
must be saved. This party also asserted that the indication of the poet
in the Prologue led to the same conclusion; that God could not lose his
bet against the Devil; that the destruction of Faust would be
blasphemous irony on Divine Providence. This assertion of the necessity
of Faust’s reconciliation found much favor in a time, like ours, which
has renounced not indeed the consciousness and recognition of Evil, but
the belief in a separate extra-human Devil; which purposes not merely
the punishment but also the improvement of the criminal; which seeks
even to annul the death penalty, and transfer the atonement for murder
to the inner conscience and to the effacing power of the Mind. But how
was Poetry to exhibit such a transition from internal strife to
celestial peace? Some supposed, as Hinrichs, that since Faust’s despair
resulted originally from science, which did not furnish to him that
which it had at first promised, and since his childish faith had been
destroyed by scepticism, he must be saved through the scientific
comprehension of Truth, of the Christian Religion; that speculative
Philosophy must again reconcile him with God, with the World, and with
himself. They confessed indeed that this process—study and
speculation—cannot be represented in poetry, and therefore a Second Part
of Faust was not to be expected. Others, especially poets, took Faust in
a more general sense; he was to penetrate not only Science but Life in
its entirety; the most manifold action was to move him, and the sweat of
labor was to be the penance which should bring him peace and furnish the
clearness promised by the Lord. Several sought to complete the work—all
with indifferent success.
In what manner the poet himself would add a Second Part to the First,
what standpoint he himself would take, remained a secret. Now it is
unsealed; the poem is unrolled before us complete; with wondering look
we stand before it, with a beating heart we read it, and with modest
anxiety, excited by a thousand feelings and misgivings, we venture
cursorily to indicate the design of the great Master; for years shall
pass away before the meaning of the all-comprehensive poem shall be
unveiled completely in its details. Still this explanation of
particulars in poetry is a subordinate matter. The main tendency of a
poem must be seen upon its face, and it would be a sorry work if it did
not excite a living interest the first time that it was offered to the
enjoyment of a people—if this interest should result from microscopic
explanations and fine unravelling of concealed allusions—if enthusiasm
should not arise from the poetry as well as from the learning and
acuteness of the poet. Such particulars, which are hard to understand,
almost every great poem will furnish; latterly, the explanatory
observations on epic poems have become even stereotyped; it must be
possible to disregard them; through ignorance of them nothing essential
must be lost.
The First Part had shown us Faust in his still cell, engaged in the
study of all sciences. The results of his investigation did not satisfy
the boundless seeker, and as an experiment he bound himself to the Devil
to see if the latter could not slake his burning thirst.
Thus he rushed into Life. Earthly enjoyment surrounded him, Love
enchained him, Desire drove him to sudden, to bad deeds; in the mad
_Walpurgisnach_ he reached the summit of waste worldliness. But deeper
than the Devil supposed, Faust felt for his Margaret; he desired to save
the unfortunate girl, but he was obliged to learn that this was
impossible, but that only endurance of the punishment of crime could
restore the harassed mind to peace. The simple story of love held
everything together here in a dramatic form. The Prologue in Heaven, the
Witch-kitchen, the _Walpurgisnacht_, and several contemplative scenes,
could be left out, and there still would remain a theatrical Whole of
remarkable effect.
The relation to Margaret—her death—had elevated Faust above everything
subjective. In the continuation of his life, objective relations alone
could constitute the motive of action. The living fresh breath of the
First Part resulted just from this fact, that everything objective,
universal, was seized from the point of subjective interest; in the
Second Part the Universal, the Objective, stands out prominently;
subjective interests appear only under the presupposition of the
Objective; the form becomes allegorical.
A story, an action which rounds itself off to completion, is wanting,
and therefore the dramatic warmth which pulsates through every scene of
the First Part is no longer felt. The unity which is traced through the
web of the manifold situations, is the universal tendency of Faust _to
create a satisfaction for himself through work_. Mephistopheles has no
longer the position of a being superior by his great understanding and
immovable coldness, who bitterly mocks Faust’s striving, but he appears
rather as a powerful companion who skillfully procures the material
means for the aims of Faust, and, in all his activity, only awaits the
moment when Faust shall finally acknowledge himself to be satisfied. But
the striving of Faust is infinite; each goal, when once reached, is
again passed by; nowhere does he rest, not in Society, not in Nature,
not in Art, not in War, not in Industry; only the thought of Freedom
itself, the presentiment of the happiness of standing with a free people
upon a free soil wrung from the sea, thrills the old man with a
momentary satisfaction—and he dies. Upon pictures and woodcuts of the
middle ages representations of dying persons are found, in which the
Devil on one side of the death-bed and angels on the other await eagerly
the departing soul to pull it to themselves. Goethe has revived this old
idea of a jealousy and strife between the angels and the Devil for Man.
Mephistopheles, with his horde of devils, struggles to carry away the
soul of Faust to hell, but he forgets himself in unnatural lust, and the
angels bear the immortal part of Faust to that height where rest and
illumination of the dying begin.
Such an allegorical foundation could not be developed otherwise than in
huge masses; the division of each mass in itself, so that all the
elements of the thought lying at the bottom should appear, was the
proper object of the composition. The First Part could also be called
allegorical, in so far as it reflected the universal Essence of Spirit
in the Individual; but it could not be said of it in any other sense
than of every poem; Allegory in its stricter sense was not to be found;
the shapes had all flesh and blood, and no design was felt. In the
Second Part everything passes over into the really Allegorical, to which
Goethe, the older he grew, seems to have had the greater inclination;
the _Xenien_, the _Trilogie der Leidenschaft_, the _Lieder zur Loge_,
the _Maskenzüge_, _Epimenides Erwachen_, the cultivation of the Eastern
manners, all proceeded from a didactic turn which delighted in
expressing itself in gnomes, pictures, and symbolical forms. With
wonderful acuteness, Goethe has always been able to seize the
characteristic determinations, and unfold them in neat, living language;
however, it lies in the nature of such poems that they exercise the
reflective faculty more than the heart, and it was easy to foresee that
the Second Part of Faust would never acquire the popularity of the First
Part; that it would not, as the latter, charm the nation, and educate
the people to a consciousness of itself, but that it would always have a
sort of esoteric existence. Many will be repelled by the mythological
learning of the second and third acts; and the more so, as they do not
see themselves recompensed by the dialectic of an action; however, we
would unhesitatingly defend the poet against this reproach; a poem which
has to compass the immeasurable material of the world, cannot be limited
in this respect. What learning has not Dante supposed in his readers?
Humbly have we sought it, in order to acquire an understanding of his
poem, in the certainty of being richly rewarded; the censure which has
been cast upon it for this reason has effected nothing. Indeed, such
fault-finders would here forget what the first acknowledged Part of
Faust has compelled them to learn. With this difference of plan, the
style must also change. Instead of dramatic pathos, because action is
wanting, description, explanation, indication, have become necessary;
and instead of the lively exchange of dialogue, the lyrical portion has
become more prominent, in order to embody with simplicity the elements
of the powerful world-life. The descriptions of nature deserve to be
mentioned in particular. The most wanton fancy, the deepest feeling, the
most accurate knowledge, and the closest observation into the
individual, prevail in all these pictures with an indescribable charm.
We shall now give a short account of the contents of each act. In a more
complete exposition we would point out the places in which the power of
the particular developments centers; in these outlines it is our design
to confine ourselves to tracing out the universal meaning. To exhibit by
single verses and songs the wonderful beauty of the language,
particularly in the lyrical portions, would seem to us as superfluous as
the effort to prove the existence of a divine Providence by anecdotes of
strange coincidences.
The first act brings us into social life; a multitude of shapes pass by
us—the most different wishes, opinions and humors are heard; still, a
secret unity, which we shall note even more closely, pervades the
confused tumult. In a delightful spot, lying upon the flowery sward, we
see Faust alone, tormented by deep pangs, seeking rest and slumber. Out
of pure pity, indifferent whether the unfortunate man is holy or wicked,
elves hover around him and fan him to sleep, in order that the past may
be sunk into the Lethe of forgetfulness; otherwise, a continuance of
life and endeavor is impossible. The mind has the power to free itself
from the past, and throw it behind itself, and treat it as if it had
never been. The secret of renewing ourselves perpetually consists in
this, that we can destroy ourselves within ourselves, and, as a
veritable Phœnix, be resurrected from the ashes of self-immolation.
Still, this negative action suffices not for our freedom; the Positive
must be united to us; there must arise, with “tremendous quaking,” the
sun of new activity and fresh endeavor, whereby the stillness of nightly
repose, the evanishment of all thoughts and feelings which had become
stable, passes away in refreshing slumber. Faust awakened, feels every
pulse of nature beating with fresh life. The glare of the pure sunlight
dazzles him—the fall of waters through the chasms of the rock depicts to
him his own unrest; but from the sunlight and silvery vapor of the
whirlpool there is created the richly colored rainbow, which is always
quietly glistening, but is forever shifting: it is Life. After this
solitary encouragement to new venture and endeavor, the court of the
Emperor receives us, where a merry masquerade is about to take place.
But first, from all sides, the prosaic complaints of the Chancellor, the
Steward, the Commander-in-Chief, the Treasurer, fall upon the ear of the
Emperor; money, the cement of all relations, is wanting to the State;
for commerce, for pleasure, for luxury, money is the indispensable
basis. At this point, Mephistopheles presses forward to the place of the
old court-fool, who has just disappeared, and excites the hope of
bringing to light concealed treasure. To the Chancellor this way seems
not exactly Christian, the multitude raises a murmur of suspicion, the
Astrologer discusses the possibility—and the proposition is adopted.
After this hopeful prospect, the masquerade can come off without any
secret anxieties disturbing their merriment. The nature of the company
is represented in a lively manner. No one _is_ what he _seems_ to be;
each has thrown over himself a concealing garment; each knows of the
other that he is not that which his appearance or his language
indicates; this effort to hide his own being, to pretend and to dream
himself into something different from himself—to make himself a riddle
to others in all openness, is the deepest, most piquant charm of social
interests.
The company will have enjoyment—it unites itself with devotion to the
festive play, and banishes rough egotism, whose casual outbreaks the
watchful herald sharply reproves; but still, in the heart of every one,
there remains some intention, which is directed to the accomplishment of
earthly aims. The young Florentine women want to please; the mother
wishes her daughter to make the conquest of a husband; the fishermen and
bird-catchers are trying their skill; the wood-chopper, buffoons, and
parasites, are endeavoring, as well as they can, to make themselves
valid; the drunkard forgets everything over his bottle; the poets, who
could sing of any theme, drown each other’s voices in their zeal to be
heard, and to the satirist there scarcely remains an opportunity for a
dry sarcasm. The following allegorical figures represent to us the inner
powers which determine social life. First, the Graces appear, for the
first demand of society is to behave with decency; more earnest are the
Parcæ, the continuous change of duration—still, they work only
mechanically; but the Furies, although they come as beautiful maids,
work dynamically through the excitement of the passions. Here the aim is
to conquer. _Victoria_ is throned high upon a sure-footed elephant,
which Wisdom guides with skilful wand, while Fear and Hope go along on
each side; between these the Deed wavers until it has reached the proud
repose of victory. But as soon as this happens, the quarrelsome, hateful
Thersites breaks forth, to soil the glory with his biting sneer. But his
derision effects nothing. The Herald, as the regulating Understanding,
and as distributive Justice, can reconcile the differences and mistakes
which have arisen, and he strikes the scoffer in such a manner that he
bursts and turns into an adder and a bat. Gradually the company returns
to its external foundation; the feeling of _Wealth_ must secure to it
inexhaustible pleasure. But Wealth is two-fold: the earthly, money—the
heavenly, poetry. Both must be united in society, if it would not feel
weak and weary. The Boy Driver, that is, Poetry, which knows how to
bring forth the Infinite in all the relations of life, and through the
same to expand, elevate and pacify the heart, is acknowledged by Plutus,
the God of common riches, as the one who can bestow that which he
himself is too poor to give. In the proud fullness of youth, bounding
lightly around with a whip in his hand, the lovely Genius who rules all
hearts, drives with horses of winged speed through the crowd. The
buffoon of Plutus, lean Avarice, is merrily ridiculed by the women;
Poetry, warned by the fatherly love of Plutus, withdraws from the tumult
which arises for the possession of the golden treasures. Gnomes, Giants,
Satyrs, Nymphs, press on with bacchantic frenzy; earthly desire glows
through the company, and it celebrates great Pan, Nature, as its God, as
the Giver of powerful Wealth and fierce Lust. A whirling tumult
threatens to seize hold of everybody—a huge tongue of flame darts over
all; but the majesty of the Emperor, the self-conscious dignity of man,
puts an end to the juggling game of the half-unchained Earth-spirit, and
restores spiritual self-possession.
Still Mephistopheles keeps the promise which he has made. He succeeds in
revivifying the company by fresh sums of money, obtained in conformity
with his nature, not by unearthing buried treasures from the heart of
the mountains by means of the wishing-rod, but by making paper-money! It
is not, indeed, real coin, but the effect is the same, for in society
everything rests upon the caprice of acceptance; its own life and
preservation are thereby guaranteed by itself, and its authority, here
represented by the Emperor, has infinite power. The paper notes, this
money stamped by the airy imagination, spread everywhere confidence and
lively enjoyment. It is evident that the means of prosperity have not
been wanting, nor stores of eatables and drinkables, but a form was
needed to set the accumulated materials in motion, and to weave them
into the changes of circulation. With delight, the Chancellor, Steward,
Commander-in-Chief, Treasurer, report the flourishing condition of the
army and the citizens; presents without stint give rise to the wildest
luxury, which extends from the nobles of the realm down to the page and
fool, and in such joyfulness everybody can unhesitatingly look about him
for new means of pleasure. Because the company has its essence in the
production of the notes, its internal must strive for the artistic;
every one feels best when he, though known, remains unrecognized, and
thus a theatrical tendency developes itself. For here the matter has
nothing to do with the dramatic as real art, in reference to the egotism
which binds the company together. The theatre collects the idle
multitude, and it has nothing to do but to see, to hear, to compare, and
to judge. Theatrical enjoyment surpasses all other kinds in comfort, and
is at the same time the most varied. The Emperor wishes that the great
magician, Faust, should play a drama before himself and the court, and
show Paris and Helen. To this design Mephistopheles can give no direct
aid; in a dark gallery he declares, in conversation with Faust, that the
latter himself must create the shapes, and therefore must go to the
Mothers. Faust shudders at their names. Mephistopheles gives him a small
but important key, with which he must enter the shadowy realm of the
Mothers for a glowing tripod, and bring back the same; by burning
incense upon it, he would be able to create whatever shape he wished. As
a reason why _he_ is unable to form them, Mephistopheles says expressly
that he is in the service of big-necked dwarfs and witches, and not of
heroines, and that the Heathen have their own Hell, with which he, the
Christian and romantic Devil, has nothing to do. And yet he possesses
the key to it, and hence it is not unknown to him. And why does Faust
shudder at the names of the Mothers? Who are these women who are spoken
of so mysteriously? If it were said, the Imagination, _Mothers_ would be
an inept expression; if it were said, the Past, Present and Future,
Faust’s shuddering could not be sufficiently accounted for, since how
should Time frighten him who has already lived through the terrors of
Death? From the predicates which are attached to the Mothers, how they
everlastingly occupy the busy mind with all the forms of creation; how
from the shades which surround them in thousand-fold variety, from the
Being which is Nothing, All becomes; how from their empty, most lonely
depth the living existence comes forth to the surface of Appearance;
from such designations scarcely anything else can be understood by the
realm of the Mothers than the world of Pure Thought. This explanation
might startle at the first glance, but we need only put Idea for
Thought—we need only remember the Idea-world of Plato in order to
comprehend the matter better. The eternal thoughts, the Ideas, are they
not the still, shadowy abyss, in which blooming Life buds, into whose
dark, agitated depths it sends down its roots? Mephistopheles has the
key; for the Understanding, which is negative Determination, is
necessary in order not to perish in the infinite universality of
Thought; it is itself, however, only the Negative, and therefore cannot
bring the actual Idea, Beauty, to appearance, but he, in his devilish
barrenness, must hand this work over to Faust; he can only recommend to
the latter moderation, so as not to lose himself among the phantoms, and
he is curious to know whether Faust will return. But Faust shudders
because he is not to experience earthly solitude alone, like that of the
boundless ocean, when yet star follows star, and wave follows wave; the
deepest solitude of the creative spirit, the retirement into the
invisible, yet almighty Thought, the sinking into the eternal Idea is
demanded of him. Whoever has had the boldness of this Thought—whoever
has ventured to penetrate into the magic circle of the Logical, and its
world-subduing Dialectic, into this most simple element of infinite
formation and transformation, has overcome all, and has nothing more to
fear, as the Homunculus afterwards expresses it, because he has beheld
the naked essence, because Necessity has stripped herself to his gaze.
But it is also to be observed that the tripod is mentioned, for by this
there is an evident allusion to subjective Enthusiasm and individual
Imagination, by which the Idea in Art is brought out of its universality
to the determinate existence of concrete Appearance. Beauty is identical
in content with Truth, but its form belongs to the sphere of the
Sensuous.—While Faust is striving after Beauty, Mephistopheles is
besieged by women in the illuminated halls, to improve their looks and
assist them in their love affairs. After this delicate point is settled,
no superstition is too excessive, no sympathetic cure too strange—as,
for example, a tread of the foot—and the knave fools them until they,
with a love-lorn page, become too much for him.—Next the stage, by its
decorations, which represents Grecian architecture, causes a discussion
of the antique and romantic taste; Mephistopheles has humorously taken
possession of the prompter’s box, and so the entertainment goes on in
parlor fashion, till Faust actually appears, and Paris and Helen, in the
name of the all-powerful Mothers, are formed from the incense which
ascends in magic power. The Public indulges itself in an outpouring of
egotistical criticism; the men despise the unmanly Paris, and interest
themselves deeply in the charms of Helen; the women ridicule the
coquettish beauty with envious moralizing, and fall in love for the
nonce with the fair youth. But as Paris is about to lead away Helen,
Faust, seized with the deepest passion for her wonderful beauty, falls
upon the stage and destroys his own work. The phantoms vanish; still the
purpose remains to obtain Helen; that is, the artist must hold on to the
Ideal, but he must know that it is the Ideal. Faust confuses it with
common Actuality, and he has to learn that absolute Beauty is not of an
earthly, but of a fleeting, etherial nature.
The second act brings us away from our well-known German home to the
bottom of the sea and its mysterious secrets. Faust is in search of
Helen; where else can he find her, perfect Beauty, than in Greece? But
first he seeks her, and meets therefore mere shapes, which unfold
themselves from natural existence, which are not yet actual humanity.
Indeed, since he seeks natural Beauty—for spiritual Beauty he has
already enjoyed in the heavenly disposition of Margaret—the whole realm
of Nature opens upon us; all the elements appear in succession; the
rocks upon which the earnest Sphinxes rest, in which the Ants, Dactyls,
Gnomes work, give the surrounding ground; the moist waters contain in
their bosom the seeds of all things. The holy fire infolds it with eager
flame: according to the old legend, Venus sprang from the foam of the
sea.—Next we find ourselves at Wittenberg, in the ancient dwelling,
where it is easy to see by the cob-webs, dried-up ink, tarnished paper,
and dust, that many years have passed since Faust went out into the
world. Mephistopheles, from the old coat in which he once instructed the
knowledge-seeking pupil, shakes out the lice and crickets which swarm
around the old master with a joyful greeting, as also Parseeism makes
Ahriman the father of all vermin. Faust lies on his bed, sleeps and
dreams the lustful story of Leda, which, in the end, is nothing more
than the most decent and hence producible representation of generation.
While Mephistopheles in a humorous, and as well as the Devil can, even
in an idyllic manner, amuses himself, while he inquires sympathetically
after Wagner of the present Famulus, a pupil who, in the meanwhile, has
become a Baccalaureate, comes storming in, in order to see what the
master is doing who formerly inculcated such wise doctrines, and in
order to show what a prodigiously reasonable man he has himself become.
A persiflage of many expressions of the modern German Natural Philosophy
seems recognizable in this talk. Despising age, praising himself as the
dawn of a new life, he spouts his Idealism, by means of which he creates
everything, Sun, Moon and Stars, purely by the absoluteness of
subjective Thought. Mephistopheles, though the pupil assails him
bitterly, listens to his wise speeches with lamb-like patience, and
after this refreshing scene, goes into Wagner’s laboratory. The good man
has stayed at home, and has applied himself to Chemistry, to create,
through its processes, men. To his tender, humane, respectable,
intelligent mind, the common way of begetting children is too vulgar and
unworthy of spirit. Science must create man; a real materialism will
produce him. Mephistopheles comes along just at this time, to whom
Wagner beckons silence, and whispers anxiously to him his undertaking,
as in the glass retort the hermaphroditic boy, the Homunculus, begins to
stir. But alas! the Artificial requires enclosed space. The poor fellow
can live only in the glass retort, the outer world is too rough for him,
and still he has the greatest desire to be actually born. A longing,
universal feeling for natural life sparkles from him with clear
brilliancy, and cousin Mephistopheles takes him along to the classic
_Walpurgisnacht_, where Homunculus hopes to find a favorable moment.
Mephistopheles is related to the little man for this reason, because the
latter is only the product of nature, because God’s breath has not been
breathed into him as into a real man.
After these ironical scenes, the fearful night of the Pharsalian Fields
succeeds, where the antique world terminated its free life. This plain,
associated with dark remembrances and bloody shadows, is the scene of
the Classical _Walpurgisnacht_. Goethe could choose no other spot, for
just upon this battle-field the spirit of Greek and Roman antiquity
ceased to be a living actuality. As an external reason, it is well known
that Thessaly was to the ancients the land of wizards, and especially of
witches, so that from this point of view the parallel with the German
Blocksberg is very striking. Faust, driven by impatience to obtain
Helen, is in the beginning sent from place to place to learn her
residence, until Chiron takes him upon the neck which had once borne
that most loving beauty, and with a passing sneer at the conjectural
troubles of the Philologist, tells him of the Argonauts, of the most
beautiful man, of Hercules, until he stops his wild course at the
dwelling of the prophetic Manto, who promises to lead Faust to Helen on
Olympus. Mephistopheles wanders in the meanwhile among Sphinxes,
Griffons, Sirens, etc. To him, the Devil of the Christian and Germanic
world, this classic ground is not at all pleasing; he longs for the
excellent Blocksberg of the North, and its ghostly visages; with the
Lamiæ indeed he resolves to have his own sport, but is roguishly
bemocked; finally, he comes to the horrible Phorcyads, and after their
pattern he equips himself with one eye and a tusk for his own amusement;
that is, he becomes the absolutely Ugly, while Faust is wooing the
highest Beauty. In the Christian world the Devil is also represented as
fundamentally ugly and repulsive; but he can also, under all forms,
appear as an angel of light. In the Art-world, on the contrary, he can
be known only as the Ugly. In all these scenes there is a mingling of
the High and the Low, of the Horrible and the Ridiculous, of vexation
and whimsicality, of the Enigmatical and the Perspicuous, so that no
better contradictions could be wished for a _Walpurgisnacht_. The
Homunculus on his part is ceaselessly striving to come to birth, and
betakes himself to Thales and Anaxagoras, who dispute whether the world
arose in a dry or wet way. Thales leads the little man to Nereus, who,
however, refuses to aid the seeker, partly because he has become angry
with men, who, like Paris and Ulysses, have always acted against his
advice, and partly because he is about to celebrate a great feast.
Afterwards they go to Proteus, who at first is also reticent, but soon
takes an interest in Homunculus, as he beholds his shining brilliancy,
for he feels that he is related to the changing fire, and gives warning
that as the latter can become everything, he should be careful about
becoming a man, for it is the most miserable of all existences. In the
meanwhile, the Peneios roars; the earth-shaking Seismos breaks forth
with a loud noise; the silent and industrious mountain-spirits become
wakeful. But always more clearly the water declares itself as the womb
of all things; the festive train of the Telchines points to the hoary
Cabiri; bewitchingly resound the songs of the Sirens; Hippocamps,
Tritons, Nereids, Pselli and Marsi arise from the green, pearl-decked
ground; the throne of Nereus and Galatea arches over the crystalline
depths; at their feet the eager Homunculus falls to pieces, and
all-moving Eros in darting flames streams forth. Ravishing songs float
aloft, celebrating the holy elements, which the ever-creating Love holds
together and purifies. Thales is just as little in the right as
Anaxagoras; together, both are right, for Nature is kindled to perpetual
new life by the marriage of Fire and Water.
The difference between this _Walpurgisnacht_ and the one in the First
Part lies in the fact, that the principle of the latter is the relation
of Spirit to God. In the Christian world the first question is, what is
the position of man towards God; therefore there appear forms which are
self-contradictory, lacerated spiritually, torn in pieces by the curse
of condemnation to all torture. Classic Life has for its basis the
relation to Nature; the mysterious Cabiri were only the master-workmen
of Nature. Nature finds in man her highest goal; in his fair figure, in
the majesty of his form she ends her striving; and therefore the
contradictions of the classic _Walpurgisnacht_ are not so foreign to
Mephistopheles, who has to do with Good and Bad, that he does not feel
his contact with them, but still they are not native to him. The general
contradiction which we meet with, and which also in Mephistopheles
expresses itself by the cloven foot at least, is the union of the human
and animal frame; the human is at first only half existent, on earth in
Sphinxes, Oreads, Sirens, Centaurs; in water, in Hippocamps, Tritons,
Nymphs, Dorids, etc. For the fair bodies of the latter still share the
moist luxuriance of their element. Thus Nature expands itself in
innumerable creations in order to purify itself in man, in the
self-conscious spirit, in order to pacify and shut off in him the
infinite impulse to formation, because it passes beyond him to no new
form. He is the embodied image of God. The inclosed Homunculus, with his
fiery trembling eagerness to pass over into an independent actuality,
is, as it were, the serio-comic representation of this tendency, until
he breaks the narrow glass, and now is what he should be, the union of
the elements, for this is Eros according to the most ancient Greek
conception, as we still find even in the Philosophers.
In the third act Goethe has adhered to the old legend, according to
which, Faust, by means of Mephistopheles, obtained Helen as a concubine,
and begat a son, Justus Faustus. Certainly, the employment of this
feature was very difficult; and still, even in our days, a poet, L.
Bechstein, in his Faust, has been wrecked upon this rock. He has Helen
marry Faust; they beget a child; but finally, when Faust makes his will,
and turns away unlovingly from wife and child, it is discovered that the
Grecian Helen, who in the copperplates is also costumed completely in
the antique manner, is a German countess of real flesh and blood, who
has been substituted by the Devil; an undeceiving which ought to excite
the deepest sympathy. Goethe has finely idealized this legend; he has
expressed therein the union of the romantic and classic arts. The third
act, this Phantasmagory, is perhaps the most perfect of all, and
executed in the liveliest manner. As noble as is the diction of the
first and second acts, especially in the lyrical portions, it is here
nevertheless by far surpassed. Such a majesty and simplicity, such
strength and mildness, unity and variety, in so small a space, are
astonishing. First resounds the interchange of the dignity of Æschylus
and Sophocles, with the sharp-steeled wit of Aristophanes; then is heard
the tone of the Spanish romances, an agreeable, iambic measure, a sweet,
ravishing melody; finally, new styles break forth, like the fragments of
a prophecy; ancient and modern rhythms clash, and the harmony is
destroyed.—Helen returns, after the burning of Troy, to the home of her
spouse, Menelaus; the stewardess, aged, wrinkled, ugly, but experienced
and intelligent, Phorcyas, receives her mistress in the citadel by
command. Opposed to Beauty, as was before said, Mephistopheles can only
appear as ugliness, because in the realm of beautiful forms, the Ugly is
the Wicked. There arises a quarrel between the graceful, yet pretentious
youth of the Chorus, and world-wise, yet stubborn Old Age. Helen has to
appease it, and she learns with horror from Phorcyas that Menelaus is
going to sacrifice her.—Still, (as on the one hand Grecian fugitives,
after the conquest of Constantinople, instilled everywhere into German
Life the taste for classic Beauty, and as, on the other hand, one of the
Ottomans in Theophania—like Faust—won a Helen, and thereby everywhere
arose a striving after the appropriation of the Antique,) the old
stewardess saves her, and bears her through the air together with her
beautiful train, to the Gothic citadel of Faust, where the humble and
graceful behavior of the iron men towards the women, in striking
contrast to their hard treatment on the banks of the Eurotas, at once
wins the female heart. The watchman of the tower, Lynceus, lost in
wondering delight over the approaching beauty, forgets to announce her,
and has brought upon himself a heavy punishment; but Helen, the cause of
his misdemeanor, is to be judge in his case, and she pardons him.
Faust and all his vassals do homage to the powerful beauty, in whom the
antique pathos soon disappears. In the new surroundings, in the mutual
exchange of quick and confiding love, the sweet rhyme soon flows from
their kissing lips. An attack of Menelaus interrupts the loving
courtship; but Valor, which in the battle for Beauty and favor of the
ladies, seeks its highest honor and purport, is unconquerable, and the
swift might of the army victoriously opposes Menelaus. Christian
chivalry protects the jewel of beauty which has fled to it for safety,
against all barbarism pressing on from the East.—Thus the days of the
lovers pass rapidly away in secret grottoes amid pastoral dalliance; as
once Mars refreshed himself in the arms of Venus, so in the Middle Ages
knights passed gladly from the storm of war to the sweet service of
women in quiet trustfulness. Yet the son whom they beget, longs to free
himself from this idle, Arcadian life. The nature of both the mother and
the father drives him forward, and soon consummates the matter.
Beautiful and graceful as Helen, the insatiate longing for freedom glows
in him as in Faust. He strikes the lyre with wonderful, enchanting
power; he revels wildly amid applauding maidens; he rushes from the
bottom of the valley to the tops of the mountains, to see far out into
the world, and to breathe freely in the free air. His elastic desire
raises him, a second Icarus, high in the clouds; but he soon falls dead
at the feet of the parents, while an aureola, like a comet, streaks the
Heavens. Thus perished Lord Byron. He is a poet more romantic than
Goethe, to whom, however, Art gave no final satisfaction, because he had
a sympathy for the sufferings of nations and of mankind, which called
him pressingly to action. His poems are full of this striving. In them
he weeps away his grief for freedom. Walter Scott, who never passed out
of the Middle Ages, is read more than Byron. But Byron is more powerful
than he, because the Idea took deeper root, and that demoniacal
character concentrated in itself all the struggles of our agitated time.
Divine poesy softened not the wild sorrow of his heart, and the
sacrifice of himself for the freedom of a beloved people and land could
not reproduce classic Beauty. The fair mother, who evidently did not
understand the stormy, self-conscious character of her son, sinks after
him into the lower world. As everything in this phantasmagory is
allegorical, I ask whether this can mean anything else than that freedom
is necessary for beauty, and beauty also for freedom? Euphorion is
boundless in his striving; the warnings of the parents avail not. He
topples over into destruction. But Helen, i.e. Beauty, cannot survive
him, for all beauty is the expression of freedom, of independence,
although it does not need to know the fact. Only Faust, who unites all
in himself, who strives to reach beyond Nature and Art, Present and
Past, that is, the knowing of the True, survives her; upon her garments,
which expand like a cloud, he moves forth. What remains now, since the
impulse of spiritual Life, the clarification of Nature in Art, the
immediate spiritual Beauty, have vanished? Nothing but Nature in her
nakedness, whose choruses of Oreads, Dryads and Nymphs swarm forth into
the mountains, woods and vineyards, for bacchantic revelry; an invention
which belongs to the highest effort of all poetry. It is a great
kindness in the Devil, when Phorcyas at last discloses herself as
Mephistopheles, and where there is need, offers herself as commentator.
The life of Art, of Beauty, darkens like a mist; upon the height of the
mountain, Faust steps out of the departing cloud, and looks after it as
it changes to other forms. His restless mind longs for new activity. He
wants to battle with the waters, and from them win land; that is, the
land shall be his own peculiar property, since he brings it forth
artificially. As that money which he gave to the Emperor was not coined
from any metal, but was a product of Thought; as that Beauty which
charmed him was sought with trouble, and wrung from Nature, and as he,
seizing the sword for the protection of Beauty, exchanged Love for the
labor of chivalry,—so the land, the new product of his endeavor, not yet
is, but he will first create it by means of his activity. A war of the
Emperor with a pretender gives him an opportunity to realize his wish.
He supports the Emperor in the decisive battle. Mephistopheles is
indifferent to the Right and to freedom; the material gain of the war is
the principal thing with him; so he takes along the three mighty
robbers, Bully, Havequick and Holdfast. (See 2d Samuel, 23: 8.) The
elements must also fight—the battle is won—and the grateful Emperor
grants the request of Faust to leave the sea-shore for his possession.
The State is again pacified by the destruction of the pretender; a rich
booty in his camp repays many an injury; the four principal offices
promise a joyful entertainment; but the Church comes in to claim
possession of the ground, capital and interest, in order that the
Emperor may be purified from the guilt of having had dealings with the
suspicious magician. Humbly the Emperor promises all; but as the
archbishop demands tithe from the strand of the sea which is not yet in
existence, the Emperor turns away in great displeasure. The boundless
rapacity of the Church causes the State to rise up against it. This act
has not the lyrical fire of the previous ones; the action, if the war
can thus be called, is diffuse; the battle, as broad as it is, is
without real tension; the three robbers are allegorically true, if we
look at the meaning which they express, but are in other respects not
very attractive. In all the brilliant particulars, profound thoughts,
striking turns, piquant wit, and wise arrangement, there is still
wanting the living breath, the internal connection to exhibit a complete
picture of the war. And still, from some indications, we may believe
that this tediousness is designed, in order to portray ironically the
dull uniformity, the spiritual waste of external political life, and the
littleness of Egotism. For it must be remembered that the war is a civil
war—the genuine poetic war, where people is against people, falls into
Phantasmagory. The last scene would be in this respect the most
successful. The continued persistency of the spiritual lord to obtain in
the name of the heavenly church, earthly possessions, the original
acquiescence of the Emperor, but his final displeasure at the boundless
shamelessness of the priest, are excellently portrayed, and the
pretentious pomp of the Alexandrine has never done better service.
In the fifth act we behold a wanderer, who is saved from shipwreck, and
brought to the house of an aged couple, Philemon and Baucis. He visits
the old people, eats at their frugal table, sees them still happy in
their limited sphere, but listens with astonishment to them, as they
tell of the improvements of their rich neighbor, and they express the
fear of being ousted by him. Still, they pull the little bell of their
chapel to kneel and pray with accustomed ceremony in presence of the
ancient God.—The neighbor is Faust. He has raised dams, dug canals,
built palaces, laid out ornamental gardens, educated the people, sent
out navies. The Industry of our time occupies him unceasingly; he revels
in the wealth of trade, in the turmoil of men, in the commerce of the
world. That those aged people still have property in the middle of his
possessions is extremely disagreeable to him, for just this little spot
where the old mossy church stands, the sound of whose bell pierces his
heart, where the airy lindens unfold themselves to the breeze, he would
like to have as a belvedere to look over all his creations at a glance.
Like a good man whose head is always full of plans, he means well to the
people, and is willing to give them larger possessions where they can
quietly await death, and he sends Mephistopheles to treat with them. But
the aged people, who care not for eating and drinking, but for comfort,
will not leave their happy hut; their refusal brings on disputes, and
the dwelling, together with the aged couple and the lindens, perishes by
fire in this conflict between the active Understanding and the poetry of
Feeling, which, in the routine of pious custom, clings to what is old.
Faust is vexed over the turn which affairs have taken, particularly over
the loss of the beautiful lindens, but consoles himself with the purpose
to build in their stead a watch-tower. Then before the palace, appear in
the night, announcing death, four hoary women, Starvation, Want, Guilt
and Care, as the Furies who accompany the external prosperity of our
industrial century. Still, Care can only press through the key-hole of
the chamber of the rich man, and places herself with fearful suddenness
at his side. The Negative of Thought is to be excluded by no walls. But
Faust immediately collects himself again; with impressive clearness he
declares his opinion of life, of the value of the earthly Present; Care
he hates, and does not recognize it as an independent existence. She
will nevertheless make herself known to him at the end of his life, and
passes over his face and makes him blind. Still, Faust expresses no
solicitude, though deprived of his eyes by Care; no alteration is
noticed in him, he is bent only upon his aims; the energy of his tension
remains uniform: Spirit, Thought, is the true eye; though the external
one is blinded, the internal one remains open and wakeful. The
transition from this point to the conclusion is properly this: that from
the activity of the finite Understanding, only a Finite can result. All
industry, for whose development Mephistopheles is so serviceable, as he
once was in war, cannot still the hunger of Spirit for Spirit. Industry
creates only an aggregate of prosperity, no true happiness. Our century
is truly great in industrial activity. But it should only be the means,
the point of entrance for real freedom, which is within itself the
Infinite. And Faust has to come to this, even on the brink of the grave.
Mephistopheles, after this affair with Care, causes the grave of the old
man to be dug by the shaking Lemures. Faust supposes, as he hears the
noise of the spades, that his workmen are busily employed. Eagerly he
talks over his plans with Mephistopheles, and at last he glows at the
good fortune of standing upon free ground with a free people. Daily he
feels that man must conquer Freedom and Life anew, and the presentiment
that the traces of his uninterrupted striving would not perish in the
Ages, is the highest moment of his whole existence. This confession of
satisfaction kills him, and he falls to the earth dead. After trying
everything, after turning from himself to the future of the race, after
working unceasingly, he has ripened to the acknowledgement that the
Individual only in the Whole, that Man only in the freedom of humanity
can have repose. Mephistopheles believes that he has won his bet, causes
the jaws of Hell to appear, and commands the Devils to look to the soul
of Faust. But Angels come, strewing roses from above; the roses, the
flowers of Love, cause pain where they fall; the Devils and
Mephistopheles himself complain uproariously. He lashes himself with the
falling roses, which cling to his neck like pitch and brimstone, and
burn deeper than Hell-fire. First, he berates the Angels as hypocritical
puppets, yet, more closely observed, he finds that they are most lovely
youths. Only the long cloaks fit them too modestly, for, from behind
particularly, the rascals had a very desirable look. While he is seeking
out a tall fellow for himself, and is plunged wholly in his pederastic
lust, the Angels carry away the immortal part of Faust to Heaven.
Mephistopheles now reproaches himself with the greatest bitterness,
because he has destroyed, through so trivial a desire, the fruits of so
long a labor. This _reductio ad absurdum_ of the Devil must be
considered as one of the happiest strokes of humor. The holy innocence
of the Angels is not for him; he sees only their fine bodies; his
lowness carries him into the Unnatural and Accidental, just where his
greatest interest and egotism come in play. This result will surprise
most people; but if they consider the nature of the Devil, it will be
wholly satisfactory; in all cunning he is at last bemocked as a fool,
and he destroys himself through himself.
In conclusion, we see a woody, rocky wilderness, settled with hermits.
It is not Heaven itself, but the transition to the same, where the soul
is united to perfect clearness and happiness. Hence we find the glowing
devotion and repentance of the _Pater ecstaticus_, the contemplation of
the _Pater profundus_, the wrestling of the _Pater serapticus_, who,
taking into his eyes the holy little boys because their organs are too
weak for the Earth, shows them trees, rocks, waterfalls. The Angels
bring in Faust, who, as Doctor Marianus, in the highest and purest cell,
with burning prayer to the approaching queen of Heaven, seeks for grace.
Around Maria is a choir of penitents, among whom are the Magna
Peccatrix, the Mulier Samaritana, and Maria Ægyptiaca. They pray for the
earthly soul; and one of the penitents, once called Margaret, kneeling,
ventures a special intercession. The Mater Gloriosa appoints Margaret to
lead the soul of Faust to higher spheres, for he shall follow her in
anticipation. A fervent prayer streams from the lips of Doctor Marianus;
the Chorus mysticus concludes with the assurance of the certainty of
bliss through educating, purifying love. Aspiration, the Eternal
feminine, is in Faust, however deeply he penetrates into every sphere of
worldly activity. The analogy between Margaret and the Beatrice of Dante
is here undeniable; also, the farther progress of Faust’s life we must
consider similar, as he, like Dante, grows in the knowledge and feeling
of the Divine till he arrives at its complete intuition; Dante beholds
the Trinity perfectly free and independent, without being led farther by
anybody. From this point of view, that the poet wanted to exhibit
reconciliation as becoming, as a product of infinite growth, is found
the justification of the fact that he alludes so slightly to God the
Father, and to Christ the Redeemer, and, instead, brings out so
prominently the worship of the Virgin, and the devotion of Woman.
Devotion has a passive element which finds its fittest poetical support
in women. These elements agree also very well with the rest of the poem,
since Goethe, throughout the entire drama, has preserved the costume of
the Middle Ages; otherwise, on account of the evident Protestant
tendency of Faust, it would be difficult to find a necessary connection
with the other parts of the poem.
As regards the history of Faust in itself, dramatically considered, the
first four acts could perhaps be entirely omitted. The fifth, as it
shows us that all striving, if its content is not religion, (the freedom
of the Spirit,) can give no internal satisfaction, as it shows us that
in the earnest striving after freedom, however much we may err, still
the path to Heaven is open, and is only closed to him who does not
strive, would have sufficiently exhibited the reconciliation. But Goethe
wants to show not only this conclusion, which was all the legend
demanded of him, but also the becoming of this result. Faust was for him
and through him for the nation, and indeed for Europe, the
representative of the world-comprehending, self-conscious internality of
Spirit, and therefore he caused all the elements of the World to
crystallize around this centre. Thus the acts of the Second Part are
pictures, which, like frescoes, are painted beside one another upon the
same wall, and Faust has actually become what was so often before said
of him, a perfect manifestation of the Universe.
If we now cast a glance back to what we said in the beginning, of the
opposition between the characters of Wilhelm Meister and Faust, that the
former was _the determined from without_, the latter _the
self-determining from within_, we can also seize this opposition so that
Meister is always in pursuit of Culture, Faust of Freedom. Meister is
therefore always desirous of new impressions, in order to have them work
upon himself, extend his knowledge, complete his character. His capacity
and zeal for Culture, the variety of the former, the diligence of the
latter, forced him to a certain tameness and complaisance in relation to
others. Faust on the contrary will himself work. He will possess only
what he himself creates. Just for this reason he binds himself to the
Devil, because the latter has the greatest worldly power, which Faust
applies unsparingly for his own purposes, so that the Devil in reality
finds in him a hard, whimsical, insatiate master. To Wilhelm the
acquaintance of the Devil would indeed have been very interesting from a
moral, psychological and æsthetic point of view, but he never would have
formed a fraternity with him. This _autonomia_ and _autarkia_ of Faust
have given a powerful impulse to the German people, and German
literature. But if, in the continuation of Faust, there was an
expectation of the same Titanic nature, it was disappointed. The
monstrosity of the tendencies however, does not cease; a man must be
blind not to see them. But in the place of pleasure, after the
catastrophe with Margaret, an active participation in the world enters;
a feature which Klinger and others have retained. But Labor in itself
can still give no satisfaction, but its content, too, must be
considered. Or rather, the external objectivity of Labor is indifferent;
whether one is savant, artist, soldier, courtier, priest, manufacturer,
merchant, etc., is a mere accident; whether he wills Freedom or not, is
not accidental, for Spirit is in and for itself, free. With the narrow
studio, in fellowship with Wagner, Faust begins; with Trade, with
contests about boundaries, with his look upon the sea, which unites the
nations, he ends his career.
In the World, Freedom indeed realizes itself, but as absolute, it can
only come to existence in God.
It is therefore right when Goethe makes the transition from civil to
religious freedom. Men cannot accomplish more than the realization of
the freedom of the nations, for Mankind has its concrete existence only
in the nations; if the nations are free, it is also free. Faust must
thus be enraptured by this thought in the highest degree. But with it,
he departs from the world—Heaven has opened itself above him. But,
though Heaven sheds its grace, and lovingly receives the striving soul
which has erred, still it demands repentance and complete purification
from what is earthly. This struggle, this wrestling of the soul, I find
expressed in the most sublime manner in the songs of the hermits and the
choruses, and do not know what our time has produced superior in
spiritual power, as well as in unwavering hope, though I must confess
that I am not well enough versed in the fertile modern lyric literature
of Pietism, to say whether such pearls are to be found in it.
Moreover, it is evident that the pliable Meister, and the stubborn
Faust, are the two sides which were united in Goethe’s genius. He was a
poet, and became a courtier; he was a courtier, and remained a poet. But
in a more extensive sense this opposition is found in all modern
nations, particularly among the Germans. They wish to obtain culture,
and therefore shun no kind of society if they are improved. But they
wish also to be free. They love culture so deeply that they, perhaps,
for a while, have forgotten freedom. But then the Spirit warns them.
They sigh, like Faust, that they have sat so long in a gloomy cell over
Philosophy, Theology, etc. With the fierceness of lions, they throw all
culture aside for the sake of freedom, and in noble delusion form an
alliance—even with the Devil.
A CRITICISM OF PHILOSOPHICAL SYSTEMS.
[Translated from the German of J. G. Fichte, by A. E. Kroeger.]
[NOTE. Below we give to our readers the translation of another
Introduction to the Science of Knowledge, written by Fichte
immediately after the one published in our previous number. Whereas
that first Introduction was written for readers who have as yet no
philosophical system of their own, the present one is intended more
particularly for those who have set philosophical notions, of which
they require to be disabused.—EDITOR.]
I believe the first introduction published in this Journal to be
perfectly sufficient for unprejudiced readers, i. e. for readers who
give themselves up to the writer without preconceived opinions, who, if
they do not assist him, also do not resist him in his endeavors to carry
them along. It is otherwise with readers who have already a
philosophical system. Such readers have adopted certain maxims from
their system, which have become fundamental principles for them; and
whatsoever is not produced according to these maxims, is now pronounced
false by them without further investigation, and without even reading
such productions: it is pronounced false, because it has been produced
in violation of their universally valid method. Unless this class of
readers is to be abandoned altogether—and why should it be?—it is, above
all, necessary to remove the obstacle which deprives us of their
attention; or, in other words, to make them distrust their maxims.
Such a preliminary investigation concerning the _method_, is, above all,
necessary in regard to the Science of Knowledge, the whole structure and
significance whereof differs utterly from the structure and significance
of all philosophical systems which have hitherto been current. The
authors of these previous systems started from some conception or
another; and utterly careless whence they got it, or out of what
material they composed it, they then proceeded to analyze it, to combine
it with others, regarding the origin whereof they were equally
unconcerned; and this their argumentation itself is their philosophy.
Hence their philosophy consists in _their own_ thinking. Quite different
does the Science of Knowledge proceed. That which this Science makes the
object of its thinking, is not a dead conception, remaining passive
under the investigation, and receiving life only from it, but is rather
itself living and active; generating out of itself and through itself
cognitions, which the philosopher merely observes in their genesis. His
business in the whole affair is nothing further than to place that
living object of his investigation in proper activity, and to observe,
grasp and comprehend this its activity as a Unit. He undertakes an
experiment. It is his business to place the object in a position which
permits the observation he wishes to make; it is his business to attend
to all the manifestations of the object in this experiment, to follow
them and connect them in proper order; but it is not his business to
_cause_ the manifestations in the object. That is the business of the
object itself: and he would work directly contrary to his purpose if he
did not allow the object full freedom to develop itself—if he undertook
but the least interference in this, its self-developing.
The philosopher of the first mentioned sort, on the contrary, does just
the reverse. He produces a product of art. In working out his object he
only takes into consideration its matter, and pays no attention to an
internal self-developing power thereof. Nay, this power must be deadened
before he undertakes his work, or else it might resist his labor. It is
from the dead matter, therefore, that he produces something, and solely
by means of his own power, in accordance with his previously
resolved-upon conception.
While thus in the Science of Knowledge there are two utterly distinct
series of mental activity—that of the Ego, which the philosopher
observes, and that of the observations of the philosopher—all other
philosophical systems have only _one_ series of thinking, viz: that of
the thoughts of the philosopher, for his object is not introduced as
thinking at all.
One of the chief grounds of so many objections to and misunderstandings
of the Science of Knowledge lies in this: that these two series of
thinking have not been held apart, or that what belonged to the one has
been taken to belong to the other. This error occurred because
Philosophy was held to consist only of one series. The act of one who
produces a work of art is most certainly—since his object is not
active—the appearance itself; but the description of him who has
undertaken an experiment, is not the appearance itself, but the
conception thereof.[1]
After this preliminary remark, the further application whereof we shall
examine in the course of our article, let us now ask: how does the
Science of Knowledge proceed to solve its problem?
The question it will have to answer, is, as we well know, the following:
Whence comes the system of those representations which are accompanied
by the feeling of necessity? Or, how do we to come claim objective
validity for what is only subjective? Or, since objective validity is
generally characterized as _being_, how do we come to accept a being?
Now, since this question starts from a reflection that returns into
itself—starts from the observation, that the immediate object of
consciousness is after all merely consciousness itself,—it seems clear
enough that the question can speak of no other being than of a being for
us. It would be indeed a complete contradiction, to mistake it for a
question concerning some being which had no relation to our
consciousness. Nevertheless, the philosophers of our philosophical age
are of all things most apt to plunge into such absurd contradictions.
The proposed question, how is a being for us possible? abstracts itself
from all being; i. e. it must not be understood, as if the question
posited a not-being; for in that case the conception of being would only
be negated, but not abstracted from. On the contrary, the question does
not entertain the conception of being at all, either positively or
negatively. The proposed question asks for the ground of the predicate
of being, whether it be applied positively or negatively; but all ground
lies beyond the grounded, i. e. is opposed to it. The answer must,
therefore, if it is to be an answer to this question, also abstract from
all being. To maintain, _a priori_, in advance of an attempt, that such
an abstraction is impossible in the answer, because it is impossible in
itself, would be to maintain likewise, that such an abstraction is
impossible in the question; and hence, that the question itself is not
possible, and that the problem of a science of metaphysics, as the
science which is to solve the problem of the ground of being for us, is
not a problem for human reason.
That such an abstraction, and hence such a question, is contrary to
reason, cannot be proven by objective grounds to those who maintain its
possibility; for the latter assert that the possibility and necessity of
the question is grounded upon the highest law of reason—that of
self-determination, (Practical legislation,) under which all other laws
of reason are subsumed, and from which they are all derived, but at the
same time determined and limited to the sphere of their validity. They
acknowledge the arguments of their opponents willingly enough, but deny
their application to the present case; with what justice, their
opponents can determine only by placing themselves upon the basis of
this highest law, but hence, also, upon the basis of an answer to the
disputed question, by which act they would cease to be opponents. Their
opposition, indeed, can only arise from a subjective defect—from the
consciousness that they never raised this question, and never felt the
need of an answer to it. Against this their position, no objective
grounds can, on the other hand, be made valid, by those who insist on an
answer to the question; for the doubt, which raises that question, is
grounded upon previous acts of freedom, which no demonstration can
compel from any one.
III.
Let us now ask: Who is it that undertakes the demanded abstraction from
all being? or, in which of the two series does it occur? Evidently, in
the series of philosophical argumentation, for another series does not
exist.
That, to which the philosopher holds, and from which he promises to
explain all that is to be explained, is the consciousness, the subject.
This subject he will, therefore, have to comprehend free from all
representation of being, in order first to show up in it the ground of
all being—of course, for itself. But if he abstracts from all being of
and for the subject, nothing pertains to it but an acting. Particularly
in relation to being is it the acting. The philosopher will, therefore,
have to comprehend it in its acting, and from this point the
aforementioned double series will first arise.
The fundamental assertion of the philosopher, as such, is this: as soon
as the Ego is for itself, there necessarily arises for it at the same
time an external being; the ground of the latter lies in the former; the
latter is conditioned by the former. Self-consciousness and
consciousness of a Something which is not that Self, is necessarily
united; but the former is the conditioning and the latter the
conditioned. To prove this assertion—not, perhaps, by argumentation, as
valid for a system of a being in itself, but by observation of the
original proceeding of reason, as valid for reason—the philosopher will
have to show, firstly, how the Ego is and becomes for itself; and
secondly, that this its own being for itself is not possible, unless at
the same time there arises for it an external being, which is not it.
The first question, therefore, would be: how is the Ego for itself? and
the first postulate: think thyself! construe the conception of thyself,
and observe how thou proceedest in this construction.
The philosopher affirms that every one who will but do so, must
necessarily discover that in the thinking of that conception, his
activity, as intelligence, returns into itself, makes itself its own
object.
If this is correct and admitted, the manner of the construction of the
Ego, the manner of its being for itself, (and we never speak of another
being,) is known; and the philosopher may then proceed to prove that
this act is not possible without another act, whereby there arises for
the Ego an external being.
It is thus, indeed, that the Science of Knowledge proceeds. Let us now
consider with what justice it so proceeds.
IV.
First of all: what in the described act belongs to the philosopher, as
philosopher, and what belongs to the Ego he is to observe? To the Ego
nothing but the return to itself; everything else to the description of
the philosopher, for whom, as mere fact, the system of all experience,
which in its genesis the Ego is now to produce under his observation,
has already existence.
The Ego returns _into itself_, is the assertion. Has it not then already
being in advance of this return into itself, and independently thereof?
Nay, must it not already be for itself, if merely for the possibility of
making itself the object of its action? Again, if this is so, does not
the whole philosophy presuppose what it ought first to explain?
I answer by no means. First through this act, and only by means of it—by
means of an acting upon an acting—does the Ego _originally_ come to be
_for itself_. It is only _for the philosopher_ that it has previous
existence as a fact, because the philosopher has already gone through
the whole experience. He must express himself as he does, to be but
understood, and he can so express himself, because he long since has
comprehended all the conceptions necessary thereunto.
Now, to return to the observed Ego: what is this its return into itself?
Under what class of modifications of consciousness is it to be posited?
It is no _comprehending_, for a comprehending first arises through the
opposition of a non-Ego, and by the determining of the Ego in this
opposition. Hence it is a mere _contemplation_. It is therefore not
consciousness, not even self-consciousness. Indeed, it is precisely
because this act alone produces no consciousness, that we proceed to
another act, through which a non-Ego originates for us, and that a
progress of philosophical argumentation and the required deduction of
the system of experience becomes possible. That act only places the Ego
in the possibility of self-consciousness—and thus of all other
consciousness—but does not generate real consciousness. That act is but
a part of the whole act of the intelligence, whereby it effects its
consciousness; a part which only the philosopher separates from the
whole act, but which is not originally so separated in the Ego.
But how about the philosopher, as such? This self-constructing Ego is
none other than his own. He can contemplate that act of the Ego only in
himself, and, in order to contemplate it, must realize it. He produces
that act arbitrarily and with freedom.
But—this question may and has been raised—if your whole philosophy is
erected upon something produced by an act of mere arbitrariness, does it
not then become a mere creature of the brain, a pure imaginary picture?
How is the philosopher going to secure to this purely subjective act its
objectivity? How will he secure to that which is purely empirical and a
moment of time—i. e. the time in which the philosopher philosophizes—its
originality? How can he prove that his present free thinking in the
midst of the series of his representations does correspond to the
necessary thinking, whereby he first became for himself, and through
which the whole series of his representations has been started?
I answer: this act is in its nature objective. I am for myself; this is
a fact. Now I could have thus come to be for myself only through an act,
for I am free; and only through this thus determined act, for only
through it do I become for myself every moment, and through every other
act something quite different is produced. That acting, indeed, is the
very conception of the Ego; and the conception of the Ego is the
conception of that acting; both conceptions are quite the same; and that
conception of the Ego can mean and can not be made to mean anything, but
what has been stated. _It is so_, because _I make it so_. The
philosopher only makes clear to himself what he really thinks and has
ever thought, when he thinks or thought _himself_; but that he does
think himself is to him immediate fact of consciousness. That question,
concerning the objectivity is grounded on the very curious
presupposition that the Ego is something else than its own thought of
itself, and that something else than this thought and outside of it—God
may know what they do mean!—is again the ground of it, concerning the
actual nature of which outside something they are very much troubled.
Hence if they ask for such an objective validity of the thought, or for
a connection between this object and the subject, I cheerfully confess
that the Science of Knowledge can give them no instruction concerning
it. If they choose to, they may themselves enter, in this or any other
case, upon the discovery of such a connection, until they, perhaps, will
recollect that this Unknown which they are hunting, is, after all, again
their thought, and that whatsoever they may invent as its ground, will
also be their thought, and thus _ad infinitum_; and that, indeed, they
cannot speak of or question about anything without at the same time
thinking it.
Now, in this act, which is arbitrary and in time, for the philosopher as
such, but which is for the Ego—which he constructs, by virtue of his
just deduced right, for the sake of subsequent observations and
conclusions—necessarily and originally; in this act, I say, the
philosopher looks at himself, and immediately contemplates his own
acting; he knows what he does, because _he does it_. Does a
consciousness thereof arise in him? Without doubt; for he not only
contemplates, but _comprehends_ also. He comprehends his act, as an
_acting generally_, of which he has already a conception by virtue of
his previous experience; and as this _determined_, into itself
_returning_ acting, as which he contemplates it in himself. By this
characteristic determination he elevates it above the sphere of _general
acting_.
_What_ acting may be, can only be _contemplated_, not developed from and
through conceptions; but that which this contemplation contains is
_comprehended_ by the mere opposition of pure _being_. Acting is not
being, and being is not acting. Mere conception affords no other
determination for each link; their real essence is only discovered in
contemplation.
Now this whole procedure of the philosopher appears to _me_, at least,
very possible, very easy, and even natural; and I can scarcely conceive
how it can appear otherwise to my readers, and how they can see in it
anything mysterious and marvellous. Every one, let us hope, can think
_himself_. He will also, let us hope, learn that by being required to
thus think himself he is required to perform an act, dependent upon his
own activity, an internal act; and that if he realizes this demand, if
he really affects himself through self-activity, he also most surely
_acts_ thus. Let us further hope that he will be able to distinguish
this kind of acting from its _opposite_, the acting whereby he thinks
external objects, and that he will find in the latter sort of thinking
the thinking and the thought to be opposites, (the activity, therefore,
tending upon something distinct from itself,) while in the former
thinking both were one and the same, (and hence the activity a return
into itself.) He will comprehend, it is to be hoped, that—since the
thought of himself arises _only_ in this manner, (an opposite thinking
producing a quite different thought)—the thought of himself is nothing
but the thought of this act, and the word Ego nothing but the
designation of this act—that Ego and an _into itself returning activity_
are completely identical conceptions. He will understand, let us hope,
that if he but for the present problematically presupposes with
transcendental Idealism that all consciousness rests upon and is
dependent upon self-consciousness, he must also _think_ that return into
itself as preceding and conditioning all other acts of consciousness;
indeed as the primary act of the subject; and, since there is nothing
for him which is not in his consciousness, and since everything else in
his consciousness is conditioned by this act, and therefore cannot
condition the act in the same respect,—as an act, utterly unconditioned
and hence absolute _for him_; and he will thus further understand, that
the _above problematical presupposition_ and this _thinking of the Ego
as originally posited through itself_, are again quite identical; and
that hence transcendental Idealism, if it proceeds systematically, can
proceed in no other manner than it does in the Science of Knowledge.
This contemplation of himself, which is required of the philosopher, in
his realization of the act, through which the Ego arises for him, I call
_intellectual contemplation_. It is the immediate consciousness that I
act and what I act; it is that through which I know something, because I
do it. That there is such a power of intellectual contemplation cannot
be demonstrated by conceptions, nor can conception show what it is.
Every one must find it immediately in himself, or he will never learn to
know it. The requirement that we ought to show _it_ what it is by
argumentation, is more marvellous than would be the requirement of a
blind person, to explain to him, without his needing to use sight, what
colors are.
But it can be certainly proven to everyone in his own confessed
experience, that this intellectual contemplation does occur in every
moment of his consciousness. I can take no step, cannot move hand or
foot, without the intellectual contemplation of my self-consciousness in
these acts; only through this contemplation do I know that _I_ do it,
only through it do I distinguish my acting and in it myself from the
given object of my acting. Everyone who ascribes an activity to himself
appeals to this contemplation. In it is the source of life, and without
it is death.
But this contemplation never occurs alone, as a complete act of
consciousness, as indeed sensuous contemplation also never occurs alone
nor completes consciousness; both contemplations must be _comprehended_.
Not only this, but the intellectual contemplation is also always
connected with a _sensuous_ contemplation. I cannot find myself acting
without finding an object upon which I act, and this object in a
sensuous contemplation which I comprehend; nor without sketching an
image of what I intend to produce by my act, which image I also
comprehend. Now, then, how do I know and how can I know what I intend to
produce, if I do not immediately contemplate myself in this sketching of
the image which I intend to produce, i. e. in this sketching of the
conception of my _purpose_, which sketching is certainly an act. Only
the totality of this condition in uniting a given manifold completes
consciousness. I become conscious only of the conceptions, both of the
object upon which I act, and of the purpose I intend to accomplish; but
I do not become conscious of the contemplations which are at the bottom
of both conceptions.
Perhaps it is only this which the zealous opponents of intellectual
contemplation wish to insist upon; namely, that that contemplation is
only possible in connection with a sensuous contemplation; and surely
the Science of Knowledge is not going to deny it. But this is no reason
why they should deny intellectual contemplation. For with the same right
we might deny sensuous contemplation, since it also is possible only in
connection with intellectual contemplation; for whatsoever is to become
_my_ representation must be related to me, and the consciousness (I)
occurs only through intellectual contemplation. (It is a remarkable fact
of our modern history of philosophy, that it has not been noticed as yet
how all that may be objected to intellectual contemplation can also be
objected to sensuous contemplation, and that thus the arguments of its
opponents turn against themselves.)
But if it must be admitted that there is no immediate, isolated
consciousness of intellectual contemplation, how does the philosopher
arrive at a knowledge and isolated representation thereof? I answer,
doubtless in the same manner in which he arrives at the isolated
representation of sensuous contemplation, by drawing a conclusion from
the evident facts of consciousness. This conclusion runs as follows: I
propose to myself, to think this or that, and the required thought
arises; I propose to myself, to do this or that, and the representation
that it is being done arises. This is a fact of consciousness. If I look
at it by the light of the laws of mere sensuous consciousness, it
involves no more than has just been stated, i. e. a sequence of certain
representations. I become conscious only of this _sequence_, in a series
of time movements, and only such a time sequence can I assert. I can
merely state—I know that if I propose to myself a certain thought, with
the characteristic that it is to have existence, the representation of
this thought, with the characteristic that it really has existence,
follows; or, that the representation of a certain manifestation, as one
which ought to occur, is immediately followed in time by the
representation of the same manifestation as one which really did occur.
But I can, on no account, state that the first representation contains
the _real_ ground of the second one which followed; or, that by thinking
the first one the second one _became real_ for me. I merely remain
passive, the placid scene upon which representations follow
representations, and am, on no account, the active principle which
produces them. Still I constantly assume the latter, and cannot
relinquish that assumption without relinquishing my self. What justifies
me in it? In the sensuous ingredients I have mentioned, there is no
ground to justify such an assumption; hence it is a peculiar and
immediate consciousness, that is to say, a contemplation, and not a
sensuous contemplation, which views a material and permanent being, but
a contemplation of a pure activity, which is not permanent but
progressive, not a being but a life.
The philosopher, therefore, discovers this intellectual contemplation as
fact of consciousness, (for him it is a fact; for the original Ego a
fact and act both together—a deed-act,) and he thus discovers it not
immediately, as an isolated part of his consciousness, but by
distinguishing and separating what in common consciousness occurs in
unseparated union.
Quite a different problem it is to explain this intellectual
contemplation, which is here presupposed as fact, in its _possibility_,
and by means of this explanation to defend it against the charge of
deception and deceptiveness, which is raised by dogmatism; or, in other
words, to prove the _faith_ in the reality of this intellectual
contemplation, from which faith transcendental idealism confessedly
starts—by a something still higher; and to show up the interest which
leads us to place faith in its reality, or in the system of Reason. This
is accomplished by showing up the _Moral Law_ in us, in which the Ego is
characterized as elevated through it above all the original
modifications, as impelled by an absolute, or in itself, (in the Ego,)
grounded activity; and by which the Ego is thus discovered to be an
absolute Active. In the consciousness of this law, which doubtless is an
immediate consciousness, and not derived from something else, the
contemplation of self-activity and freedom is grounded. _I am given to
myself through myself as something, which is to be active in a certain
manner; hence, I am given to myself through myself as something active
generally; I have the life in myself, and take it from out of myself.
Only through this medium of the Moral Law do I see_ MYSELF; _and if I
see myself through that law, I necessarily see myself as self-active_;
and it is thus that there arises in a consciousness—which otherwise
would only be the consciousness of a sequence of my representations—the
utterly foreign ingredient of an _activity of myself_.
This intellectual contemplation is the only stand-point for all
Philosophy. From it all that occurs in consciousness may be explained,
but only from it. Without self-consciousness there is no consciousness
at all; but self-consciousness is only possible in the way we have
shown, i. e. I am only active. Beyond it I cannot be driven; my
philosophy then becomes altogether independent of all arbitrariness, and
a product of stern necessity; i. e. in so far as necessity exists for
free Reason; it becomes a product of _practical_ necessity. I _can_ not
go beyond this stand-point, because conscience says I _shall_ not go
beyond it; and thus transcendental idealism shows itself up to be the
only moral philosophy—the philosophy wherein speculation and moral law
are intimately united. Conscience says: I _shall_ start in my thinking
from the pure Ego, and shall think it absolutely self-active; not as
determined by the things, but as determining the things.
The conception of activity which becomes possible only through this
intellectual contemplation of the self-active Ego, is the only one which
unites both the worlds that exist for us—the sensuous and the
intelligible world. Whatsoever is opposed to my activity—and I must
oppose something to it, for I am finite—is the sensuous, and whatsoever
is to arise through my activity is the intelligible (moral) world.
I should like to know how those who smile so contemptuously whenever the
words “intellectual contemplation” is mentioned, think the consciousness
of the moral law; or how they are enabled to entertain such conceptions
as those of Virtue, of Right, &c., which they doubtless do entertain.
According to them there are only two contemplations _a priori_—Time and
Space. They surely form these conceptions of Virtue, &c., in Time, (the
form of the inner sense,) but they certainly do not hold them to be time
itself, but merely a certain filling up of time. What is it, then,
wherewith they fill up time, and get a basis for the construction of
those conceptions? There is nothing left to them but Space; and hence
their conceptions of Virtue, Right, &c., are perhaps quadrangular and
circular; just as all the other conceptions which they construct, (for
instance, that of a tree or of an animal,) are nothing but limitations
of Space. But they do not conceive their Virtue and their Right in this
manner. What, then, is the basis of their construction? If they attend
properly, they will discover that this basis is activity in general, or
freedom. Both of these conceptions of virtue and right are to them
certain limitations of their general activity, exactly as their sensuous
conceptions are limitations of space. How, then, do they arrive at this
basis of their construction? We will hope that they have not derived
activity from the dead permanency of matter, nor freedom from the
mechanism of nature. They have obtained it, therefore, from immediate
contemplation, and thus they confess a third contemplation besides their
own two.
It is, therefore, by no means so unimportant, as it appears to be to
some, whether philosophy starts from a fact or from a deed-act, (i. e.
from an activity, which presupposes no object, but produces it itself,
and in which, therefore, the _acting_ is immediately _deed_.) If
philosophy starts from a fact, it places itself in the midst of being
and finity, and will find it difficult to discover therefrom a road to
the infinite and super-sensuous; but if it starts from a deed-act, it
places itself at once in the point which unites both worlds and from
which both can be overlooked at one glance.
[Translators frequently use the term “intuition” for what I have here
called “contemplation;” “Deed-Act” is my rendering of “That-Handlung.”
A. E. K.]
Footnote 1:
NOTE. The same mistaking of one series of thinking in transcendental
idealism for the other series, lies at the basis of the assertion,
that besides the system of idealism, another realistic system is also
possible as a logical and thorough system. The realism, which forces
itself upon all, even the most decided idealist, namely, the
assumption that things exist independently and outside of us, is
involved in the idealistic system itself; and is moreover explained
and deduced in that system. Indeed, the deduction of an objective
truth, as well in the world of appearances as in the world of
intellect, is the only purpose of all philosophy.
It is the philosopher who says in _his own_ name: everything that is
_for_ the Ego is also _through_ the Ego. But the Ego itself, in that
philosopher’s philosophy says: as sure as I am I, there exists outside
of me a something, which exists _not_ through me. The philosopher’s
idealistic assertion is therefore met by the realistic assertion of
the Ego in the same one system; and it is the philosopher’s business
to show from the fundamental principle of his philosophy how the Ego
comes to make such an assertion. The philosopher’s stand-point is the
purely speculative; the Ego’s stand-point in his system is the
realistic stand-point of life and science; the philosopher’s system is
Science of Knowledge, whilst the Ego’s system is common Science. But
common Science is comprehensible only through the Science of
Knowledge, the realistic system comprehensible only through the
idealistic system. Realism forces itself upon us; but it has in itself
no known and comprehensible ground. Idealism furnishes this ground,
and is only to make realism comprehensible. Speculation has no other
purpose than to furnish this comprehensibility of all reality, which
in itself would otherwise remain incomprehensible. Hence, also,
Idealism can never be a mode of thinking, but can only be
_speculation_.
NOTES ON MILTON’S LYCIDAS.
BY ANNA C. BRACKETT.
Every work of art, whether in sculpture, painting, or music, must have a
definite content; and only in having such has it any claim to be so
called. This content must be spiritual; that is, it must come from the
inner spirit of the artist, and translate itself by means of the work
into spirit in the spectator or listener. Only in the recognition of
this inner meaning which lives behind the outside and shimmers through
it, can consist the difference between the impression made on me by the
sight of a beautiful painting, and that produced on an inferior animal,
as the retina of his eye paints with equal accuracy the same object. For
what is this sense of beauty which thrills through me, while the dog at
my side looks at the same thing and sees nothing in seeing all which the
eye can grasp? Is it not the response in me to the informing spirit
behind all the outward appearance?
But if this sense of beauty stops in passive enjoyment, if the sense of
sight or of hearing is simply to be intoxicated with the feast spread
before it, we must confess that our appreciation of beauty is a very
sensuous thing. Content though some may be, simply to enjoy, in the
minds of others the fascination of the senses only provokes unrest. We
say with Goethe: “I would fain understand that which interests me in so
extraordinary a manner;” for this work of art, the product of mind,
touches me in a wonderful way, and must be of universal essence. Let me
seek the reason, and if I find it, it will be another step towards “the
solvent word.”
Again, in a true work of art this content must be essentially _one_;
that is, one profound thought to which all others, though they may be
visible, must be gracefully subordinate; otherwise we are lost in a
multiplicity of details, and miss the unity which is the sole sign of
the creative mind.
Nor need we always be anxious as to whether the artist consciously meant
to say thus and so. Has there ever lived a true artist who has not
“builded better than he knew”? If this were not so, all works of art
would lose their significance in the course of time. Are the
half-uttered meanings of the statues of the Egyptian gods behind or
before us to-day? Do they not perplex us with prophecies rather than
remembrances as we wander amazed among them through the halls of the
British Museum? A whole nation striving to say the one word, and dying
before it was uttered! Have we heard it clearly yet?
The world goes on translating as it gains new words with which to carry
on the work. It is not so much the artist that is before his age as the
divine afflatus guiding his hand which leads not only the age but him.
Through that divine inspiration he speaks, and he says mysterious words
which perhaps must wait for centuries to be understood. In that fact
lies his right to his title; in that, alone, lies the right of his
production to be called a work of art.
Doubtless all readers are familiar with Dr. Johnson’s criticisms on
Milton’s Lycidas, and these we might pass by without comment, for it
would evidently be as impossible for Dr. Johnson’s mind to comprehend or
be touched by the poetry of Lycidas as for a ponderous sledge-hammer to
be conscious of the soft, perfume-laden air through which it might move.
The monody is censured by him because of its irregularly recurring
rhymes, and in the same breath we are told that it is so full of art
that the author could not have felt sorrow while writing it. We know how
intricately the rhymes are woven in Milton’s sonnets, where he seems to
have taken all pains to select the most difficult arrangements, and to
carry them through without deviation, and we say only that the first
criticism contradicts the last. But some more appreciative critics,
while touched by the beauty, repeat the same, and say there is “more
poetry than sorrow” in the poem. More poetry than sorrow! Sorrow is the
grand key note, and strikes in always over and through all the beauty
and poetry like a wailing chord in a symphony, that is never absent
long, and ever and anon drowns out all the rest. Sorrow, pure and
simple, is the thread on which all the beautiful fancies are strung. It
runs through and connects them all, and there is not a paragraph in the
whole poem that is not pierced by it. It is the occasion, the motive,
the inner inspiration, and the mastery over it is the conclusion of all.
Around it, the constant centre, group themselves all the lovely
pictures, and they all face it and are subordinate to it.
The soul of the poet is so tossed by the immediate sorrow that it
surrenders itself entirely to it, and so, losing its will, is taken
possession of by whatever thought, evoked by the spell of association,
rises in his mind; as when he speaks of Camus and St. Peter. Ever and
anon the will makes an effort to free itself and to determine its own
course, but again and again the wave of sorrow sweeps up, and the vainly
struggling will goes down before it.
Nothing lay closer to Milton’s heart than the interests of what he
believed the true church; and nothing touched him more than the abuses
which were then prevalent in the church of England. In the safe harbor
of his father’s country home, resting on his oars before the appointed
time for the race in which he was to give away all his strength and joy,
surrounded and inspired by the fresh, pure air from the granite rocks of
Puritanism, all his growing strength was gathering its energies for the
struggle. This just indignation and honest protest must find its way in
the poem through the grief that sweeps over him, and which, because so
deep, touches and vivifies all his deepest thoughts. But even that
strong under current of conviction has no power long to steady him
against the wave of sorrow which breaks above his head, none the less
powerful because it breaks in a line of white and shivers itself into
drops which flash diamond colors in the warm and pure sunlight of his
cultured imagination. More poetry than sorrow? Then there is more poetry
in Lycidas than in any other poem of the same length in our language.
It would be impossible here to go through the poem with the close care
to all little points which is necessary to enable one fully to
comprehend its exquisite beauty and finish. It is like one of
Beethoven’s symphonies, where at first we are so occupied with the one
grand thought that we surrender ourselves entirely to it, and think
ourselves completely satisfied. But as we appropriate that more and more
fully, within and around it wonderful melodies start and twine, and this
experience is repeated again and again till the music seems almost
infinite in its content. Let us, then, briefly go over the burden of the
monody, our chief effort being to show how perfectly at one it is
throughout, how natural the seemingly abrupt changes,—only pausing now
and then to speak of some special beauty which is so marked that one
cannot pass it by in silence. If we succeed in showing a continued and
natural thought in the whole and a satisfactory solution for the
collision which gives rise to the poem, our end will have been
accomplished.
Milton begins in due order by giving, as prelude, his reason for
singing. But he has written only seven full lines before, in the eighth,
the key-note is struck by the force of sorrow, which, after saying
“Lycidas is dead,” lingers on the strain and repeats, to heighten the
grief, “dead ere his prime.” The next line, the ninth, is still more
pathetic in its echoing repetition and its added cause for mourning. (In
passing, let us say that the effect is greatly increased in reading this
line if the first word be strongly emphasized.) Because he hath not left
his peer, all should sing for him. No more excuse is needed. Sorrow
pleases itself in calling up the neglected form, and then passionately
turns to the only solace that it can have—“Some melodious tear.”
This, of course, brings the image of the Muses, and as that thought
comes, once more we have a new attempt at a formal beginning in the
second paragraph (line 15). First, is the invocation, and then,
recurring to the first thought, Milton says it is peculiarly appropriate
for _him_ to sing of Lycidas. Why? Because they had been so long
together, and as the thought of happier things arises, the sweet
memories, linked by the chain of association, come thronging so
tumultuously that he forgets himself in reverie. The music, at first
slow and sweet, grows more and more strong and rapid till even the
rustic dance-measure comes in merrily. Most naturally here the key-note
is again struck by the force of contrast, and the despair of the sorrow
that wakes from the forgetfulness of pleasant dreams to the
consciousness of loss, strikes as rapidly its minor chords till it seems
as if hope were entirely lost.
Nothing is more unreasonable than this despair of sorrow. Tossed in its
own wild passion, it sees nothing clearly, and seeking for some adequate
cause, heaps blindly unmerited reproaches on anything, on all things.
So, recoiling before its power, stung with its pain, the poet turns
reproachfully to the nymphs, blaming them for their negligence. But
before the words are fairly uttered he realizes his folly. Lycidas was
beloved by them, but if Calliope could not save even her own son, how
powerless are they against the step of inevitable fate! This strikes
deep down in the thunder of the bass notes, and the thought comes which
perhaps cannot be more powerfully expressed than by the old Hebrew
refrain, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” After all, why seek for
anything, even for fame? Man’s destiny is ruled by irresponsible
necessity. Life is worth nothing, and would it not be better, instead of
“scorning delights and living laborious days,” to yield one’s self to
the pleasures of the passing moment? “All is vanity and vexation of
spirit.” When any soul reaches this point, it seems as if help must come
from outside of itself or it will go irrevocably down. Sorrow, despair,
are always represented by darkness. Is it an accident that the celestial
notes which first strike through the descending bass, come from the god
of light, Phœbus Apollo? Clear, and sweet, and sudden, they cleave the
closing shadows, the sunlight comes in again, and the music climbs up
and grows serenely steady.
Relieved from this Inferno the soul comes once more to
self-consciousness, and in its effort to guide itself, what more natural
than that it should recur to the idea expressed in the fiftieth line,
and attempt to make something like order by carrying out that idea.
Reason takes command, and the strain flows smoothly, till, by the
exercise of her power, the true cause of the misfortune is recognized
and a just indignation (line 100) takes its place. But in yielding to
this, the immediate feeling regains possession, reason resigns her sway,
and the soul is set afloat again on the uncertain sea of association.
See how sudden and sweet the transition from fiery reproach and
invective to the gentlest tenderness, in line 102. It begins with a
thunder peal and dies out in a wail of affection, expressed by the one
word “sacred.” This forms the connection between this paragraph and the
next, a delicate yet perfect link, for as all his love overflows in that
one word, the old happier days come up again; and where should these
memories carry him but to the university where they had found so much
common pleasure and inspiration. Here the sorrow, before entirely
personal, becomes wider as the singer feels that others grieve with him
for lost talent and power.
Were they not both destined for the church for which their university
studies were only a preparation? Most naturally the subtle chain of
association brings up the thought of the great apostle with the keys of
heaven and hell. How sorely the church needed true teachers! The earnest
spirit that was ready to assail every form of wrong, eagerly followed
out the thought which was in the future to burn into its very life. From
line 113 to line 131 notice the succession of feelings. A sense of
irreparable loss—indignation—mark the _three_ words, “creep,” “intrude,”
and “climb,” no one of which could be spared. Then comes disgust,
expressed by “Blind mouths.” Ruskin, in his “Kings’ Treasures,” very
happily observes that no epithet could be more sweeping than this, for
as the office of a bishop is to oversee the flock, and that of a pastor
to feed it, the utter want of all qualification for the sacred office is
here most forcibly expressed. Contempt follows; then pity for those who,
desiring food, are fed only with wind; detestation of the secret and
corrupt practices of the Romish church; and finally hope, coming through
the possible execution of Archbishop Laud, whose death, it seemed to the
young Puritan, was the only thing needed to bring back truth, simplicity
and safety. Drifting with these emotions the singer has followed the
lead of his fancies, and just as before, when light came with healing
for his despair, Hope recalls him to himself, till he returns again in
line 132, as in line 85, to the regular style of his poem. He is as one
who, waking from wildering dreams, collects his fugitive thoughts, and
tries to settle them down for the necessary routine of the day. A more
regular and plainly accented strain, recognized as heard before, comes
into the music, as he pleases himself in fancying that the sad
consolation is still left him of ornamenting the hearse. It is useless
to speak of the exquisite finish of these lines, or of how often one
word, as “fresh” for instance, in line 138, calls up before the mind
such pictures that one lingers and lingers over the passage, as the
poet’s fancy in vain effort lingered, striving to forget his sorrow.
This strain comes in like some of the repeating melodies in the second
part of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, where it seems as if the soul had
found a new, sweet thought, and was turning it over and over as loth to
pause, and as in sudden hope of some relief through its potency. But the
heavy key-note strikes again through it all, in line 154, with a crash
that drowns all the sweetness and beauty. We hear the rush of the cruel,
insatiate sea, as its waves dash against the shore of the stormy
Hebrides, and the conflict of wave and wind takes possession of us. What
thought is more desolate than that of a solitary human form, tossed
hither and thither in the vast immensity of ocean! Perhaps, even now, it
floats by “the great vision of the guarded mount.” It seems to the poet
that all should turn toward England in her sorrow, and it pains him to
think of St. Michael’s steadfast eyes gazing across the waves of the bay
toward “Namancos and Bayona’s hold.” “Rather turn hither and let even
your heavenly face relax with human grief, and ye, unheeding monsters of
the deep, have pity and bear him gently over the roughening waves.” This
he says because he feels his own impotence. All the love he bears
Lycidas cannot serve him now; he is lost, and helpless, and alone, and
uncared for. By opposition here, the light strikes in once more, and now
with a clearer, fuller glow than at either previous time. At first (line
76) it came in the form of trust in “all-judging Jove”; then (line 130)
in hope, through belief in impersonal justice; now it takes the form of
Christian faith. The music mounts higher and higher into celestial
harmonies, losing entirely its original character, and sounds like a
majestic choral of triumph and peace.
This properly ends the poem with line 185. There is nothing more to be
said. The tendency is all upward, and the collisions are overcome. One
knows that here, and here for the first time, have we reached a movement
that is self-sustained. There is no more danger of being carried off our
basis by any wave of despairing sorrow. The soul has found a solution at
last, and it knows that it is a trustworthy one.
The music is finished; but now, that nothing may be wanting for perfect
effect, we have the scenery added, and this in such word-painting as has
never been surpassed. Who could ever weary of line 187—“While the still
morn went out with sandals gray,”—either for its melody or for its
subtle appeal to our senses of hearing and sight? And the slowly growing
and dying day! Who else has ever so “touched the tender stops” of
imagination?
But these woods and pastures are too full of haunting memories; we seek
for newer ones, where the soul, relieved from the associations which
perpetually call up the loss of the human and now lifeless embodiment of
spirit, shall be free to think only of the eternal holding and
possessing which can be sundered by no accident of time or space.
ANALYSIS OF HEGEL’S ÆSTHETICS.
[Translated from the French of M. Ch. Bénard, by J. A. Martling.]
Part II.
OF THE GENERAL FORMS OF ART AND ITS HISTORIC DEVELOPMENT.
The first part of Hegel’s Æsthetics contains the questions relating to
the nature of art in general. The second unfolds its principal forms in
the different historic epochs. It is a species of philosophy of the
history of art, and contains a great number of views and descriptions
which cannot appear in this analysis. We shall take so much the more
care, without suffering ourselves to be turned aside by details, to
indicate plainly the course of the ideas, and to omit nothing essential.
The idea of the Beautiful, or the Ideal, manifests itself under three
essential and fundamental forms—the _symbolic_, the _classic_, and the
_romantic_. They represent the three grand epochs of history—the
oriental, the Greek, and the modern.
In the East, thought, still vague and indeterminate, seeks its true
expression and cannot find it. In the presence of the phenomena of
nature and of human life, spirit, in its infancy, incapable of seizing
the true sense of things, and of comprehending itself, exhausts itself
in vain efforts to express certain grand, but confused or obscure
conceptions. Instead of uniting and blending together in a harmonious
whole the content and the form, the idea and its image, it attains only
a rude and superficial approximation, and the result is the symbol with
its enigmatic and mysterious meaning.
In classic art, on the contrary, this harmonious blending of the form
and the idea is accomplished. Intelligence, having taken cognizance of
itself and of its freedom, capable of self-control, of penetrating the
significance of the phenomena of the universe, and of interpreting its
laws, finds here also the exact correspondence, the measure and the
proportion which are the characteristics of beauty. Art creates works
which represent the beautiful under its purest and most perfect form.
But spirit can not rest in this precise accord of the form and the idea,
in which the infinite and the finite blend. When it comes to be
reflected upon itself, to penetrate farther into the depths of its inner
nature, to take cognizance of its spirituality and its freedom, then the
idea of the infinite appears to it stripped of the natural forms which
envelop it. This idea, present in all its conceptions, can no longer be
perfectly expressed by the forms of the finite world; it transcends
them, and then this unity, which constitutes the characteristic of
classic art, is broken. External forms, sensuous images, are no longer
adequate to the expression of the soul and its free spirituality.
I. Of Symbolic Art.
After these general considerations, Hegel treats successively the
different forms of art. Before speaking of symbolic art, he furnishes an
exposition of the _symbol_ in general.
The symbol is an image which represents an idea. It is distinguished
from the signs of language in this, that between the image, and the idea
which it represents, there is a natural relation, not an arbitrary or
conventional one. It is thus that the lion is the symbol of courage; the
circle, of eternity; the triangle, of the Trinity.
The symbol, however, does not represent the idea perfectly, but by a
single side. The lion is not merely courageous; the fox, cunning. Whence
it follows that the symbol, having many meanings, is equivocal. This
ambiguity ceases only when the two terms are conceived separately and
then brought into relation; the symbol then gives place to _comparison_.
Thus conceived, the symbol, with its enigmatic and mysterious character,
is peculiarly adapted to an entire epoch of history, to oriental art and
its extraordinary creations. It characterizes that order of monuments
and emblems by which the people of the East have sought to express their
ideas, and have been able to do it only in an equivocal and obscure
manner. These works of art present to us, instead of beauty and
regularity, a strange, imposing, fantastic aspect.
In the development of this form of art in the East, many degrees are
noticeable. Let us first examine its origin.
The sentiment of art, like the religious sentiment or scientific
curiosity, is born of _wonder_. The man who is astonished at nothing
lives in a state of imbecility and stupidity. This state ceases when his
spirit, freeing itself from matter and from physical wants, is struck by
the spectacle of the phenomena of nature, and seeks their meaning, when
it has the presentiment of something grand and mysterious in them, of a
concealed power which is revealed there.
Then it experiences also the need of representing that inner sentiment
of a general and universal power. Particular objects—the elements, the
sea, rivers, mountains—lose their immediate sense and significance, and
become for spirit images of this invisible power.
It is then that art appears; it arises from the necessity of
representing this idea by sensuous images, addressed at once to the
senses and the spirit.
The idea of an absolute power, in religions, is manifested at first by
the worship of physical objects. The Divinity is identified with nature
itself. But this rude worship cannot endure. Instead of seeing the
absolute in real objects, man conceives it as a distinct and universal
being; he seizes, although very imperfectly, the relation which unites
this invisible principle to the objects of nature; he fashions an image,
a symbol designed to represent it. Art is then the interpreter of
religious ideas.
Such is art in its origin; the symbolic form is born with it. Let us now
follow it in the successive stages of its development, and indicate its
progress in the East before it attained to the Greek ideal.
That which characterizes symbolic art is that it strives in vain to
discover pure conceptions, and a mode of representation which befits
them. It is the conflict between the content and the form, both
imperfect and heterogeneous. Hence the incessant struggle of these two
elements of art, which vainly seek to harmonize. The stages of its
development exhibit the successive phases or modes of this struggle.
At the outset, however, this conflict does not yet exist, or art is not
conscious of it. The point of departure is a unity yet undivided, in
whose depths the discord between the two principles ferments. Thus the
creations of art, but little distinct from the objects of nature, are as
yet scarcely symbols.
The end of this epoch is the disappearance of the symbol. It takes place
by the reflective separation of the two terms. The idea being clearly
conceived, the symbol on its side being perceived as distinct from the
idea, from their conjunction arises the _reflex_ symbol, or the
comparison, the allegory, etc.
These principles having been laid down _a priori_, Hegel seeks among the
people of the East the forms of art which correspond to these various
degrees of oriental symbolism. He finds them chiefly among the ancient
Persians, in India, and in Egypt.
1. _Persian Art._—At the first moment of the history of art, the divine
principle, God, appears identified with nature and man. In the worship
of the Lama, for example, a real man is adored as God. In other
religions the sun, the mountains, the rivers, the moon, and animals, are
also the objects of religious worship.
The spectacle of this unity of God and nature is presented to us in the
most striking manner in the life and religion of the ancient Persians,
in the Zend-Avesta.
In the religion of Zoroaster, light is God himself. God is not
distinguished from light viewed as a simple expression, an emblem or
sensuous image of the Divinity. If light is taken in the sense of the
good and just Being, of the conserving principle of the Universe, which
diffuses everywhere life and its blessings, it is not merely an image of
the good principle; the sovereign good itself is light. It is the same
with the opposition of light and darkness, the latter being considered
as the impure element in every thing—the hideous, the bad, the principle
of death and destruction.
Hegel seeks to demonstrate this opinion by an analysis of the principal
ideas which form the content of the Zend-Avesta.
According to him, the worship which the Zend-Avesta describes, is still
less symbolic. All the ceremonies which it imposes as a religious duty
upon the Parsees are those serious occupations that seek to extend to
all, purity in the physical and moral sense. One does not find here any
of those symbolic dances which imitate the course of the stars or any of
those religious acts which have no value except as images and signs of
general conceptions. There is, then, in it no art properly so-called.
Compared with ruder images or with the insignificant idols of other
peoples, the worship of light, as pure and universal substance, presents
something beautiful, elevated, grand, more conformable to the nature of
the supreme good and of truth. But this conception remains vague; the
imagination creates neither a profound idea nor a new form. If we see
appearing general types, and the forms which correspond to them, it is
the result of an artificial combination, not a work of poetry and art.
Thus this unity of the invisible principle and visible objects,
constitutes only the first form of the symbol in art. To attain to the
symbolic form properly so-called, it is necessary that the distinction
and the separation of the two terms appear clearly indicated and
represented to us. It is this which takes place in the religion, art,
and poetry of India, which Hegel calls the symbolic of the
_imagination_.
2. _Indian Art._—The character of the monuments which betray a more
advanced form and a superior degree of art, is then the separation of
the two terms. Intelligence forms abstract conceptions, and seeks forms
which express them. Imagination, properly so-called, is born; art truly
begins. It is not, however, yet the true symbol.
What we encounter at first are the productions of an imagination which
is in a state of complete ferment and agitation. In the first attempt of
the human spirit to separate the elements and to reunite them, its
thought is still confused and vague. The principle of things is not
conceived in its spiritual nature; the ideas concerning God are empty
abstractions; at the same time the forms which represent Him bear a
character exclusively sensuous and material. Still plunged in the
contemplation of the sensuous world, having neither measure nor fixed
rule to determine reality, man exhausts himself in useless efforts to
penetrate the general meaning of the universe, and can employ, to
express the profoundest thoughts, only rude images and representations,
in which there flashes out the opposition between the idea and the form.
The imagination passes thus from one extreme to the other, lifting
itself very high to plunge yet lower, wandering without support, without
guide, and without aim, in a world of representations at once imposing,
fantastic and grotesque.
Hegel characterizes the Indian mythology, and the art which corresponds
to it, thus: “In the midst of these abrupt and inconsiderate leaps, of
this passage from one excess to another, if we find anything of grandeur
and an imposing character in these conceptions, we see afterwards the
universal being, precipitated into the most ignoble forms of the
sensuous world. The imagination can escape from this contradiction only
by extending indefinitely the dimensions of the form. It wanders amid
gigantic creations, characterized by the absence of all measure, and
loses itself in the vague or the arbitrary.”
Hegel develops and confirms these propositions, by following the Indian
imagination in the principal points which distinguish its art, its
poetry, and its mythology. He makes it apparent that, in spite of the
fertility, the splendor, and the grandeur of these conceptions, the
Indians have never had a clear idea of persons and events—a faculty for
history; that in this continual mingling of the finite and the infinite,
there appears the complete absence of practical intelligence and reason.
Thought is suffered to run after the most extravagant and monstrous
chimeras that the imagination can bring forth. Thus the conception of
Brahma is the abstract idea of being with neither life nor reality,
deprived of real form and personality. From this idealism pushed to the
extreme, the intelligence precipitates itself into the most unbridled
naturalism. It deifies objects of nature, the animals. The divinity
appears under the form of an idiot man, deified because he belongs to a
caste. Each individual, because he is born in that caste, represents
Brahma in person. The union of man with God is lowered to the level of a
simply material fact. Thence also the _rôle_ which the law of the
generation of beings plays in this religion, which gives rise to the
most obscene representations. Hegel, at the same time, sets forth the
contradictions which swarm in this religion, and the confusion which
reigns in all this mythology. He establishes a parallel between the
Indian trinity and the Christian Trinity, and shows their difference.
The three persons of this trinity are not persons; each of them is an
abstraction in relation to the others; whence it follows that if this
trinity has any analogy with the Christian Trinity, it is inferior to
it, and we ought to be guarded against recognizing the Christian tenet
in it.
Examining next the part which corresponds to Greek polytheism, he
demonstrates likewise its inferiority; he makes apparent the confusion
of those innumerable theogonies and cosmogonies which contradict and
destroy themselves; and where, in fine, the idea of natural and not of
spiritual generation is uppermost, where obscenity is frequently pushed
to the last degree. In the Greek fables, in the theogony of Hesiod in
particular, one frequently obtains at least a glimpse of a moral
meaning. All is more clear and more explicit, more strongly coherent,
and we do not remain shut up in the circle of the divinities of nature.
Nevertheless, in refusing to Indian art the idea of the truly beautiful,
and indeed of the truly sublime, Hegel recognizes that it offers to us,
principally in its poetry, “scenes of human life, full of attractiveness
and sweetness, many agreeable images and tender sentiments, most
brilliant descriptions of nature, charming features of childlike
simplicity and artless innocence in love; at the same time,
occasionally, much grandeur and nobleness.”
But as to that which concerns fundamental conceptions in their totality,
the spiritual cannot disengage itself from the sensuous. We encounter
the most insipid triviality in connection with the most elevated
situations—a complete absence of precision and proportion. The sublime
is only the measureless; and as to whatever lies at the foundation of
the myth, the imagination, dizzy, and incapable of mastering the flight
of the thought, loses itself in the fantastic, or brings forth only
enigmas which have no significance for reason.
3. _Egyptian Art._—Thus the creations of the Indian imagination appear
to realize only imperfectly the idea of the symbolic form itself. It is
in Egypt, among the monuments of Egyptian art, that we find the type of
the true symbol. It is thus characterized:
In the first stage of art, we started from the confusion and identity of
content and form, of spirit and nature. Next form and content are
separated and opposed. Imagination has sought vainly to combine them,
and is successful only in making clear their disproportion. In order
that thought may be free, it is necessary that it get rid of its
material form—that it destroy it. The _moment_ of destruction, of
negation, or annihilation, is then necessary in order that spirit arrive
at consciousness of itself and its spirituality. This idea of death as a
_moment_ of the divine nature is already contained in the Indian
religion; but it is only a changing, a transformation, and an
abstraction. The gods are annihilated and pass the one into the other,
and all in their turn into a single being—Brahma, the universal being.
In the Persian religion the two principles, negative and positive—Ormuzd
and Ahriman—exist separately and remain separated. Now this principle of
negation, of death and resurrection, as moments and attributes of the
divine nature, constitutes the foundation of a new religion; this
thought is expressed in it by the forms of its worship, and appears in
all its conceptions and monuments. It is the fundamental characteristic
of the art and religion of Egypt. Thus we see the glorification of death
and of suffering, as the annihilation of sensuous nature, appear in the
consciousness of peoples in the worships of Asia Minor, of Phrygia and
Phoenicia.
But if death is a necessary “moment” in the life of the absolute, it
does not rest in that annihilation; this is, in order to pass to a
superior existence, to arrive, after the destruction of visible
existence, by resurrection, at divine immortality. Death is only the
birth of a more elevated principle and the triumph of spirit.
Henceforth, physical form, in art, loses its independent value and its
separate existence; still further, the conflict of form and idea ought
to cease. Form is subordinated to idea. That fermentation of the
imagination which produces the fantastic, quiets itself and is calm. The
previous conceptions are replaced by a mode of representation,
enigmatic, it is true, but superior, and which offers to us the true
character of the symbol.
The idea begins to assert itself. On its side, the symbol takes a form
more precise; the spiritual principle is revealed more clearly, and
frees itself from physical nature, although it cannot yet appear in all
its clearness.
The following mode of representation corresponds to this idea of
symbolic art: in the first place, the forms of nature and human actions
express something other than themselves; they reveal the divine
principle by qualities which are in real analogy with it. The phenomena
and the laws of nature, which, in the different kingdoms, represent
life, birth, growth, death and the resurrection of beings, are
preferred. Such are the germination and the growth of plants, the phases
of the course of the sun, the succession of the seasons, the phenomena
of the increase and decrease of the Nile, etc. Here, because of the real
resemblance and of natural analogies, the fantastic is abandoned. One
observes a more intelligent choice of symbolic forms. There is an
imagination which already knows how to regulate itself and to control
itself—which shows more of calmness and reason.
Here then appears a higher conciliation of idea and form, and at the
same time an extraordinary tendency towards art, an irresistible
inclination which is satisfied in a manner wholly symbolic, but superior
to the previous modes. It is the proper tendency towards art, and
principally towards the figurative arts. Hence the necessity of finding
and fashioning a form, an emblem which may express the idea and may be
subordinated to it; of creating a work which may reveal to spirit a
general conception; of presenting a spectacle which may show that these
forms have been chosen for the purpose of expressing profound ideas.
This emblematic or symbolic combination can be effected in various ways.
The most abstract expression is number. The symbolism of numbers plays a
very important part in Egyptian art. The sacred numbers recur
unceasingly in flights of steps, columns, etc. There are, moreover,
symbolic figures traced in space, the windings of the labyrinth, the
sacred dances which represent the movements of the heavenly bodies. In a
higher grade is placed the human form, already moulded to a higher
perfection than in India. A general symbol sums up the principal idea;
it is the phœnix, which consumes itself and rises from its ashes.
In the myths which serve for the transition, as those of Asia Minor—in
the myth of Adonis mourned by Venus; in that of Castor and Pollux, and
in the fable of Proserpine, this idea of death and resurrection is very
apparent.
It is Egypt, above all, which has symbolized this idea. Egypt is the
land of the symbol. However, the problems are not resolved. The enigmas
of Egyptian art were enigmas to the Egyptians themselves.
However this may be in the East, the Egyptians, among eastern nations,
are the truly artistic people. They show an indefatigable activity in
satisfying that longing for symbolic representation which torments them.
But their monuments remain mysterious and mute. The spirit has not yet
found the form which is appropriate to it; it does not yet know how to
speak the clear and intelligible language of spirit. “They were, above
all, an architectural people; they excavated the soil, scooped out
lakes, and, with their instinct of art, elevated gigantic structures
into the light of day, and executed under the soil works equally
immense. It was the occupation, the life of this people, which covered
the land with monuments, nowhere else in so great quantity and under
forms so varied.”
If we wish to characterize in a more precise manner the monuments of
Egyptian art, and to penetrate the sense of them, we discover the
following aspects:
In the first place, the principal idea, the idea of death, is conceived
as a “moment” of the life of spirit, not as a principle of evil; this is
the opposite of the Persian dualism. Nor is there an absorption of
beings into the universal Being, as in the Indian religion. The
invisible preserves its existence and its personality; it preserves even
its physical form. Hence the embalmings, the worship of the dead.
Moreover, the imagination is lifted higher than this visible duration.
Among the Egyptians, for the first time, appears the clear distinction
of soul and body, and the dogma of immortality. This idea, nevertheless,
is still imperfect, for they accord an equal importance to the duration
of the body and that of the soul.
Such is the conception which serves as a foundation for Egyptian art,
and which betrays itself under a multitude of symbolic forms. It is in
this idea that we must seek the meaning of the works of Egyptian
architecture. Two worlds—the world of the living and that of the dead;
two architectures—the one on the surface of the ground, the other
subterranean. The labyrinths, the tombs, and, above all, the pyramids,
represent this idea.
The pyramid, image of symbolic art, is a species of envelope, cut in
crystalline form, which conceals a mystic object, an invisible being.
Hence, also, the exterior, superstitious side of worship, an excess
difficult to escape, the adoration of the divine principle in animals, a
gross worship which is no longer even symbolic.
Hieroglyphic writing, another form of Egyptian art, is itself in great
part symbolic, since it makes ideas known by images borrowed from
nature, and which have some analogy with those ideas.
But a defect betrays itself, especially in the representations of the
human form. In fact, though a mysterious and spiritual force is there
revealed, it is not true personality. The internal principle fails;
action and impulse come from without. Such are the statues of Memnon,
which are animate, have a voice, and give forth a sound, only when
struck by the rays of the sun. It is not the human voice which comes
from within—an echo of the soul. This free principle which animates the
human form, remains here concealed, wrapped up, mute, without proper
spontaneity, and is only animated under the influence of nature.
A superior form is that of the Myth of Osiris, the Egyptian god, _par
excellence_—that god who is engendered, born, dies and is resuscitated.
In this myth, which offers various significations, physical, historical,
moral, and religious or metaphysical, is shown the superiority of these
conceptions over those of Indian art.
In general, in Egyptian art, there is revealed a profounder, more
spiritual, and more moral character. The human form is no longer a
simple, abstract personification. Religion and art attempt to
spiritualize themselves; they do not attain their object, but they catch
sight of it and aspire to it. From this imperfection arises the absence
of freedom in the human form. The human figure still remains without
expression, colossal, serious, rigid. Thus is explained those attitudes
of the Egyptian statues, the arms stiff, pressed against the body,
without grace, without movement, and without life, but absorbed in
profound thought, and full of seriousness.
Hence also the complication of the elements and symbols, which are
intermingled and reflected the one in the other; a thing which indicates
the freedom of spirit, but also an absence of clearness and
definiteness. Hence the obscure, enigmatic character of those symbols,
which always cause scholars to despair—enigmas to the Egyptians
themselves. These emblems involve a multitude of profound meanings. They
remain there as a testimony of fruitless efforts of spirit to comprehend
itself, a symbolism full of mysteries, a vast enigma represented by a
symbol which sums up all these enigmas—the sphinx. This enigma Egypt
will propose to Greece, who herself will make of it the problems of
religion and philosophy. The sense of this enigma, never solved, and yet
always solving, is “Man, _know thyself_.”—Such is the maxim which Greece
inscribed on the front of her temples, the problem which she presented
to her sages as the very end of wisdom.
4. _Hebrew Poetry._—In this review of the different forms of art and of
worship among the different nations of the east, mention should be made
of a religion which is characterized precisely by the rejection of all
symbol, and in this respect is little favorable to art, but whose poetry
bears the impress of grandeur and sublimity. And thus Hegel designates
Hebrew Poetry by the title of _Art of the Sublime_. At the same time he
casts a glance upon Mahometan pantheism, which also proscribes images,
and banishes from its temples every figurative representation of the
Divinity.
The sublime, as Kant has well described it, is the attempt to express
the infinite in the finite, without finding any sensuous form which is
capable of representing it. It is the infinite, manifested under a form
which, making clear this opposition, reveals the immeasurable grandeur
of the infinite as surpassing all representation in finite forms.
Now, here, two points of view are to be distinguished. Either the
infinite is the Absolute Being conceived by thought, as the immanent
substance of things, or it is the Infinite Being as distinct from the
beings of the real world, but elevating itself above them by the entire
distance which separates it from the finite, so that, compared with it,
they are only pure nothing. God is thus purified from all contact, from
all participation with sensuous existence, which disappears and is
annihilated in his presence.
To the first point of view corresponds oriental pantheism. God is there
conceived as the absolute Being, immanent in objects the most diverse,
in the sun, the sea, the rivers, the trees, etc.
A conception like this cannot be expressed by the figurative arts, but
only by poetry. Where pantheism is pure, it admits no sensuous
representation and proscribes images. We find this pantheism in India.
All the superior gods of the Indian mythology are absorbed in the
Absolute unity, or in Brahm. Oriental pantheism is developed in a more
formal and brilliant manner in Mahometanism, and in particular among the
Persian Mahometans.
But the truly sublime is that which is represented by Hebrew poetry.
Here, for the first time, God appears truly as Spirit, as the invisible
Being in opposition to nature. On the other side, the entire universe,
in spite of the richness and magnificence of its phenomena, compared
with the Being supremely great, is nothing by itself. Simple creation of
God, subject to his power, it only exists to manifest and glorify him.
Such is the idea which forms the ground of that poetry, the
characteristic of which is sublimity. In the beautiful the idea pierces
through the external reality of which it is the soul, and forms with it
a harmonious unity. In the sublime, the visible reality, where the
Infinite is manifested, is abased in its presence. This superiority,
this exaltation of the Infinite over the finite, the infinite distance
which separates them, is what the art of the sublime should express. It
is religious art—preëminently, sacred art; its unique design is to
celebrate the glory of God. This rôle, poetry alone can fill.
The prevailing idea of Hebrew poetry is God as master of the world, God
in his independent existence and pure essence, inaccessible to sense and
to all sensuous representation which does not correspond to his
grandeur. God is the Creator of the universe. All gross ideas concerning
the generation of beings give place to that of a spiritual creation:
“Let there be light, and there was light.” That sentence indicates a
creation by word—expression of thought and of will.
Creation then takes a new aspect, nature and man are no longer deified.
To the infinite is clearly opposed the finite, which is no longer
confounded with the divine principle as in the symbolic conceptions of
other peoples. Situations and events are delineated more clearly. The
characters assume a more fixed and precise meaning. They are human
figures which offer no more anything fantastic and strange; they are
perfectly intelligible and accessible to us.
On the other side, in spite of his powerlessness and his nothingness,
man obtains here freer and more independent place than in other
religions. The immutable character of the divine will gives birth to the
idea of law to which man must be subject. His conduct becomes
enlightened, fixed, regular. The perfect distinction of human and
divine, of finite and infinite, brings in that of good and evil, and
permits an enlightened choice. Merit and demerit is the consequence of
it. To live according to justice in the fulfilment of law is the end of
human existence, and it places man in direct communication with God.
Here is the principle and explanation of his whole life, of his
happiness and his misery. The events of life are considered as
blessings, as recompenses, or as trials and chastisements.
Here also appears the miracle. Elsewhere, all was prodigious, and, by
consequence, nothing was miraculous. The miracle supposes a regular
succession, a constant order, and an interruption of that order. But the
whole entire creation is a perpetual miracle, designed for the
glorification and praise of God.
Such are the ideas which are expressed with so much splendor, elevation
and poetry, in the Psalms—classic examples of the truly sublime—in the
Prophets, and the sacred books in general. This recognition of the
nothingness of things, of the greatness and omnipotence of God, of the
unworthiness of man in his presence, the complaints, the lamentations,
the outcry of the soul towards God, constitute their pathos and their
sublimity.
Of the Reflex Symbol.
_Fable, Apologue, Allegory, etc._—We have run over the different forms
which symbolism presents among the different people of the East, and we
have seen it disappear in the sublime, which places the infinite so far
above the finite that it can no longer be represented by sensuous forms,
but only celebrated in its grandeur and its power.
Before passing to another epoch of art, Hegel points out, as a
transition from the oriental symbol to the Greek ideal, a mixed form
whose basis is _comparison_. This form, which also belongs principally
to the East, is manifested in different kinds of poetry, such as _the
fable_, _the apologue_, _the proverb_, _allegory_, and _comparison_,
properly so-called.
The author develops in the following manner the nature of this form and
the place which he assigns to it in the development of art:
In the symbol, properly so-called, the idea and the form, although
distinct and even opposed, as in the sublime, are reunited by an
essential and necessary tie; the two elements are not strangers to one
another, and the spirit seizes the relation immediately. Now the
separation of the two terms, which has already its beginning in the
symbol, ought also to be clearly effected, and find its place in the
development of art. And as spirit works no longer spontaneously, but
with reflection, it is also in a reflective manner that it brings the
two terms together. This form of art, whose basis is comparison, may be
called the _reflexive symbolic_ in opposition to the _irreflexive_
symbolic, whose principal forms we have studied.
Thus, in this form of art, the connection of the two elements is no
more, as heretofore, a connection founded upon the nature of the idea;
it is more or less the result of an artificial combination which depends
upon the will of the poet, or his vigor of imagination, and on his
genius, for invention. Sometimes it starts from a sensuous phenomenon to
which he lends a spiritual meaning, an idea, by making use of some
analogy. Sometimes it is an idea which he seeks to clothe with a
sensuous form, or with an image, by a certain resemblance.
This mode of conception is clear but superficial. In the East it plays a
distinct part, or appears to prevail as one of the characteristic traits
of oriental thought. Later, in the grand composition of classic or
romantic poetry, it is subordinated; it furnishes ornaments and
accessories, allegories, images and metaphors; it constitutes secondary
varieties.
Hegel then divides this form of art, and classes the varieties to which
it gives rise. He distinguishes, for this purpose, two points of view:
first, the case when the sensuous fact is presented first to spirit, and
spirit afterwards gives it a signification, as in the _fable_, the
_parable_, the _apologue_, the _proverb_, the _metamorphoses_; second,
the case where, on the other hand, it is the idea which appears first to
the spirit, and the poet afterwards seeks to adapt to it an image, a
sensuous form, by way of comparison. Such are the _enigma_, the
_allegory_, the _metaphor_, the _image_, and the _comparison_.
We shall not follow the author in the developments which he thinks
necessary to give to the analysis of each of these inferior forms of
poetry or art.[2]
II. Of Classic Art.
The aim of art is to represent the ideal, that is to say, the perfect
accord of the two elements of the beautiful, the idea and the sensuous
form. Now this object symbolic art endeavors vainly to attain. Sometimes
it is nature with its blind force which forms the ground of its
representations; sometimes it is the spiritual Being, which it conceives
in a vague manner, and which it personifies in inferior divinities.
Between the idea and the form there is revealed a simple affinity, an
external correspondence. The attempt to reconcile them makes clearer the
opposition; or art, in wishing to express spirit, only creates obscure
enigmas. Everywhere there is betrayed the absence of true personality
and of freedom. For these are able to unfold, only with the clear
consciousness of itself that spirit achieves. We have met, it is true,
this idea of the nature of spirit as opposed to the sensuous world,
clearly expressed in the religion and poetry of the Hebrew people. But
what is born of this opposition is not the Beautiful, it is the Sublime.
A living sentiment of personality is further manifest in the East, in
the Arabic race. In the scorching deserts, in the midst of free space,
it has ever been distinguished by this trait of independence and
individuality, which betrays itself by hatred of the stranger, thirst
for vengeance, a deliberate cruelty, also by love, by greatness of soul
and devotion, and, above all, by passion for adventure. This race is
also distinguished by a mind free and clear, ingenious and full of
subtlety, lively, brilliant—of which it has given so many proofs in the
arts and sciences. But we have here only a superficial side, devoid of
profundity and universality; it is not true personality supported on a
solid basis, on a knowledge of the spirit and of the moral nature.
All these elements, separate or united, cannot, then, present the Ideal.
They are antecedents, conditions, and materials, and, together, offer
nothing which corresponds to the idea of real beauty. This ideal beauty
we shall find realized, for the first time, among the Greek race and in
Classic art, which we now propose to characterize.
In order that the two elements of beauty may be perfectly harmonized, it
is necessary that the first, the idea, be the spirit itself, possessed
of the consciousness of its nature and of its free personality. If one
is then asked, what is the form which corresponds to this idea, which
expresses the personal, individual spirit, the only answer is, _the
human form_, for it alone is capable of manifesting spirit.
Classic art, which represents free spirituality under an individual
form, is then necessarily anthropomorphic. Anthropomorphism is its very
essence, and we shall do it wrong to make of this a reproach. Christian
art and the Christian religion are themselves anthropomorphic, and this
they are in a still higher degree since God made himself really man,
since Christ is not a mere divine personification conceived by the
imagination, since he is both truly God and truly man. He passed through
all the phases of earthly existence; he was born, he suffered, and he
died. In classic art sensuous nature does not die, but it has no
resurrection. Thus this religion does not fully satisfy the human soul.
The Greek ideal has for basis an unchangeable harmony between the spirit
and the sensuous form, the unalterable serenity of the immortal gods;
but this calm is somewhat frigid and inanimate. Classic art did not take
in the true essence of the divine nature, nor penetrate the depths of
the soul. It could not unveil the innermost powers in their opposition,
or re-establish their harmony. All this phase of existence, wickedness,
misfortune, moral suffering, the revolt of the will, gnawings and
rendings of the soul, were unknown to it. It did not pass beyond the
proper domain of sensuous beauty; but it represented it perfectly.
This ideal of classic beauty was realized by the Greeks. The most
favorable conditions for unfolding it were found combined among them.
The geographical position, the genius of that people, its moral
character, its political life, all could not but aid the accomplishment
of that idea of classic beauty, whose characteristics are proportion,
measure, and harmony. Placed between Asia and Europe, Greece realized
the accord of personal liberty and public manners, of the State and the
individual, of spirit general and particular. Its genius, a mixture of
spontaneity and reflection, presented an equal fusion of contraries. The
feeling of this auspicious harmony pierces through all the productions
of the Greek mind. It was the moment of youth in the life of humanity—a
fleeting age, a moment unique and irrevocable, like that of beauty in
the individual.
Art attains then the culminating point of sensuous beauty under the form
of plastic individuality. The worship of the Beautiful is the entire
life of the Greek race. Thus religion and art are identified. All forms
of Greek civilization are subordinate to art.
It is important here to determine the new position of the artist in the
production of works of art.
Art appears here not as a production of nature, but as a creation of the
individual spirit. It is the work of a free spirit which is conscious of
itself, which is self-possessed, which has nothing vague or obscure in
its thought, and finds itself hindered by no technical difficulty.
This new position of the Greek artist manifests itself in content, form,
and technical skill.
With regard to the content, or the ideas which it ought to represent, in
opposition to symbolic art, where the spirit gropes and seeks without
power to arrive at a clear notion, the artist finds the idea already
made in the dogma, the popular faith, and a complete, precise idea, of
which he renders to himself an account. Nevertheless, he does not
enslave himself with it; he accepts it, but reproduces it freely. The
Greek artists received their subjects from the popular religion; which
was an idea originally transmitted from the East, but already
transformed in the consciousness of the people. They, in their turn,
transformed it into the sense of the beautiful; they both reproduced and
created it.
But it is above all upon the form that this free activity concentrates
and exercises itself. While symbolic art wearies itself in seeking a
thousand extraordinary forms to represent its ideas, having neither
measure nor fixed rule, the Greek artist confines himself to his
subject, the limits of which he respects. Then between the content and
the form he establishes a perfect harmony, for, in elaborating the form,
he also perfects the content. He frees them both from useless
accessories, in order to adapt the one to the other. Henceforth he is
not checked by an immovable and traditional type; he perfects the whole;
for content and form are inseparable; he develops both in the serenity
of inspiration.
As to the technical element, ability combined with inspiration belongs
to the classic artist in the highest degree. Nothing restrains or
embarrasses him. Here are no hindrances as in a stationary religion,
where the forms are consecrated by usage; in Egypt, for example. And
this ability is always increasing. Progress in the processes of art is
necessary to the realization of pure beauty, and the perfect execution
of works of genius.
After these general considerations upon classic art, Hegel studies it
more in detail. He considers it 1st, in its development; 2d, in itself,
as realization of the ideal; 3d, in the causes which have produced its
downfall.
1. In what concerns the development of Greek art, the author dwells long
upon the history and progress of mythology. This is because religion and
art are confused. The central point of Greek art is Olympus and its
beautiful divinities.
The following are what are, according to Hegel, the principal stages of
the development of art, and of the Greek mythology.
The first stage of progress consists in a reaction against the Symbolic
form, which it is interested in destroying. The Greek Gods came from the
East; the Greeks borrowed their divinities from foreign religions. On
the other hand, we can say they invented them: for invention does not
exclude borrowing. They transformed the ideas contained in the anterior
traditions. Now upon what had this transformation any bearing? In it is
the history of polytheism and antique art, which follows a parallel
course, and is inseparable from it.
The Grecian divinities are, first of all, moral personages invested with
the human form. The first development consists, then, in rejecting those
gross symbols, which, in the oriental naturalism, form the object of
worship, and which disfigure the representations of art. This progress
is marked by the degradation of the animal kingdom. It is clearly
indicated in a great number of ceremonies and fables of polytheism, by
sacrifices of animals, sacred hunts, and many of the exploits attributed
to heroes, in particular the labors of Hercules. Some of the fables of
Æsop have the same meaning. The metamorphoses of Ovid are also
disfigured myths, or fables become burlesque, of which the content, easy
to be recognized, contains the same idea.
This is the opposite of the manner in which the Egyptians considered
animals. Nature, here, in place of being venerated and adored, is
lowered and degraded. To wear an animal form is no longer deification;
it is the punishment of a monstrous crime. The gods themselves are
shamed by such a form, and they assume it only to satisfy the passions
of the sensual nature. Such is the signification of many of the fables
of Jupiter, as those of Danaë, of Europa, of Leda, of Ganymede. The
representation of the generative principle in nature, which constitutes
the content of the ancient mythologies, is here changed into a series of
histories where the father of gods and men plays a rôle but little
edifying, and frequently ridiculous. Finally, all that part of religion
which relates to sensual desires is crowded into the background, and
represented by subordinate divinities: Circe, who changes men into
swine; Pan, Silenus, the Satyrs and the Fauns. The human form
predominates, the animal being barely indicated by ears, by little
horns, etc.
Another advance is to be noted in the _oracles_. The phenomena of
nature, in place of being an object of admiration and worship, are only
signs by which the gods make known their will to mortals. These
prophetic signs become more and more simple, till at last it is, above
all, the voice of man which is the organ of the oracle. The oracle is
ambiguous, so that the man who receives it is obliged to interpret it,
to blend his reason with it. In dramatic art, for example, man does not
act solely by himself; he consults the gods, he obeys their will; but
his will is confounded with theirs; a place is reserved for his liberty.
The distinction between the _old_ and the _new_ divinities marks still
more this progress of moral liberty. Among the former, who personify the
powers of nature, a gradation is already established. In the first
place, the untamed and lower powers, Chaos, Tartarus, Erebus; then
Uranus, Gea, the Giants and the Titans; in a higher rank, Prometheus, at
first the friend of the new gods, the benefactor of men, then punished
by Jupiter for that apparent beneficence; an inconsequence which is
explained through this, that if Prometheus taught industry to men, he
created an occasion of discords and dissensions, by not giving them
instruction more elevated,—morality, the science of government, the
guarantees of property. Such is the profound sense of that myth, and
Plato thus explains it in his dialogues.
Another class of divinities equally ancient, but already ethical,
although they recall the fatality of the physical laws, are the
Eumenides, Dice, and the Furies. We see appearing here the ideas of
right and justice, but of exclusive, absolute, strict, unconscious
right, under the form of an implacable vengeance, or, like the ancient
Nemesis, of a power which abases all that is high, and re-establishes
equality by levelling; a thing which is the opposite of true justice.
Finally, this development of the classic ideal reveals itself more
clearly in the _theogony_ and _genealogy_ of the gods, in their origin
and their succession, by the abasement of the divinities of the previous
races; in the hostility which flashes out between them, in the
resolution which has carried away the sovereignty from the old to place
it in the hands of the new divinities. Meanwhile the distinction
develops itself to the point of engendering strife, and the conflict
becomes the principal event of mythology.
This conflict is that of nature and spirit, and it is the law of the
world. Under the historic form, it is the perfecting of human nature,
the successive conquest of rights and property, the amelioration of laws
and of the political constitution. In the religious representations, it
is the triumph of the moral divinities over the powers of nature.
This combat is announced as the grandest catastrophe in the history of
the world: moreover, this is not the subject of a particular myth; it is
the principal, decisive fact, which constitutes the centre of this
mythology.
The conclusion of all this in respect to the history of art and to the
development of the ideal, is that art ought to act like mythology, and
reject as unworthy all that is purely physical or animal, that which is
confused, fantastic, or obscure, all gross mingling of the material and
the spiritual. All these creations of an ill-regulated imagination find
here no more place; they must flee before the light of the Soul. Art
purifies itself of all caprice, fancy, or symbolic accessory, of every
vague and confused idea.
In like manner, the new gods form an organized and established world.
This unity affirms and perfects itself more in the later developments of
plastic art and poetry.
Nevertheless, the old elements, driven back by the accession of moral
forces, preserve a place at their side, or are combined with them. Such
is, for example, the significance and the aim of the mysteries.
In the new divinities, who are ethical persons, there remains also an
echo, a reflex of the powers of nature. They present, consequently, a
combination of the physical and the ethical element, but the first is
subordinate to the second. Thus, Neptune is the sea, but he is besides
invoked as the god of navigation and the founder of cities; Apollo is
the Sun, the god of light, but he is also the god of spiritual light, of
science and of the oracles. In Jupiter, Diana, Hercules, and Venus, it
is easy to discover the physical side combined with the moral sense.
Thus, in the new divinities, the elements of nature, after having been
debased and degraded, reappear and are preserved. This is also true of
the forms of the animal kingdom; but the symbolic sense is more and more
lost. They figure no longer as accessories combined with the human form;
but are reduced to mere emblems or attributes—indicating signs, as the
eagle by the side of Jupiter, the peacock before Juno, the dove near
Venus, where the principal myth is no more than an accidental fact, of
little importance in the life of the god, and which, abandoned to the
imagination of the poets, becomes the text of licentious histories.
2. After having considered the development of the ideal in Greek art, a
development parallel to that of religion and mythology, we have to
consider it in its principal characteristics, such as it has emanated
from the creative activity or from the imagination of the poet and the
artist.
This mythology has its origin in the previous religions, but its gods
are the creation of Homer and Hesiod. Tradition furnished the materials;
but the idea which each god ought to represent, and, besides, the form
which expresses it in its purity and simplicity—this is what was not
given. This ideal type the poets drew from their genius, discovering
also the true form which befitted it. Thereby they were creators of that
mythology which we admire in Greek art, and which is confounded with it.
The Greek gods have no less their origin in the spirit and the credences
of the Greek people, and in the national belief; the poets were the
interpreters of the general thought, of what there was most elevated in
the imagination of the people. Henceforth, the artist, as we have seen
above, takes a position wholly different from that which he held in the
East. His inspiration is personal. His work is that of a free
imagination, creating according to its own conceptions. The inspiration
does not come from without; what they reveal is the ideas of the human
spirit, what there is deepest in the heart of man. Also, the artists are
truly poets; they fashion, according to their liking, the content and
the form, in order to draw from them free and original figures.
Tradition is shorn, in their hands, of all that is gross, symbolic,
repulsive, and deformed; they eliminate the idea which they wish to
illustrate, and individualize it under the human form. Such is the
manner, free, though not arbitrary, in which the Greek artists proceed
in the creation of their works.
They are poets, but also prophets and diviners. They represent human
actions in divine actions, and, reciprocally, without having the clear
and decided distinctions. They maintain the union, the accord, of the
human and the divine. Such is the significance of the greater part of
the apparitions of the gods in Homer, when the gods, for example,
consult the heroes, or interfere in the combats.
Meanwhile, if we wish to understand the _nature of this ideal_, to
determine, in a more precise manner, the character of the divinities of
Greek art, the following remarks are suggested, considering them, at the
same time, on the _general_, the _particular_, and the _individual_
sides.
The first attribute which distinguishes them is something general,
substantial. The immortal gods are strangers to the miseries and to the
agitations of human existence. They enjoy an unalterable calmness and
serenity, from which they derive their repose and their majesty. They
are not, however, vague abstractions, universal and purely ideal
existences. To this character of generality is joined individuality.
Each divinity has his traits and proper physiognomy, his particular
rôle, his sphere of activity, determined and limited. A just measure,
moreover, is here observed: the two elements, the general and the
individual, are in perfect accord.
At the same time, this moral character is manifested under an external
and corporeal form itself, its most perfect expression, in which appears
the harmonious fusion of the external form with the internal principle
animating it.
This physical form, as well as the spiritual principle which is
manifested in it, is freed from all the accidents of material life, and
from the miseries of finite existence. It is the human body with its
beautiful proportions and their harmony; all announces beauty, liberty,
grace. It is thus that this form, in its purity, corresponds to the
spiritual and divine principle which is incarnate in it. Hence the
nobleness, the grandeur, and the elevation of those figures, which have
nothing in common with the wants of material life, and seem elevated
above their bodily existence. They are immortal divinities with human
features. The body, in spite of its beauty, appears as a superfluous
appendage; and, nevertheless, it is an animated and living form which
presents the indestructible harmony of the two principles, the soul and
the body.
But a contradiction presents itself between the spirit and the material
form. This harmonious whole conceals a principle of destruction which
will make itself felt more and more. We may perceive in these figures an
air of sadness in the midst of greatness. Though absorbed in themselves,
calm and serene, they lack freedom from care and inward satisfaction;
something cold and impassive is found in their features, especially if
we compare them with the vivacity of modern sentiment. This divine
peace, this indifference to all that is mortal and transient, forms a
contrast with the moral greatness and the corporeal form. These placid
divinities complain both of their felicity and of their physical
existence. We read upon their features the destiny which weighs them
down.
Now, what is the particular art most appropriate to represent this
ideal? Evidently it is _sculpture_. It alone is capable of showing us
those ideal figures in their eternal repose, of expressing the perfect
harmony of the spiritual principle and the sensuous form. To it has been
confided the mission of realizing this ideal in its purity, its
greatness, and its perfection.
Poetry, above all, dramatic poetry, which makes the gods act, and draws
them into strife and combat contrary to their greatness and their
dignity, is much less capable of answering this purpose.
If we consider these divinities in their particular, and no longer in
their general character, we see that they form a plurality, a whole, a
totality, which is _polytheism_. Each particular god, while having his
proper and original character, is himself a complete whole; he also
possesses the distinctive qualities of the other divinities. Hence the
richness of these characters. It is for this reason that the Greek
polytheism does not present a systematic whole. Olympus is composed of a
multitude of distinct gods, who do not form an established hierarchy.
Rank is not rigorously fixed, whence the liberty, the serenity, the
independence of the personages. Without this apparent contradiction, the
divinities would be embarrassed by one another, shackled in their
development and power. In place of being true persons, they would be
only allegorical beings, or personified abstractions.
As to their sensuous representation, sculpture is, moreover, the art
best adapted to express this particular characteristic of the nature of
the gods. By combining with immovable grandeur the individuality of
features peculiar to each of them, it fixes in their statues the most
perfect expression of their character, and determines its definite form.
Sculpture, here again, is more ideal than poetry. It offers a more
determined and fixed form, while poetry mingles with it a crowd of
actions, of histories and accidental particulars. Sculpture creates
absolute and eternal models; it has fixed the type of true, classic
beauty, which is the basis of all other productions of Greek genius, and
is here the central point of art.
But in order to represent the gods in their true _individuality_, it
does not suffice to distinguish them by certain particular attributes.
Moreover, classic art does not confine itself to representing these
personages as immovable and self-absorbed; it shows them also in
movement and in action. The character of the gods then particularizes
itself, and exhibits the special features of which the physiognomy of
each god is composed. This is the accidental, positive, historic side,
which figures in mythology and also in art, as an accessory but
necessary element.
These materials are furnished by history or fable. They are the
antecedents, the local particulars, which give to the gods their living
individuality and originality. Some are borrowed from the symbolic
religions, which preserve a vestige thereof in the new creation; the
symbolic element is absorbed in the new myth. Others have a national
origin, which, again, is connected with heroic times and foreign
traditions. Others, finally, spring from local circumstances, relating
to the propagation of the myths, to their formation, to the usages and
ceremonies of worship, etc. All these materials fashioned by art, give
to the Greek gods the appearance, the interest, and the charm, of living
humanity. But this traditional side, which in its origin had a symbolic
sense, loses it little by little; it is designed only to complete the
individuality of the gods, to give to them a more human and more
sensuous form, to add, through details frequently unworthy of divine
majesty, the side of the arbitrary and accidental. Sculpture, which
represents the pure ideal, ought, without wholly excluding it in fact,
to allow it to appear as little as possible; it represents it as
accessory in the head-dress, the arms, the ornaments, the external
attributes. Another source for the more precise determination of the
character of the gods is their intervention in the actions and
circumstances of human life. Here the imagination of the poet expands
itself as an inexhaustible source in a crowd of particular histories, of
traits of character and actions, attributed to the gods. The problem of
art consists in combining, in a natural and living manner, the actions
of divine personages and human actions, in such a manner that the gods
appear as the general cause of what man himself accomplishes. The gods,
thus, are the internal principles which reside in the depths of the
human soul; its own passions, in so far as they are elevated, and its
personal thought; or it is the necessity of the situation, the force of
circumstances, from whose fatal action man suffers. It is this which
pierces through all the situations where Homer causes the gods to
intervene, and through the manner in which they influence events.
But through this side, the gods of classic art abandon, more and more,
the silent serenity of the ideal, to descend into the multiplicity of
individual situations, of actions, and into the conflict of human
passions. Classic art thus finds itself drawn to the last degree of
individualization; it falls into the agreeable and the graceful. The
divine is absorbed in the finite which is addressed exclusively to the
sensibility and no longer satisfies thought. Imagination and art,
seizing this side and exaggerating it more and more, corrupt religion
itself. The severe ideal gives place to merely sensuous beauty and
harmony; it removes itself more and more from the eternal ideas which
form the ground of religion and art, and these are dragged down to ruin.
3. In fact, independently of the external causes which have occasioned
the _decadence_ of Greek art and precipitated its downfall, many
internal causes, in the very nature of the Greek ideal, rendered that
downfall inevitable. In the first place, the Greek gods, as we have
seen, bear in themselves the germ of their destruction, and the defect
which they conceal is unveiled by the representations of classic art
itself. The plurality of the gods and their diversity makes them already
accidental existences; this multiplicity cannot satisfy reason. Thought
dissolves them and makes them return to a single divinity. Moreover, the
gods do not remain in their eternal repose; they enter into action, take
part in the interests, in the passions, and mingle in the collisions of
human life. The multitude of relations in which they are engaged, as
actors in this drama, destroys their divine majesty; contradicts their
grandeur, their dignity, their beauty. In the true ideal itself, that of
sculpture, we observe something, the inanimate, impassive, cold, a
serious air of silent mournfulness, which indicates that something
higher weighs them down—destiny, supreme unity, blind divinity, the
immutable fate to which gods and men are alike subject.
But the principal cause is, that absolute necessity making no integral
part of their personality, and being foreign to them, the particular
individual side is no longer restrained in its downward course; it is
developed more and more without hindrance and without limit. They suffer
themselves to be drawn into the external accidents of human life, and
fall into all the imperfections of anthropomorphism. Hence the ruin of
these beautiful divinities of art is inevitable. The moral consciousness
turns away from them and rejects them. The gods, it is true, are ethical
persons, but under the human and corporeal form. Now, true morality
appears only in the conscience, and under a purely spiritual form. The
point of view of the beautiful is neither that of religion nor that of
morality. The infinite, invisible spirituality is the divine for the
religious consciousness. For the moral consciousness, the good is an
idea, a conception, an obligation, which commands the sacrifice of
sense. It is in vain, then, to be enthusiastic over Greek art and
beauty, to admire those beautiful divinities. The soul does not
recognize herself wholly in the object of her contemplation or her
worship. What she conceives as the true ideal is a God, spiritual,
infinite, absolute, personal, endowed with moral qualities, with
justice, goodness, etc.
It is this whose image the gods of Greek polytheism, in spite of their
beauty, do not present us.
As to the _transition_ from the Greek mythology to a new religion and a
new art, it could no longer be effected in the domain of the
imagination. In the origin of Greek art, the transition appears under
the form of a conflict between the old and the new gods, in the very
domain of art and imagination. Here it is upon the more serious
territory of history that this revolution is accomplished. The new idea
appears, not as a revelation of art, nor under the form of myth and of
fable, but in history itself, by the course of events, by the appearance
of God himself upon earth, where he was born, lived, and arose from the
dead. Here is a field of ideas which Art did not invent, and which it
finds too high for it. The gods of classic art have existence only in
the imagination; they were visible only in stone and wood; they were not
both flesh and spirit. This real existence of God in flesh and spirit,
Christianity, for the first time, showed in the life and actions of a
God present among men. This transition cannot, then, be accomplished in
the domain of art, because the God of revealed religion is the real and
living God. Compared with him, his adversaries are only imaginary
beings, who cannot be taken seriously and meet him on the field of
history. The opposition and conflict cannot, then, present the character
of a serious strife, and be represented as such by Art or Poetry.
Therefore, always, whenever any one has attempted to make of this
subject, among moderns, a poetic theme, he has done it in an impious and
frivolous manner, as in “The War of the Gods,” by Parny.
On the other hand, it would be useless to regret, as has been frequently
done in prose and in verse, the loss of the Greek ideal and pagan
mythology, as being more favorable to art and poetry than the Christian
faith, to which is granted a higher moral verity, while it is regarded
as inferior in respect to art and the Beautiful.
Christianity has a poetry and an art of its own; an ideal essentially
different from the Greek ideal and art. Here all parallel is
superficial. Polytheism is anthropomorphism. The gods of Greece are
beautiful divinities under the human form. As soon as reason has
comprehended God as Spirit and as Infinite Being, there appear other
ideas, other sentiments, other demands, which ancient art is incapable
of satisfying, to which it cannot attain, which call, consequently, for
a new art, a new poetry. Thus, regrets are superfluous; comparison has
no more any significance, it is only a text for declamation. What one
could object to seriously in Christianity, its tendencies to mysticism,
to asceticism, which, in fact, are hostile to art, are only
exaggerations of its principle. But the thought which constitutes the
ground of Christianity, and true Christian sentiment, far from being
opposed to art, are very favorable to it. Hence springs up a new art,
inferior, it is true, in certain respects, to antique art—in sculpture,
for example—but which is superior in other respects, as is its idea when
compared with the pagan idea.
In all this, we are making but a _resumé_ of the ideas of the author. We
must do him the justice to say, that wherever he speaks of Christian
art, he does it worthily, and exhibits a spirit free from all sectarian
prejudice.
If we cast, meanwhile, a glance at the external causes which have
brought about this decadence, it is easy to discover them in the
situations of ancient society, which prophesy the downfall of both art
and religion. We discover the vices of that social order where the state
was everything, the individual nothing by himself. This is the radical
vice of the Greek state. In such an identification of man and the state,
the rights of the individual are ignored. The latter, then, seeks to
open for himself a distinct and independent way, separates himself from
the public interest, pursues his own ends, and finally labors for the
ruin of the state. Hence the egoism which undermines this society little
by little, and the ever-increasing excesses of demagoguism.
On the other hand, there arises in the souls of the best a longing for a
higher freedom in a state organized upon the basis of justice and right.
In the meantime man falls back upon himself, and deserting the written
law, religious and civil, takes his conscience for the rule of his acts.
Socrates marks the advent of this idea. In Rome, in the last years of
the republic, there appears, among energetic spirits, this antagonism
and this detachment from society. Noble characters present to us the
spectacle of private virtues by the side of feebleness and corruption in
public morals.
This protest of moral consciousness against the increasing corruption
finds expression in art itself; it creates a form of poetry which
corresponds to it, _satire_.
According to Hegel, _satire_, in fact, belongs peculiarly to the Romans;
it is at least the distinctive and original characteristic, the salient
feature, of their poetry and literature. “The spirit of the Roman world
is the dominance of the dead letter, the destruction of beauty, the
absence of serenity in manners, the ebbing of the domestic and natural
affections—in general, the sacrifice of individuality, which devotes
itself to the state, the tranquil greatness in obedience to law. The
principle of this political virtue, in its frigid and austere rudeness,
subdued national individualities abroad, while at home the law was
developed with the same rigor and the same exactitude of forms, even to
the point of attaining perfection. But this principle was contrary to
true art. So one finds at Rome no art which presents a character of
beauty, of liberty, of grandeur. The Romans received and learned from
the Greeks sculpture, painting, music, epic lyric and dramatic poetry.
What is regarded as indigenous among them is the comic farces, the
_fescennines_ and _atellanes_. The Romans can claim as belonging to them
in particular only the forms of art which, in their principle, are
prosaic, such as the didactic poem. But before all we must place
satire.”
III. Of Romantic Art.
This expression, employed here to designate modern art, in its
opposition to Greek or classic art, bears nothing of the unfavorable
sense which it has in our language and literature, where it has become
the synonym of a liberty pushed even to license, and of a contempt for
all law. Romantic art, which, in its highest development, is also
Christian art, has laws and principles as necessary as classic art. But
the idea which it expresses being different, its conditions are also; it
obeys other rules, while observing those that are the basis of all art
and the very essence of the beautiful.
Hegel, in a general manner, thus characterizes this form of art,
contrasting it with antique art, the study of which we have just left.
In classic art, the spirit constitutes the content of the
representation; but it is combined with the sensuous or material form in
such a manner that it is harmonized perfectly with it, and does not
surpass it. Art reached its perfection when it accomplished this happy
accord, when the spirit idealized nature and made of it a faithful image
of itself. It is thus that classic art was the perfect representation of
the ideal, the reign of beauty.
But there is something higher than the beautiful manifestation of spirit
under the sensuous form. The spirit ought to abandon this accord with
nature, to retire into itself, to find the true harmony in its own
world, the spiritual world of the soul and the conscience. Now, that
development of the spirit, which not being able to satisfy itself in the
world of sense, seeks a higher harmony in itself, is the fundamental
principle of romantic art.
Here beauty of form is no longer the supreme thing; beauty, in this
sense, remains something inferior, subordinate; it gives place to the
spiritual beauty which dwells in the recesses of the soul, in the depths
of its infinite nature.
Now in order thus to take possession of itself, it is essential that
spirit have a consciousness of its relation to God, and of its union
with Him; that not only the divine principle reveal itself under a form
true and worthy of it, but that the human soul, on its part, lift itself
toward God, that it feel itself filled with His essence, that the
Divinity descend into the bosom of humanity. The anthropomorphism of
Greek thought ought to disappear, in order to give place to
anthropomorphism of a higher order.
Hence all the divinities of polytheism will be absorbed in a single
Deity. God has no longer anything in common with those individual
personages who had their attributes and their distinct rôles, and formed
a whole, free, although subject to destiny.
At the same time God does not remain shut up in the depths of his being;
he appears in the real world also; he opens his treasures and unfolds
them in creation. He is, notwithstanding, revealed less in nature than
in the moral world, or that of liberty. In fine, God is not an ideal,
created by the imagination; he manifests himself under the features of
living humanity.
If we compare, in this respect, romantic art with classic art, we see
that Sculpture no longer suffices to express this idea. We should vainly
seek in the image of the gods fashioned by sculpture that which
announces the true personality, the clear consciousness of self and
reflected will. In the external this defect is betrayed by the absence
of the eye, that mirror of the soul. Sculpture is deprived of the
glance, the ray of the soul emanating from within. On the other hand,
the spirit entering into relation with external objects, this immobility
of sculpture no longer responds to the longing for activity, which calls
for exercise in a more extended career. The representation ought to
embrace a vaster field of objects, and of physical and moral situations.
As to the manner in which this principle is developed and realized,
romantic art presents certain striking differences from antique art.
In the first place, as has been said, instead of the ideal divinities,
which exist only for the imagination, and are only human nature
idealized, it is God himself who makes himself man, and passes through
all the phases of human life, birth, suffering, death, and resurrection.
Such is the fundamental idea which art represents, even in the circle of
religion.
The result of this religious conception is to give also to art, as the
principal ground of its representations, strife, conflict, sorrow and
death, the profound grief which the nothingness of life, physical and
moral suffering, inspire. Is not all this, in fact, an essential part of
the history of the God-Man, who must be presented as a model to
humanity? Is it not the means of being drawn near to God, of resembling
him, and of being united to him? Man ought then to strip off his finite
nature, to renounce that which is a mere nothing, and, through this
negation of the real life, propose to himself the attainment of what God
realized in his mortal life.
The infinite sorrow of this sacrifice, this idea of suffering and of
death, which were almost banished from classic art, find, for the first
time, their necessary place in Christian art. Among the Greeks death has
no seriousness, because man attaches no great importance to his
personality and his spiritual nature. On the other hand, now that the
soul has an infinite value, death becomes terrible. Terror in the
presence of death and the annihilation of our being, is imprinted
strongly on our souls. So also among the Greeks, especially before the
time of Socrates, the idea of immortality was not profound; they
scarcely conceived of life as separable from physical existence. In the
Christian faith, on the contrary, death is only the resurrection of the
spirit, the harmony of the soul with itself, the true life. It is only
by freeing itself from the bonds of its earthly existence that it can
enter upon the possession of its true nature.
Such are the principal ideas which form the religious ground of romantic
or Christian Art. In spite of some explanations which recall the special
system of the author, one cannot deny that they are expressed with power
and truthfulness.
Meanwhile, beyond the religious sphere, there are developing certain
interests which belong to the mundane life, and which form also the
object of the representations of art; they are the passions, the
collisions, the joys and the sufferings which bear a terrestrial or
purely human character, but in which appear notwithstanding the very
principle which distinguishes modern thought, to-wit: a more vivid, more
energetic, and more profound sentiment of human _personality_, or, as
the author calls it, _subjectivity_.
Romantic art differs no less from classic art in the form or the mode of
representation, than in the ideas which constitute the content of its
works. And, in the first place, one necessary consequence of the
preceding principle is, the new point of view under which nature or the
physical world is viewed. The objects of nature lose their importance;
or, at least, they cease to be divine. They have neither the symbolic
signification which oriental art gave them, nor the particular aspect in
virtue of which they were animated and personified in Greek art and
mythology. Nature is effaced; she retires to a lower plane; the universe
is condensed to a single point, in the focus of the human soul. That,
absorbed in a single thought, the thought of uniting itself to God,
beholds the world vanish, or regards it with an indifferent eye. We see
also appearing a heroism wholly different from antique heroism, a
heroism of submission and resignation.
But, on the other hand, precisely through the very fact, that all is
concentrated in the focus of the human soul, the circle of ideas is
found to be infinitely enlarged. The interior history of the soul is
developed under a thousand diverse forms, borrowed from human life. It
beams forth, and art seizes anew upon nature, which serves as adornment
and as a theatre for the activity of the spirit. Hence the history of
the human heart becomes infinitely richer than it was in ancient art and
poetry. The increasing multitude of situations, of interests, and of
passions, forms a domain as much more vast as spirit has descended
farther into itself. All degrees, all phases of life, all humanity and
its developments, become inexhaustible material for the representations
of art.
Nevertheless, art occupies here only a secondary place; as it is
incapable of revealing the content of the dogma, religion constitutes
still more its essential basis. There is therefore preserved the
priority and superiority which faith claims over the conceptions of the
imagination.
From this there results an important consequence and a characteristic
difference for modern art. It is that in the representation of sensuous
forms, art no longer fears to admit into itself the real with its
imperfections and its faults. The beautiful is no longer the essential
thing; the ugly occupies a much larger place in its creations. Here,
then, vanishes that ideal beauty which elevates the forms of the real
world above the mortal condition, and replaces it with blooming youth.
This free vitality in its infinite calmness—this divine breath which
animates matter—romantic art has no longer, for essential aim, to
represent these. On the contrary, it turns its back on this culminating
point of classic beauty; it accords, indeed, to the ugly a limitless
rôle in its creations. It permits all objects to pass into
representation in spite of their accidental character. Nevertheless,
those objects which are indifferent or commonplace, have value only so
far as the sentiments of the soul are reflected in them. But at the
highest point of its development art expresses only spirit—pure,
invisible spirituality. We feel that it seeks to strip itself of all
external forms, to mount into a region superior to sense, where nothing
strikes the eye, where no sound longer vibrates upon the ear.
Furthermore, we can say, on comparing in this respect ancient with
modern art, that the fundamental trait of romantic or Christian art is
the musical element, the lyric accent in poetry. The lyric accent
resounds everywhere, even in epic and dramatic poetry. In the figurative
arts this characteristic makes itself felt, as a breath of the soul and
an atmosphere of feeling.
After having thus determined the general character of romantic art,
Hegel studies it more in detail; he considers it, successively, under a
two-fold point of view, the religious and the profane; he follows it in
its development, and points out the causes which have brought about its
decadence. He concludes by some considerations upon the present state of
art and its future.
Let us analyze rapidly the principal ideas contained in these chapters.
1st. As to what concerns the religious side, which we have thus far been
considering, Hegel, developing its principle, establishes a parallel
between the religious idea in classic and romantic art; for romantic art
has also its ideal, which, as we have seen already, differs essentially
from the antique idea.
Greek beauty shows the soul wholly identified with the corporeal form.
In romantic art beauty no more resides in the idealization of the
sensuous form, but in the soul itself. Undoubtedly one ought still to
demand a certain agreement between the reality and the idea; but the
determinate form is indifferent, it is not purified from all the
accidents of real existence. The immortal gods in presenting themselves
to our eyes under the human form, do not partake of its wants and
miseries. On the contrary, the God of Christian art is not a solitary
God, a stranger to the conditions of mortal life; he makes himself man,
and shares the miseries and the sufferings of humanity. The
representation of religious love is the most favorable subject for the
beautiful creations of Christian art.
Thus, in the first place, love in God is represented by the history of
Christ’s _redemption_, by the various phases of his life, of his
passion, of his death, and of his resurrection. In the second place,
love in man, the union of the human soul with God, appears in the holy
family, in the maternal love of the Virgin, and in the love of the
disciples. Finally, love in humanity is manifested by the spirit of the
Church, that is to say, by the Spirit of God present in the society of
the faithful, by the return of humanity to God, death to terrestrial
life, martyrdom, repentance and conversion, the miracles and the
legends.
Such are the principal subjects which form the ground of religious art.
It is the Christian ideal in whatever in it is most elevated. Art seizes
it and seeks to express it—but does this only imperfectly. Art is here
necessarily surpassed by the religious thought, and ought to recognize
its own insufficiency.
If we pass from the religious to the _profane ideal_, it presents itself
to us under two different forms. The one, although representing human
personality, yet develops noble and elevated sentiments, which combine
with moral or religious ideas. The other shows us only persons who
display, in the pursuit of purely human and positive interests,
independence and energy of character. The first is represented by
chivalry. When we come to examine the nature and the principle of the
chivalric ideal, we see that what constitutes its content is, in fact,
_personality_. Here, man abandons the state of inner sanctification, the
contemplative for the active life. He casts his eyes about him and seeks
a theatre for his activity. The fundamental principle is always the
same, the soul, the human person, pursuing the infinite. But it turns
toward another sphere, that of action and real life. The Ego is replete
with self only, with its individuality, which, in its eyes, is of
infinite value. It attaches little importance to general ideas, to
interests, to enterprises which have for object general order. Three
sentiments, in the main, present this personal and individual character,
_honor_, _love_, and _fidelity_. Moreover, separate or united, they
form, aside from the religious relationships which can be reflected in
them, the true content of chivalry.
The author analyzes these three sentiments; he shows in what they differ
from the analogous sentiments or qualities in antique art. He endeavors,
above all, to prove that they represent, in fact, the side of human
personality, with its infinite and ideal character. Thus honor does not
resemble bravery, which exposes itself for a common cause. Honor fights
only to make itself known or respected, to guarantee the inviolability
of the individual person. In like manner _love_, also, which constitutes
the centre of the circle, is only the accidental passion of one person
for another person. Even when this passion is idealized by the
imagination and ennobled by depth of sentiment, it is not yet the
ethical bond of the family and of marriage. Fidelity presents the moral
character in a higher degree, since it is disinterested; but it is not
addressed to the general good of society in itself; it attaches itself
exclusively to the person of a master. Chivalric fidelity understands
perfectly well, besides, how to preserve its advantages and its rights,
the independence and the honor of the person, who is always only
conditionally bound. The basis of these three sentiments is, then, free
personality. This is the most beautiful part of the circle which is
found beyond religion, properly so-called. All here has for immediate
end, man, with whom we can sympathize through the side of personal
independence. These sentiments are, moreover, susceptible of being
placed in connection with religion in a multitude of ways, as they are
able to preserve their independent character.
“This form of romantic art was developed in the East and in the West,
but especially in the West, that land of reflection, of the
concentration of the spirit upon itself. In the East was accomplished
the first expansion of liberty, the first attempt toward enfranchisement
from the finite. It was Mahometanism which first swept from the ancient
soil all idolatry, and religions born of the imagination. But it
absorbed this internal liberty to such a degree that the entire world
for it was effaced; plunged in an intoxication of ecstacy, the oriental
tastes in contemplation the delights of love, calmness, and felicity.”
(Page 456.)
3. We have seen human personality developing itself upon the theatre of
real life, and there displaying noble, generous sentiments, such as
honor, love and fidelity. Meanwhile it is in the sphere of real life and
of purely human interests that liberty and independence of character
appear to us. The ideal here consists only in energy and perseverance of
will, and passion as well as _independence of character_. Religion and
chivalry disappear with their high conceptions, their noble sentiments,
and their thoroughly ideal objects. On the contrary, what characterizes
the new wants, is the thirst for the joys of the present life, the
ardent pursuit of human interests in what in them is actual, determined,
or positive. In like manner, in the figurative arts, man wishes objects
to be represented in their palpable and visible reality.
The destruction of classic art commenced with the predominance of the
agreeable, and it ended with satire. Romantic art ends in the
exaggeration of the principle of personality, deprived of a substantial
and moral content, and thenceforth abandoned to caprice, to the
arbitrary, to fancy and excess of passion. There is left further to the
imagination of the poet only to paint forcibly and with depth these
characters; to the artist, only to imitate the real; to the spirit, to
exhibit its rigor in piquant combinations and contrasts.
This tendency is revealed under three principal forms: 1st,
_Independence of individual character_, pursuing its proper ends, its
particular designs, without moral or religious aim; 2d, the exaggeration
of the chivalric principle, and the spirit of _adventure_; 3d, the
separation of the elements, the union of which constitutes the very idea
of art, through the destruction of art itself,—that is to say, the
predilection for common reality, _the imitation of the real_, mechanical
ability, caprice, fancy, and _humor_.
The first of these three points furnishes to Hegel the occasion for a
remarkable estimate of the characters of Shakspeare, which represent, in
an eminent degree, this phase of the Romantic ideal. The distinctive
trait of character of the _dramatis personæ_ of Shakspeare is, in fact,
the energy and obstinate perseverance of a will which is exclusively
devoted to a specific end, and concentrates all its efforts for the
purpose of realizing it. There is here no question either of religion or
of moral ideas. They are characters placed singly face to face with each
other, and their designs, which they have spontaneously conceived, and
the execution of which they pursue with the unyielding obstinacy of
passion. Macbeth, Othello, Richard III., are such characters. Others, as
Romeo, Juliet, and Miranda, are distinguished by an absorption of soul
in a unique, profound, but purely personal sentiment, which furnishes
them an occasion for displaying an admirable wealth of qualities. The
most restricted and most common, still interest us by a certain
consistency in their acts, a certain brilliancy, an enthusiasm, a
freedom of imagination, a spirit superior to circumstances, which causes
us to overlook whatever there is common in their action and discourse.
But this class, where Shakspeare excels, is extremely difficult to
treat. To writers of mediocrity, the quicksand is inevitable. They risk,
in fact, falling into the insipid, the insignificant, the trivial, or
the repulsive, as a crowd of imitators have proven.
It has been vouchsafed only to a few great masters to possess enough
genius and taste to seize here the true and the beautiful, to redeem the
insignificance or vulgarity of the content by enthusiasm and talent, by
the force and energy of their pencil and by a profound knowledge of
human passions.
One of the characteristics of romantic art is, that, in the religious
sphere, the soul, finding for itself satisfaction in itself, has no need
to develop itself in the external world. On the other hand, when the
religious idea no longer makes itself felt, and when the free will is no
longer dependent, except on itself, the _dramatis personæ_ pursue aims
wholly individual in a world where all appears arbitrary and accidental,
and which seems abandoned to itself and delivered up to chance. In its
irregular pace, it presents a complication of events, which intermingle
without order and without cohesion.
Moreover, this is the form which events affect in romantic, in
opposition to classic art, where the actions and events are bound to a
common end, to a true and necessary principle which determines the form,
the character, and the mode of development of external circumstances. In
romantic art, also, we find general interests, moral ideas; but they do
not ostensibly determine events; they are not the ordering and
regulating principle. These events, on the contrary, preserve their free
course, and affect an accidental form.
Such is the character of the greater part of the grand events in the
middle ages, the crusades, for example, which the author names for this
reason, and which were the grand adventures of the Christian world.
Whatever may be the judgment which one forms upon the crusades and the
different motives which caused them to be undertaken, it cannot be
denied, that with an elevated religious aim—the deliverance of the holy
sepulchre—there were mingled other interested and material motives, and
that the religious and the profane aim did not contradict nor corrupt
the other. As to their general form, the crusades present utter absence
of unity. They are undertaken by masses, by multitudes, who enter upon a
particular expedition according to their good pleasure, and their
individual caprice. The lack of unity, the absence of plan and
direction, causes the enterprises to fail, and the efforts and endeavors
are wasted in individual exploits.
In another domain, that of profane life, the road is open also to a
crowd of adventurers, whose object is more or less imaginary, and whose
principle is love, honor, or fidelity. To battle for the glory of a
name, to fly to the succor of innocence, to accomplish the most
marvellous things for the honor of one’s lady, such is the motive of the
greater part of the beautiful exploits which the romances of chivalry or
the poems of this epoch and subsequent epochs celebrate.
These vices of chivalry cause its ruin. We find the most faithful
picture of it in the poems of Ariosto and Cervantes.
But what best marks the destruction of romantic art and of chivalry is
the _modern romance_, that form of literature which takes their place.
The romance is chivalry applied to real life; it is a protest against
the real, it is the ideal in a society where all is fixed, regulated in
advance by laws, by usages contrary to the free development of the
natural longings and sentiments of the soul; it is the chivalry of
common life. The same principle which caused a search for adventures
throws the personages into the most diverse and the most extraordinary
situations. The imagination, disgusted with that which is, cuts out for
itself a world according to its fancy, and creates for itself an ideal
wherein it can forget social customs, laws, positive interests. The
young men and young women, above all, feel the want of such aliment for
the heart, or of such distraction against _ennui_. Ripe age succeeds
youth; the young man marries and enters upon positive interests. Such is
also the _dénoûement_ of the greater part of romances, where prose
succeeds poetry, the real, the ideal.
The destruction of romantic art is announced by symptoms still more
striking, by the _imitation of the real_, and the appearance of the
_humorous_ style, which occupies more and more space in art and
literature. The artist and the poet can there display much talent,
enthusiasm and spirit; but these two styles are no less striking indexes
of an epoch of decadence.
It is, above all, the humorous style which marks this decadence, by the
absence of all fixed principle and all rule. It is a pure play of the
imagination which combines, according to its liking, the most different
objects, alters and overturns relations, tortures itself to discover
novel and extraordinary conceptions. The author places himself above the
subject, regards himself as freed from all conditions imposed by the
nature of the content as well as the form, and imagines that all depends
on his wit and the power of his genius. It is to be observed, that what
Hegel calls the downfall of art in general, and of romantic art in
particular, is precisely what we call the romantic school in the art and
literature of our time.
Such are the fundamental forms which art presents in its historic
development. If the art of the _renaissance_, or modern art properly so
called, finds no place in this sketch, it is because it does not
constitute an original and fundamental form. The _renaissance_ is a
return to Greek art; and as to modern art, it is allied to both Greek
and Christian.
But it remains for us to present some conclusions upon the future
destiny of art—a point of highest interest, to which this review of the
forms and monuments of the past must lead. The conclusions of the
author, which we shall consider elsewhere, are far from answering to
what we might have expected from so remarkable a historic picture.
What are, indeed, these conclusions? The first is, that the rôle of art,
to speak properly, is finished—at least, its original and distinct rôle.
The circle of the ideas and beliefs of humanity is completed. Art has
invested them with the forms which it was capable of giving them. In the
future, it ought, then, to occupy a secondary place. After having
finished its independent career, it becomes an obscure satellite of
science and philosophy, in which are absorbed both religion and art.
This thought is not thus definitely formulated, but it is clearly enough
indicated. Art, in revealing thought, has itself contributed to the
destruction of other forms, and to its own downfall. The new art ought
to be elevated above all the particular forms which it has already
expressed. “Art ceases to be attached to a determinate circle of ideas
and forms; it consecrates itself to a new worship, that of humanity. All
that the heart of man includes within its own immensity—its joys and its
sufferings, its interests, its actions, its destinies—become the domain
of art.” Thus the content is human nature; the form a free combination
of all the forms of the past. We shall hereafter consider this new
eclecticism in art.
Hegel points out, in concluding, a final form of literature and poetry,
which is the unequivocal index of the absence of peculiar, elevated and
profound ideas, and of original forms—that sentimental poetry, light or
descriptive, which to-day floods the literary world and the
drawing-rooms with its verses; compositions without life and without
content, without originality or true inspiration; a common-place and
vague expression of all sentiment, full of aspirations and empty of
ideas, where, through all, there makes itself recognized an imitation of
some illustrious geniuses—themselves misled in false and perilous ways;
a sort of current money, analogous to the epistolary style. Everybody is
poet; and there is scarcely one true poet. “Wherever the faculties of
the soul and the forms of language have received a certain degree of
culture, there is no person who cannot, if he take the fancy, express in
verse some situation of the soul, as any one is in condition to write a
letter.”
Such a style, thus universally diffused, and reproduced under a thousand
forms, although with different shadings, easily becomes fastidious.
CHAPTER II.
We hope to see those necessities of thought which underlie all
Philosophical systems. We set out to account for all the diversities of
opinion, and to see identity in the world of thought. But necessity in
the realm of thought may be phenomenal. If there be anything which is
given out as fixed, we must try its validity.
Many of the “impossibilities” of thought are easily shown to rest upon
ignorance of psychological appliances. The person is not able because he
does not know _how_—just as in other things. We must take care that we
do not confound the incapacity of ignorance with the necessity of
thought. (The reader will find an example of this in Sir Wm. Hamilton’s
“Metaphysics,” page 527.) One of these “incapacities” arises from
neglecting the following:
Among the first distinctions to be learned by the student in philosophy
is that between the imaginative form of thinking and _pure_ thinking.
The former is a sensuous grade of thinking which uses _images_, while
the latter is a more developed stage, and is able to think objects in
and for themselves. Spinoza’s statement of this distinction applied to
the thinking of the Infinite—his “Infinitum imaginationis” and
“Infinitum actu vel rationis”—has been frequently alluded to by those
who treat of this subject.
At first one might suppose that when finite things are the subject of
thought, it would make little difference whether the first or second
form of thinking is employed. This is, however, a great error. The
Philosopher must always “think things under the form of eternity” if he
would think the truth.
_Imagination_ pictures objects. It represents to itself only the
bounded. If it tries to realize the conception of infinitude, it
represents a limited somewhat, and then _Reflection_ or the
_Understanding_ (a form of thought lying between Imagination and Reason)
passes beyond the limits, and annuls them. This process may be continued
indefinitely, or until _Reason_ (or pure thinking) comes in and solves
the dilemma. Thus we have a dialogue resulting somewhat as follows:
_Imagination._ Come and see the Infinite just as I have pictured it.
_Understanding._ [Peeping cautiously about it.] Where is your frame? Ah!
I see it now, clearly. How is this! Your frame does not include all.
There is a “beyond” to your picture. I cannot tell whether you intend
the inside or outside for your picture of the Infinite, I see it on
both.
_Imag._ [Tries to extend the frame, but with the same result as before.]
I believe you are right! I am well nigh exhausted by my efforts to
include the unlimited.
_Un._ Ah! you see the Infinite is merely the negative of the finite or
positive. It is the negative of those conditions which you place there
in order to have any representation at all.
[While the Understanding proceeds to deliver a course of wise saws and
moral reflections on the “inability of the Finite to grasp the
Infinite,” sitting apart upon its bipod—for tripod it has none, one of
the legs being broken—it self-complacently and oracularly admonishes the
human mind to cultivate humility; Imagination drops her brush and pencil
in confusion at these words. Very opportunely _Reason_ steps in and
takes an impartial survey of the scene.]
_Reason._ Did you say that the Infinite is unknowable?
_Un._ Yes. “To think is to limit, and hence to think the Infinite is to
limit it, and thus to destroy it.”
_Reason._ Apply your remarks to Space. Is not Space infinite?
_Un._ If I attempt to realize Space, I conceive a bounded, but I at once
perceive that I have placed my limits _within_ Space, and hence my
realization is inadequate. The Infinite, therefore, seems to be a beyond
to my clear conception.
_Reason._ Indeed! When you reflect on Space do you not perceive that it
is of such a nature that it can be limited only by itself? Do not all
its limits imply Space to exist in?
_Un._ Yes, that is the difficulty.
_Reason._ I do not see the “difficulty.” If Space can be limited only by
itself, its limit continues it, instead of bounding it. Hence it is
universally continuous or infinite.
_Un._ But a mere negative.
_Reason._ No, not a mere negative, but the negative of all negation, and
hence truly affirmative. It is the exhibition of the utter impossibility
of any negative to it. All attempts to limit it, continue it. It is its
own other. Its negative is itself. Here, then, we have a truly
affirmative infinite in contradistinction to the _negative_ infinite—the
“infinite progress” that you and Imagination were engaged upon when I
came in.
_Un._ What you say seems to me a distinction in words merely.
_Reason._ Doubtless. All distinctions are merely in words until one has
learned to see them independent of words. But you must go and mend that
tripod on which you are sitting; for how can one think at ease and
exhaustively, when he is all the time propping up his basis from
without?
_Un._ I cannot understand you. [Exit.]
_Note._
It will be well to consider what application is to be made of these
distinctions to the mind itself, whose form is consciousness. In
self-knowing, or consciousness, the subject knows itself—it is its own
object. Thus in this phase of activity we have the affirmative Infinite.
The subject is its own object—is continued by its other or object. This
is merely suggested here—it will be developed hereafter.
CHAPTER III.
In the first chapter we attained—or at least made the attempt to
attain—some insight into the relation which Mind bears to Time and
Space. It appeared that Mind is a _Transcendent_, i. e. something which
Time and Space inhere in, rather than a somewhat, conditioned by them.
Although this result agrees entirely with the religious instincts of
man, which assert the immortality of the soul, and the unsubstantiality
of the existences within Time and Space, yet as a logical result of
thinking, it seems at first very unreliable. The disciplined thinker
will indeed find the distinctions “a priori and a posteriori”
inadequately treated; but his emendations will only make the results
there established more wide-sweeping and conclusive.
In the second chapter we learned caution with respect to the manner of
attempting to realize in our minds the results of thought. If we have
always been in the habit of regarding Mind as a property or attribute of
the individual, we have conceived it not according to its true nature,
but have allowed Imagination to mingle its activity in the thinking of
that which is of a universal nature. Thus we are prone to say to
ourselves: “How can a mere attribute like Mind be the logical condition
of the solid realities of Space and Time?” In this we have quietly
assumed the whole point at issue. No system of thinking which went to
work logically ever proved the Mind to be an attribute; only very
elementary grades of thinking, which have a way of assuming in their
premises what they draw out analytically in their conclusions, ever set
up this dogma. This will become clearer at every step as we proceed.
We will now pursue a path similar to that followed in the first chapter,
and see what more we can learn of the nature of Mind. We will endeavor
to learn more definitely what constitutes its _a priori_ activity, in
order, as there indicated, to achieve our object. Thus our present
search is after the “Categories” and their significance. Taking the word
category here in the sense of “a priori determination of thought,” the
first question is: “Do any categories exist? Are there any thoughts
which belong to the nature of mind itself?” It is the same question that
Locke discusses under the head of “Innate ideas.”
I.
“Every act of knowing or cognizing is the translating of an unknown
somewhat into a known, as a scholar translates a new language into his
own.” If he did not already understand one language, he could never
translate the new one. In the act of knowing, the object becomes known
in so far as I am able to recognise predicates as belonging to it. “This
is _red_;” unless I know already what “red” means, I do not cognize the
object by predicating _red_ of it. “Red is a color;” unless I know what
“color” means, I have not said anything intelligible—I have not
expressed an act of cognition. The object becomes known to us in so far
as we recognize its predicates—and hence we could never know anything
unless we had at least one predicate or conception with which to
commence. If we have one predicate through which we cognize some object,
that act of cognition gives us a new predicate; for it has dissolved or
“translated” a somewhat, that before was unknown, into a known; the
“not-me” has, to that extent, become the “me.” Without any predicates to
begin with, all objects would remain forever outside of our
consciousness. Even consciousness itself would be impossible, for the
very act of self-cognition implies that the predicate “myself” is well
known. It is an act of identification: “I am myself;” the subject is, as
predicate, completely known or dissolved back into the subject. I
cognize myself as myself; there is no alien element left standing over
against me. Thus we are able to say that there must be an a priori
category in order to render possible any act of knowing whatever.
Moreover, we see that this category must be identical with the _Ego_
itself, for the reason that the process of cognition is at the same time
a recognition; it predicates only what it recognizes. Thus,
fundamentally, in knowing, Reason knows itself. Self-consciousness is
the basis of knowledge. This will throw light on the first chapter; but
let us first confirm this position by a psychological analysis.
II.
What is the permanent element in thought?—It can easily be found in
language—its external manifestation. Logic tells us that the expression
of thought involves always a subject and predicate. Think what you
please, say what you please, and your thought or assertion consists of a
subject and predicate—positive or negative—joined by the copula, _is_.
“Man lives” is equivalent to “man is living.” “Man” and “living” are
joined by the word “is.” If we abstract all content from thought, and
take its pure form in order to see the permanent, we shall have “is” the
copula,—or putting a letter for subject and attribute, we shall have
“_a_ is _a_,” (or “_a_ is _b_,”) for the universal form of thought. The
mental act is expressed by “is.” In this empty “is” we have the category
of pure Being, which is the “summum genus” of categories. Any predicate
other than _being_ will be found to contain being _plus_ determinations,
and hence can be subsumed under being. We shall get new light on this
subject if we examine the ordinary doctrine of _explanation_.
III.
In order to explain something, we subsume it under a more general. Thus
we say: “Horse is an animal;” and, “An animal is an organic being,” &c.
A definition contains not only this subsumption, but also a statement of
the specific difference. We define _quadruped_ by subsuming it, (“It is
an animal”) and giving the specific difference (“which has four feet”).
As we approach the “summum genus,” the predicates become more and more
empty; “they become more _extensive_ in their application, and less
_comprehensive_ in their content.” Thus they approach pure simplicity,
which is attained in the “summum genus.” This pure simple, which is the
limit of subsumption and abstraction, is pure Being—Being devoid of all
determinateness. When we have arrived at Being, subsuming becomes simple
identifying—Being is Being, or _a_ is _a_—and this is precisely the same
activity that we found self-consciousness to consist of in our first
analysis, (I.) and the same activity that we found all mental acts to
consist of in our second analysis, (II.).
IV.
Therefore, we may affirm on these grounds, that the “summum genus,” or
primitive category, is the Ego itself in its simplest activity as the
“is” (or pure _being_ if taken substantively).
Thus it happens that when the Mind comes to cognize an object, it must
first of all recognize itself in it in its simplest activity,—it must
know that the object _is_. We cannot know anything else of an object
without presupposing the knowledge of its _existence_.
At this point it is evident that this category is not derived from
experience in the sense of _an impression from without_. It is the
activity of the Ego itself, and is its (the _Ego’s_) first
self-externalization (or its first becoming object to itself—its first
act of self-consciousness). The essential activity of the Ego itself
consists in recognizing itself, and this involves self-separation, and
then the annulling of this separation in the same act. For in knowing
myself as an object I separate the Ego from itself, but in the very act
of _knowing_ it I make it identical again. Here are two negative
processes involved in knowing, and these are indivisibly one:—first, the
negative act of separation—secondly, the negative act of annulling the
separation by the act of recognition. That the application of categories
to the external world is a process of self-recognition, is now clear: we
know, in so far as we recognize predicates in the object,—we say “The
Rose _is_, it is _red_, it is _round_, it is _fragrant_, &c.” In this we
separate what belongs to the rose from it, and place it outside of it,
and then, through the act of predication, unite it again. “The Rose
_is_” contains merely the recognition of being but being is separated
from it and joined to it in the act of predication. Thus we see that the
fundamental act of self-consciousness, which is a self-separation and
self-identification united in one act of recognition,—we see that this
fundamental act is repeated in all acts of knowing. We do not know even
the rose without separating it from itself, and identifying the two
sides thus formed. (This contains a deeper thought which we may suggest
here. That the act of knowing puts all objects into this crucible, is an
intimation on its part that no object can possess true, abiding being,
without this ability to separate itself from itself in the process of
self-identification. Whatever cannot do this is no essence, but may be
only an element of a process in which it ceaselessly loses its identity.
But we shall recur to this again.)
Doubtless we could follow out this activity through various steps, and
deduce all the categories of pure thought. This is what Plato has done
in part; what Fichte has done in his Science of Knowledge,
(“Wissenschaftslehre”) and Hegel in his Logic. A science of these pure
intelligibles unlocks the secret of the Universe; it furnishes that
“Royal Road” to all knowledge; it is the far-famed Philosopher’s Stone
that alone can transmute the base dross of mere talent into genius.
V.
Let us be content if at the close of this chapter we can affirm still
more positively the conclusions of our first. Through a consideration of
the a priori knowledge of Time and Space, and their logical priority, as
conditions, to the world of experience, we inferred the transcendency of
Mind. Upon further investigation, we have now discovered that there are
other forms of the Mind more primordial than Space and Time, and more
essentially related to its activity; for all the categories of pure
thought—Being, Negation, &c.,—are applicable to Space and to Time, and
hence more universal than either of them alone; these categories of pure
thought, moreover, as before remarked, could never have been derived
from experience. Experience is not possible without presupposing these
predicates. “They are the tools of intelligence through which it
cognizes.” If we hold by this stand-point exclusively, we may say, with
Kant, that we furnish the subjective forms in knowing, and for this
reason cannot know the “thing in itself.” If these categories are merely
subjective—i. e. given in the constitution of the Mind itself—and we do
not know what the “thing in itself” may be, yet we can come safely out
of all skepticism here by considering the universal nature of these
categories or “forms of the mind.” For if Being, Negation and Existence
are forms of mind and purely subjective, so that they do not belong to
the “thing in itself,” it is evident that such an object cannot _be_ or
_exist_, or in any way have validity, either positively or negatively.
Thus it is seen from the nature of mind here exhibited, that Mind is the
_noumenon_ or “thing in itself” which Philosophy seeks, and thus our
third chapter confirms our first.
_Note._
The MATERIALISM of the present day holds that thought is a modification
of force, correlated with heat, light, electricity, &c., in short, that
organization produces ideas. If so, we are placed within a narrow
idealism, and can only say of what is held for _truth_: “I am so
correlated as to hold this view,—I shall be differently correlated
to-morrow, perhaps, and hold another view.” Yet in this very statement
the Ego takes the stand-point of universality—it speaks of
possibilities—which it could never do, were it merely a correlate. For
to hold a possibility is to be able to annul in thought the limits of
the real, and hence to elevate itself to the point of universality. But
this is _self_-correlation; we have a movement in a circle, and hence
self-origination, and hence a spontaneous fountain of force. The Mind,
in conceiving of the possible, annuls the real, and thus creates its own
motives; its acting according to motives, is thus acting according to
its own acts—an obvious circle again.
In fine, it is evident that the idealism which the correlationist
logically falls into is as strict as that of any school of professed
idealism which he is in the habit of condemning. The _persistent force_
is the general _idea_ of force, not found as any _real_ force, for each
_real_ force is individualized in some particular way. But it is evident
that a particular force cannot be correlated with _force in general_,
but only with a special form like itself. But the general force is the
only abiding one—each particular one is in a state of transition into
another—a perpetual losing of individuality. Hence the true abiding
force is not a _real_ one existing objectively, but only an _ideal_ one
existing subjectively in thought. But through the fact that thought can
seize the true and abiding which can exist for itself nowhere else, the
correlationist is bound to infer the transcendency of Mind just like the
idealist. Nay, more, when he comes to speak considerately, he will say
that Mind, for the very reason that it thinks the true, abiding force,
cannot be correlated with any determined force.
CHAPTER IV.
Philosophers usually begin to construct their systems in full view of
their final principle. It would be absurd for one to commence a
demonstration if he had no clear idea of what he intended to prove. From
the final principle the system must be worked back to the beginning in
the Philosopher’s mind before he can commence his demonstration. Usually
the order of demonstration which he follows, is not the order of
discovery; in such case his system proceeds by external reflections. All
mathematical proof is of this order. One constructs his demonstration to
lead from the known to the unknown, and uses many intermediate
propositions that do not of necessity lead to the intended result. With
another theorem in view, they might be used for steps to that, just as
well. But there is a certain inherent development in all subjects when
examined according to the highest method, that will lead one on to the
exhaustive exposition of all that is involved therein. This is called
the _dialectic_. This dialectic movement cannot be used as a philosophic
instrument, unless one has seen the deepest _aperçu_ of Science; if this
is not the case, the dialectic will prove merely destructive and not
constructive. It is therefore a mistake, as has been before remarked, to
attempt to introduce the beginner of the study of Philosophy at once
into the dialectic. The content of Philosophy must be first presented
under its sensuous and reflective forms, and a gradual progress
established. In this chapter an attempt will be made to approach again
the ultimate principle which we have hitherto fixed only in a general
manner as _Mind_. We will use the method of external reflection, and
demonstrate three propositions: 1. There is an independent being; 2.
That being is self-determined; 3. Self-determined being is in the form
of personality, i. e. is an _Ego_.
I.
1. Dependent being, implying its complement upon which it depends,
cannot be explained through itself, but through that upon which it
depends.
2. This being upon which it depends cannot be also a dependent being,
for the dependent being has no support of its own to lend to another;
all that it has is borrowed. “A chain of dependent beings collapses into
one dependent being. Dependence is not converted into independence by
mere multiplication.”
3. The dependent, therefore, depends upon the independent, and has its
explanation in it. Since all being is of one kind or the other, it
follows that all being is independent, or a complemental element of it.
Reciprocal dependence makes an independent including whole, which is the
_negative unity_.
_Definition._—One of the most important implements of the thinker is the
comprehension of “negative unity.” It is a unity resulting from the
reciprocal cancelling of elements; e. g. _Salt_ is the negative unity of
_acid_ and _alkali_. It is called _negative_ because it negates the
independence of the elements within it. In the negative unity _Air_, the
elements oxygen and nitrogen have their independence negated.
II.
1. The independent being cannot exist without determinations. Without
these, it could not distinguish itself or be distinguished from nought.
2. Nor can the independent being be determined (i. e. limited or
modified in any way) from without, or through another. For all that is
determined through another is a dependent somewhat.
3. Hence the independent being can be only a self-determined. If
self-determined, it can exist through itself.
_Note._
Spinoza does not arrive at the third position, but, after considering
the second, arrives at the first one, and concludes, since determination
through another makes a somewhat _finite_, that the independent being
must be _undetermined_. He does not happen to discover that there is
another kind of determination, to-wit, self-determination, which can
consist with independence. The method that he uses makes it entirely an
accidental matter with him that he discovers what speculative results he
does—the dialectic method would lead inevitably to self-determination,
as we shall see later. It is Hegel’s _aperçu_ that we have in the third
position; with Spinoza the independent being remained an undetermined
_substance_, but with Hegel it became a self-determining _subject_. All
that Spinoza gets out of his substance he must get in an arbitrary
manner; it does not follow from its definition that it shall have modes
and attributes, but the contrary. This _aperçu_—that the independent
being, i. e. every really existing, separate entity, is
self-determined—is the central point of speculative philosophy. What
self-determination involves, we shall see next.
III.
1. Self-determination implies that the _constitution_ or _nature_ be
self-originated. There is nothing about a self-determined that is
created by anything without.
2. Thus self-determined being exists dually—it is (_a_) as _determining_
and (_b_) as _determined_. (_a_) As determining, it is the active, which
contains merely the possibility of determinations; (_b_) as determined,
it is the passive result—the matter upon which the subject acts.
3. But since both are the same being, each side returns into
itself:—(_a_) as determining or active, it acts only upon its own
determining, and (_b_) as passive or determined, it is, as result of the
former, the self-same active itself. Hence its movement is a movement of
self-recognition—a positing of distinction which is cancelled in the
same act. (In self-recognition something is made an object, and
identified with the subject in the same act.) Moreover, the determiner,
on account of its pure generality, (i. e. its having no concrete
determinations as yet,) can only be _ideal_—can only exist as the _Ego_
exists in thought; not as a _thing_, but as a _generic_ entity. The
passive side can exist only as the self exists in consciousness—as that
which is in opposition and yet in identity at the same time. No finite
existence could endure this contradiction, for all such must possess a
_nature_ or _constitution_ which is self-determined; if not, each finite
could negate all its properties and qualities, and yet remain
itself—just as the person does when he makes abstraction of all, in
thinking of the _Ego_ or pure self.
Thus we find again our former conclusion.—All finite or dependent things
must originate in and depend upon independent or absolute being, which
must be an _Ego_. The _Ego_ has the form of Infinitude (see chapter
II—_the infinite is its own other_).
_Resumé._ The first chapter states the premises which Kant lays down in
his Transcendental Æsthetic, (Kritik der Reinen Vernunft) and draws the
true logical conclusions which are positive and not negative, as he
makes them. The second chapter gives the Spinozan distinction of the
Infinite of the Imagination and Infinite of Reason. The third chapter
gives the logical results which Kant should have drawn from his
Transcendental Logic. The fourth chapter gives Spinoza’s fundamental
position logically completed, and is the great fundamental position of
Plato, Aristotle and Hegel, with reference to the Absolute.
Footnote 2:
One cannot but be astonished not to see, in this review of the
principal forms of oriental art, Chinese art at least mentioned. The
reason is, that, according to Hegel, art—the fine arts, properly
speaking—have no existence among the Chinese. The spirit of that
people seems to him anti-artistic and prosaic. He thus characterizes
Chinese art in his philosophy of history: “This race, in general, has
a rare talent for imitation, which is exercised not only in the things
of daily life, but also in art. It has not yet arrived at the
representation of the beautiful as beautiful. In painting, it lacks
perspective and shading. European images, like everything else, it
copies well. A Chinese painter knows exactly how many scales there are
on the back of a carp, how many notches a leaf has; he knows perfectly
the form of trees and the curvature of their branches; but the
sublime, the ideal, and the beautiful, do not belong at all to the
domain of his art and his ability.”—(_Philosophie der Geschichte._)
MUSIC AS A FORM OF ART.
[Read before the St. Louis Art Society, February, 1867.]
I. Upon Art-Criticism.
A work of art is the product of the inspired moment of the artist. It is
not to be supposed that he is able to give an account of his work in the
terms of the understanding. Hence the artist is not in a strict sense a
critic. The highest order of criticism must endeavor to exhibit the
unity of the work by showing how the various motives unfold from the
central thought. Of course, the artist must be rare who can see his work
doubly—first sensuously, and then rationally. Only some Michael Angelo
or Goethe can do this. The common artist sees the sensuous form as the
highest possible revelation—to him his _feeling_ is higher than the
intellectual vision. And can we not all—critics as well as
artists—sympathize with the statement that the mere calculating
intellect, the cold understanding, “all light and no heat,” can never
rise into the realm where art can be appreciated? It is only when we
contemplate the truly speculative intellect—which is called “love” by
the mystics, and by Swedenborg “Love and wisdom united in a Divine
Essence,”—that we demur at this supreme elevation of feeling or
sentiment. The art critic must have all the feeling side of his nature
aroused, as the first condition of his interpretation; and, secondly, he
must be able to dissolve into thought the emotions which arise from that
side. If feeling were more exalted than thought, this would be
impossible. Such, however, is the view of such critics as the Schlegels,
who belong to the romantic school. They say that the intellect considers
only abstractions, while the heart is affected by the concrete whole.
“Spectres and goitred dwarfs” for the intellect, but “beauty’s rose” for
the feeling heart. But this all rests on a misunderstanding. The true
art critic does not undervalue feeling. It is to him the essential basis
upon which he builds. Unless the work of art affects his feelings, he
has nothing to think about; he can go no further; the work, to him, is
not a work of art at all. But if he is aroused and charmed by it, if his
emotional nature is stirred to its depths, and he feels inspired by
those spiritual intimations of Eternity which true art always excites,
then he has a content to work upon, and this thinking of his, amounts
simply to a recognition in other forms, of this eternal element, that
glows through the work of art.
Hence there is no collision between the artist and the critic, if both
are true to their ideal.
It certainly is no injury to the work of art to show that it treats in
some form the Problem of Life, which is the mystery of the Christian
religion. It is no derogation to Beethoven to show how he has solved a
problem in music, just as Shakspeare in poetry, and Michael Angelo in
painting. Those who are content with the mere feeling, we must always
respect if they really have the true art feeling, just as we respect the
simple piety of the uneducated peasant. But we must not therefore
underrate the conscious seizing of the same thing,—not place St.
Augustine or Martin Luther below the simple-minded peasant. Moreover, as
our society has for its aim the attainment of an insight into art _in
general_, and not the exclusive enjoyment of any particular art, it is
all the more important that we should hold by the only connecting
link—the only universal element—_thought_. For thought has not only
universal _content_, like feeling, but also universal _form_, which
feeling has not.
Another reason that causes persons to object to art interpretation, is
perhaps that such interpretation reminds them of the inevitable moral
appended _ad nauseam_ to the stories that delighted our childhood. But
it must be remembered that these morals are put forward as the _object_
of the stories. The art critic can never admit for one moment that it is
the object of a work of art simply to be didactic. It is true that all
art is a means of culture; but that is not its object. Its object is to
combine the idea with a sensuous form, so as to embody, as it were, the
Infinite; and any motive external to the work of art itself, is at once
felt to be destructive to it.
II. Upon the Interpretation of Art.
1. The Infinite is not manifested _within_ any particular sphere of
finitude, but rather exhibits itself in the collision of a Finite with
another Finite _without_ it. For a Finite must by its very nature be
limited from without, and the Infinite, therefore, not only includes any
given finite sphere, but also its negation (or the other spheres which
joined to it make up the whole).
2. “Art is the manifestation of the Infinite in the Finite,” it is said.
Therefore, this must mean that art has for its province the treatment of
the collisions that necessarily arise between one finite sphere and
another.
3. In proportion as the collision portrayed by art is comprehensive, and
a type of all collisions in the universe, is it a high work of art. If,
then, the collision is on a small scale, and between low spheres, it is
not a high work of art.
4. But whether the collision presented be of a high order or of a low
order, it bears a general resemblance to every other collision—the
Infinite is always like itself in all its manifestations. The lower the
collision, the more it becomes merely symbolical as a work of art, and
the less it adequately presents the Infinite.
Thus the lofty mountain peaks of Bierstadt, which rise up into the
regions of clearness and sunshine, beyond the realms of change, do this,
only because of a force that contradicts gravitation, which continually
abases them. The contrast of the high with the low, of the clear and
untrammelled with the dark and impeded, symbolizes, in the most natural
manner, to every one, the higher conflicts of spirit. It strikes a chord
that vibrates, unconsciously perhaps, but, nevertheless, inevitably. On
the other hand, when we take the other extreme of painting, and look at
the “Last Judgment” of Michael Angelo, or the “Transfiguration” of
Raphael, we find comparatively no ambiguity; there the Infinite is
visibly portrayed, and the collision in which it is displayed is
evidently of the highest order.
5. Art, from its definition, must relate to Time and Space, and in
proportion as the grosser elements are subordinated and the spiritual
adequately manifested, we find that we approach a form of art wherein
the form and matter are both the products of spirit.
Thus we have arts whose matter is taken from (_a_) _Space_, (_b_)
_Time_, and (_c_) _Language_ (the product of Spirit).
Space is the grossest material. We have on its plane, I. Architecture,
II. Sculpture, and III. Painting. (In the latter, color and perspective
give the artist power to represent distance and magnitude, and
internality, without any one of them, in fact. Upon a piece of ivory no
larger than a man’s hand a “Heart of the Andes” might be painted.) In
Time we have IV. Music, while in Language we have V. Poetry (in the
three forms of Epic, Lyric, and Dramatic) as the last and highest of the
forms of Art.
6. An interpretation of a work of art should consist in a translation of
it into the form of science. Hence, first, one must seize the general
content of it—or the collision portrayed. Then, secondly, the form of
art employed comes in, whether it be Architecture, Sculpture, Painting,
Music, or Poetry. Thirdly, the relation which the content has to the
form, brings out the superior merits, or the limits and defects of the
work of art in question. Thus, at the end, we have universalized the
piece of art—digested it, as it were. A true interpretation does not
destroy a work of art, but rather furnishes a guide to its highest
enjoyment. We have the double pleasure of immediate sensuous enjoyment
produced by the artistic execution, and the higher one of finding our
rational nature mirrored therein so that we recognize the eternal nature
of Spirit there manifested.
7. The peculiar nature of music, as contrasted with other arts, will, if
exhibited, best prepare us for what we are to expect from it. The less
definitely the mode of art allows its content to be seized, the wider
may be its application. Landscape painting may have a very wide scope
for its interpretation, while a drama of Goethe or Shakspeare definitely
seizes the particulars of its collision, and leaves no doubt as to its
sphere. So in the art of music, and especially instrumental music. Music
does not portray an object directly, like the plastic arts, but it calls
up the internal feeling which is caused by the object itself. It gives
us, therefore, a reflection of our impressions excited in the immediate
contemplation of the object. Thus we have a reflection of a reflection,
as it were.
Since its material is Time rather than Space, we have this contrast with
the plastic arts: Architecture, and more especially Sculpture and
Painting, are obliged to select a special moment of time for the
representation of the collision. As Goethe shows in the Laocoon, it will
not do to select a moment at random, but that point of time must be
chosen in which the collision has reached its height, and in which there
is a tension of all the elements that enter the contest on both sides. A
moment earlier, or a moment later, some of these elements would be
eliminated from the problem, and the comprehensiveness of the work
destroyed. When this proper moment is seized in Sculpture, as in the
Laocoon, we can see what has been before the present moment, and easily
tell what will come later. In Painting, through the fact that coloring
enables more subtle effects to be wrought out, and deeper internal
movements to be brought to the surface, we are not so closely confined
to the “supreme moment” as in Sculpture. But it is in Music that we
first get entirely free from that which confines the plastic arts. Since
its form is time, it can convey the whole movement of the collision from
its inception to its conclusion. Hence Music is superior to the Arts of
Space, in that it can portray the internal creative process, rather than
the dead results. It gives us the content in its whole process of
development in a _fluid_ form, while the Sculptor must fix it in a
_frigid_ form at a certain stage. Goethe and others have compared Music
to Architecture—the latter is “frozen Music”; but they have not compared
it to Sculpture nor Painting, for the reason that in these two arts
there is a possibility of seizing the form of the individual more
definitely, while in Architecture and Music the point of repose does not
appear as the human form, but only as the more general one of
self-relation or harmony. Thus quantitative ratios—mathematical
laws—pervade and govern these two forms of Art.
8. Music, more definitely considered, arises from vibrations, producing
waves in the atmosphere. The cohesive attraction of some body is
attacked, and successful resistance is made; if not, there is no
vibration. Thus the feeling of victory over a foreign foe is conveyed in
the most elementary tones, and this is the distinction of _tone_ from
_noise_, in which there is the irregularity of disruption, and not the
regularity of self-equality.
Again, in the obedience of the whole musical structure to its
fundamental scale-note, we have something like the obedience of
Architecture to Gravity. In order to make an exhibition of Gravity, a
pillar is necessary; for the solid wall does not isolate sufficiently
the function of support. With the pillar we can have exhibited the
effects of Gravity drawing down to the earth, and of the support holding
up the shelter. The pillar in classic art exhibits the equipoise of the
two tendencies. In Romantic or Gothic Architecture it exhibits a
preponderance of the aspiring tendency—the soaring aloft like the plant
to reach the light—a contempt for mere gravity—slender pillars seeming
to be let down from the roof, and to draw up something, rather than to
support anything. On the other hand, in Symbolic Architecture, (as found
in Egypt) we have the overwhelming power of gravity exhibited so as to
crush out all humanity—the Pyramid, in whose shape Gravity has done its
work. In Music we have continually the conflict of these two tendencies,
the upward and downward. The Music that moves upward and shows its
ground or point of repose in the octave above the scale-note of the
basis, corresponds to the Gothic Architecture. This aspiring movement
occurs again and again in chorals; it—like all romantic art—expresses
the Christian solution of the problem of life.
III. Beethoven’s Sonata in C sharp minor.
(_Opus 27, No._ 2.)
The three movements of this sonata which Beethoven called a
_fantasie-sonata_, are not arranged in the order commonly followed.
Usually sonatas begin with an _allegro_ or some quick movement, and pass
over to a slow movement—an _adagio_ or _andante_—and end in a quick
movement. The content here treated could not allow this form, and hence
it commences with what is usually the second movement. Its order is 1.
_Adagio_, 2. _Allegretto_, 3. _Finale_ (presto agitato).
(My rule with reference to the study of art may or may not be
interesting to others; it is this:—always to select a masterpiece, so
recognized, and keep it before me until it yields its secret, and in its
light I am able to see common-place to be what it really is, and be no
longer dazzled by it. It requires faith in the commonly received verdict
of critics and an immense deal of patience, but in the end one is
rewarded for his pains. Almost invariably I find immediate impressions
of uncultured persons good for nothing. It requires long familiarity
with the best things to learn to see them in their true excellence.)
This sonata is called by the Austrians the “Moonlight Sonata,” and this
has become the popular name in America. It is said to have been written
by Beethoven when he was recovering from the disappointment of his hopes
in a love-episode that had an unfortunate termination. (See Marx’s “L.
v. Beethoven, Leben und Schaffen.” From this magnificent work of
Art-Criticism, I have drawn the outlines of the following
interpretation.) The object of his affection was a certain young
countess, Julia Guicciardi; and it appears from Beethoven’s letter to a
friend at the time (about 1800) that the affection was mutual, but their
difference in rank prevented a marriage. When this sonata appeared (in
1802) it was inscribed to her.
_Adagio._
The first movement is a soft, floating movement, portraying the soul
musing upon a memory of what has affected it deeply. The surrounding is
dim, as seen in moonlight, and the soul is lit up by a reflected light—a
glowing at the memory of a bliss that is past. It is not strange that
this has been called the Moonlight Sonata, just for this feeling of
borrowed light that pervades it. As we gaze into the moon of memory, we
almost forget the reflection, and fancy that the sun of immediate
consciousness is itself present. But anon a flitting cloudlet (a twinge
of bitter regret) obscures the pale beam, or a glance at the
landscape—not painted now with colors as in the daytime, but only
_clare-obscure_—brings back to us the sense of our separation from the
day and the real. Sadly the soft gliding movement continues, and distant
and more distant grows the prospect of experiencing again the remembered
happiness. Only for a passing moment can the throbbing soul realize in
its dreams once more its full completeness, and the plaintive minor
changes to major; but the spectral form of renunciation glides before
its face, and the soul subsides into its grief, and yields to what is
inevitable. Downward into the depths fall its hopes; only a sepulchral
echo comes from the bass, and all is still. Marx calls this “the song of
the renouncing soul.” It is filled with the feeling of separation and
regret; but its slow, dreamy movement is not that of stern resolution,
which should accompany renunciation. Accordingly we have
_Allegretto._
The present and real returns; we no longer dwell on the past; “We must
separate; only this is left.” In this movement we awake from the dream,
and we feel the importance of the situation. Its content is “Farewell,
then;” the phrase expressing this, lingers in its striving to shake off
the grasp and get free. The hands will not let go each other. The phrase
runs into the next and back to itself, and will not be cut off. In the
trio there seems to be the echoing of sobs that come from the depth of
the soul as the sorrowful words are repeated. The buried past still
comes back and holds up its happy hours, while the shadows of the gloomy
future hover before the two renunciants!
This movement is very short, and is followed by the
_Finale_ (_Presto agitato_).
“No grief of the soul that can be conquered except through action,” says
Goethe—and Beethoven expresses the same conviction in the somewhat
sentimental correspondence with the fair countess. This third movement
depicts the soul endeavoring to escape from itself; to cancel its
individualism through contact with the real.
The first movement found the being of the soul involved with
another—having, as it were, lost its essence. If the being upon which it
depends reflects it back by a reciprocal dependence, it again becomes
integral and independent. This cannot be; hence death or renunciation.
But renunciation leaves the soul recoiling upon its finitude, and devoid
of the universality it would have obtained by receiving its being
through another which reciprocally depended upon it. Hence the necessity
of Goethe’s and Beethoven’s solution—the soul must find surcease of
sorrow through action, through will, or practical self-determination.
_Man becomes universal in his deed._
How fiercely the soul rushes into the world of action in this _Finale!_
In its impetuosity it storms through life, and ever and anon falls down
breathless before the collision which it encounters in leaping the
chasms between the different spheres. In its swoon of exhaustion there
comes up from the memory of the past the ghost of the lost love that has
all the while accompanied him, though unnoticed, in his frantic race.
Its hollow tones reverberate through his being, and he starts from his
dream and drowns his memory anew in the storm of action. At times we are
elevated to the creative moment of the artist, and feel its inspiration
and lofty enthusiasm, but again and again the exhausted soul collapses,
and the same abysmal crash comes in at the bass each time. The grimmest
loneliness, that touches to the core, comes intruding itself upon our
rapture. Only in the contest with the “last enemy” we feel at length
that the soul has proved itself valid in a region where distinctions of
rank sunder and divide no more.
This solution is not quite so satisfactory as could be desired. If we
would realize the highest solution, we must study the Fifth Symphony,
especially its second movement.
IV. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony,
(_Part II._)
Marx finds in this symphony the problem so often treated by
Beethoven—the collision of freedom with fate. “Through night to day,
through strife to victory!” Beethoven, in his conversation with
Schindler, speaking of the first “motive” at the beginning, said, “Thus
Fate knocks at the door.” This knocking of Fate comes in continually
during the first movement. “We have an immense struggle portrayed. Life
is a struggle—this seems to be the content of this movement.” The soul
finds a solution to this and sings its pæan of joy.
In the second movement (_andante_) we have an expression of the more
satisfactory solution of the Problem of Life, which we alluded to when
speaking of the Sonata above.
It (“The storm-tossed soul”) has in that consoling thought reached the
harbor of infinite rest—infinite rest in the sense of an “activity which
is a true repose.”
The soul has found this solution, and repeats it over to assure itself
of its reality (1, 1, 1, 7, 1, 2, 1—these are the notes which express
it). Then it wishes to make the experience of the universality of this
solution—it desires to try its validity in all the spheres where Fate
ruled previously. It sets out and ascends the scale three steps at a
time (5, 1, 1, 2, 3—1, 3, 3, 4, 5) it reaches 5 of the scale, and ought
to reach 8 the next time. It looks up to it as the celestial sun which
Gothic Architecture points toward and aspires after. Could it only get
there, it would find true rest! But its command of this guiding thought
is not yet quite perfect—it cannot wield it so as to fly across the
abyss and reach that place of repose without a leap—a “mortal leap.” For
the ascent by threes has reached a place where another three would bring
it to 7 of the scale—the point of absolute unrest; to step four, is to
contradict the rhythm or method of its procedure. It pauses, therefore,
upon 5—it tries the next three thoughtfully twice, and then, hearing
below once more the mocking tones of Fate, it springs over the chasm and
clutches the support above, while through all the spheres there rings
the sound of exultation.
But to reach the goal by a leap—to have no bridge across the gulf at the
end of the road—is not a satisfactory solution of the difficulty. Hence
we have a manifold endeavor—a striving to get at the true method, which
wanders at first in the darkness, but comes at length to the light; it
gets the proper form for its idea, and gives up its unwieldy method of
threes (1, 2, 3—3, 4, 5), and ascends by the infinite form of 1, 3, 5—3,
5, 8—5, 8, 3, &c., which gives it a complete access to, and control
over, all above and below.
The complete self-equipoise expressed in that solution which comes in at
intervals through the whole, and the bold application of the first
method, followed by the faltering when it comes to the defect—the grand
exultation over the final discovery of the true method—all these are
indescribably charming to the lover of music almost the first time he
listens to this symphony, and they become upon repetition more and more
suggestive of the highest that art can give.
THE ALCHEMISTS.
[“Remarks upon Alchemy and the Alchemists, showing that the
Philosopher’s Stone was a Symbol.”—Published by James Miller, New York,
1867.]
We have referred in a previous article to the transition of Religion
into Speculative Philosophy. The Mystics who present this phase of
thought, “express themselves, not in those universal categories that the
Spirit of the race has formed in language for its utterance, but they
have recourse to symbols more or less ambiguous, and of insufficient
universality to stand for the Archetypes themselves.” The Alchemists
belong to this phase of spirit, and we propose to draw from the little
book named at the head of our article, some of the evidences of this
position. It is there shown that instead of the transmutation of metals,
the regeneration of man was in view. Those much-abused men agreed that
“The highest wisdom consists in this,” (quoting from the Arabic author,
Alipili,) “for man to know himself, because in him God has placed his
eternal Word, by which all things were made and upheld, to be his Light
and Life, by which he is capable of knowing all things, both in time and
eternity.” While they claim explicitly to have as object of their
studies the mysteries of Spirit, they warn the reader against taking
their remarks upon the metals in a literal sense, and speak of those who
do so, as being in error. They describe their processes in such a way as
to apply to man alone; pains seem to have been taken to word their
descriptions so as to be utterly absurd when applied to anything else.
In speaking of the “Stone,” they refer to three states, calling them
black, white and red; giving minute descriptions of each, so as to leave
no doubt that man is represented, first, as in a “fallen condition;”
secondly, in a “repenting condition;” and thirdly, as “made perfect
through grace.” This subordination of the outer to the inner, of the
body to the soul, is the constantly recurring theme. Instead of seeking
a thing not yet found—which would be the case with a stone for the
transmutation of metals, they agree in describing the “Stone” as already
known. They refer constantly to such speculative doctrines as “Nature is
a whole everywhere,” showing that their subject possesses universality.
This metal or mineral is described thus: “Minerals have their roots in
the air, their heads and tops in the earth. Our Mercury is aërial; look
for it, therefore, in the air and the earth.” The author of the work
from which we quote the passage, says by way of comment: “In this
passage ‘Minerals’ and ‘our Mercury’ refer to the same thing, and it is
the subject of Alchemy, the Stone; and we may remember that Plato is
said to have defined or described _Man_ as a growth having his root in
the air, his tops in the earth. Man walks indeed upon the surface of the
earth, as if nothing impeded his vision of heaven; but he walks
nevertheless at the bottom of the atmosphere, and between these two, his
_root_ in air, he must work out his salvation.” A great number of these
“Hermetic writers” established their reputation for wit and wisdom by
discoveries in the practical world, and it is difficult to believe that
such men as Roger Bacon, Van Helmont, Ramond Lulli, Jerome Cardan,
Geber, (“The Wise”), Avicenna, Albertus Magnus, Thomas Aquinas, and
others not inferior, could have deceived themselves as the modern theory
implies, viz: that they were searching a chemical recipe for the
manufacture of gold. The symbolic form of statement was esteemed at that
time as the highest form of popular exposition for the Infinite and the
religious problems concerning God, the Soul and the Universe. It seems
that those writers considered such words as “God,” “Spirit,” “Heaven,”
and words of like deep import, as not signifying the thing intended only
so far as the one who used them, comprehended them. Thus, if God was
spoken of by one who sensuously imaged Him, here was idolatry, and the
second commandment was broken. To the Platonist, “God” was the name of
the Absolute Universal, and hence included _subject_ as well as _object_
in thinking. Hence if one objectified God by conceiving Him, he
necessarily limited God, or rather, had no real knowledge of Him. Said
Sextus, the Pythagorean: “Do not investigate the name of God, because
you will not find it. For everything which is called by a name, receives
its appellation from that which is more worthy than itself, so that it
is one person that calls, and another that hears. Who is it, therefore,
that has given a name to God? _God_, however, is not a name for God, but
an indication of what we conceive of him.” From such passages we can see
why the Alchemists called this “Ineffable One,” _Mercury_, _Luna_,
_Sol_, _Argent vive_, _Phœbus_, _Sulphur_, _Antimony_, _Elixir_,
_Alcahest_, _Salt_, and other whimsical names, letting the predicates
applied determine the nature of what was meant. If a writer, speaking of
“Alcahest,” should say that it is a somewhat that rises in the east, and
sets in the west, gives light to the earth, and causes the growth of
plants by its heat, &c., we should not misunderstand his meaning—it
would be giving us the nature of the thing without the common name.
Every one attaches some sort of significance to the words “Life,” “God,”
“Reason,” “Instinct,” &c., and yet who comprehends them? It is evident
that in most cases the word stands for the thing, and hence when one
speaks of such things by name, the hearer yawns and looks listless, as
if he thought: “Well, I know all about that—I learned that when a child,
in the Catechism.” The Alchemists (and Du Fresnoy names nearly a
thousand of these prolific writers) determined that no one should
flatter himself that he knew the nature of the subject before he saw the
predicates applied. Hence the strange names about which such spiritual
doctrines were inculcated. “If we have concealed anything,” says Geber,
“ye sons of learning, wonder not, for we have not concealed it from you,
but have delivered it in such language as that it may be hid from evil
men, and that the unjust and vile might not know it. But, ye sons of
Truth, search, and you shall find this most excellent gift of God, which
he has reserved for you.”
EDITORIALS.
ORIGINALITY.
It is natural that in America more than elsewhere, there should be a
popular demand for originality. In Europe, each nation has, in the
course of centuries, accumulated a stock of its own peculiar creations.
America is sneered at for the lack of these. We have not had time as yet
to develop spiritual capital on a scale to correspond to our material
pretensions. Hence, we, as a people, feel very sensitive on this point,
and whenever any new literary enterprise is started, it is met on every
hand by inquiries like these: “Is it original, or only an importation of
European ideas?” “Why not publish something indigenous?” It grows
cynical at the sight of erudition, and vents its spleen with
indignation: “Why rifle the graves of centuries? You are no hyena! Does
not the spring bring forth its flowers, and every summer its swarms of
gnats? Why build a bridge of rotten coffin planks, or wear a wedding
garment of mummy wrappage? Why desecrate the Present, by offering it
time-stained paper from the shelves of the Past?”
In so far as these inquiries are addressed to our own undertaking, we
have a word to offer in self-justification. We have no objection to
originality of the right stamp. An originality which cherishes its own
little idiosyncrasies we despise. If we must differ from other people,
let us differ in having a wide cosmopolitan culture. “All men are alike
in possessing defects,” says Goethe; “in excellencies alone, it is, that
great differences may be found.”
What philosophic originality may be, we hope to show by the following
consideration:
It is the province of Philosophy to dissolve and make clear to itself
the entire phenomena of the world. These phenomena consist of two kinds:
_first_, the products of nature, or immediate existence; _second_, the
products of spirit, including what modifications man has wrought upon
the former, and his independent creations. These spiritual products may
be again subdivided into _practical_ (in which the _will_
predominates)—the institutions of civilization—and _theoretical_ (in
which the _intellect_ predominates)—art, religion, science, &c. Not only
must Philosophy explain the immediate phenomena of nature—it must also
explain the mediate phenomena of spirit. And not only are the
institutions of civilization proper objects of study, but still more is
this theoretic side that which demands the highest activity of the
philosopher.
To examine the thoughts of man—to unravel them and make them clear—must
constitute the earliest employment of the speculative thinker; his first
business is to comprehend the thought of the world; to dissolve for
himself the solutions which have dissolved the world before him. Hence,
the prevalent opinion that it is far higher to be an “original
investigator” than to be engaged in studying the thoughts of others,
leaves out of view the fact that the thoughts of other men are just as
much objective phenomena to the individual philosopher as the ground he
walks on. They need explanation just as much. If I can explain the
thoughts of the profoundest men of the world, and make clear wherein
they differed among themselves and from the truth, certainly I am more
original than they were. For is not “original” to be used in the sense
of _primariness_, of approximation to the absolute, universal truth? He
who varies from the truth must be secondary, and owe his deflections to
somewhat alien to his being, and therefore be himself subordinate
thereto. Only the Truth makes Free and Original. How many people stand
in the way of their own originality! If an absolute Science should be
discovered by anybody, we could all become absolutely original by
mastering it. So much as I have mastered of science, I have dissolved
into me, and have not left it standing alien and opposed to me, but it
is now my own.
Our course, then, in the practical endeavor to elevate the tone of
American thinking, is plain: we must furnish convenient access to the
deepest thinkers of ancient and modern times. To prepare translations
and commentary, together with original exposition, is our object.
Originality will take care of itself. Once disciplined in Speculative
thought, the new growths of our national life will furnish us objects
whose comprehension shall constitute original philosophy without
parallel. Meanwhile it must be confessed that those who set up this cry
for originality are not best employed. Their ideals are commonplace, and
their demand is too easily satisfied with the mere whimsical, and they
do not readily enough distinguish therefrom the excellent.
CONTENTS OF THE JOURNAL.
Thus far the articles of this journal have given most prominence to art
in its various forms. The speculative content of art is more readily
seen than that of any other form, for the reason that its sensuous
element allows a more genial exposition. The critique of the Second Part
of Faust, by Rosencrantz, published in this number, is an eminent
example of the effect which the study of Speculative Philosophy has upon
the analytical understanding. Is not the professor of logic able to
follow the poet, and interpret the products of his creative imagination?
The portion of Hegel’s Æsthetics, published in this number, giving, as
it does, the historical groundwork of art, furnishes in a genial form an
outline of the Philosophy of History. Doubtless the characteristics of
the Anglo-Saxon mind make it difficult to see in art what it has for
such nations as the Italians and Germans; we have the reflective
intellect, and do not readily attain the standpoint of the creative
imagination.
STYLE.
In order to secure against ambiguity, it is sometimes necessary to make
inelegant repetitions, and, to give to a limiting clause its proper
degree of subordination, such devices as parentheses, dashes, etc., have
to be used to such a degree as to disfigure the page. Capitals and
italics are also used without stint to mark important words. The
adjective has frequently to be used substantively, and, if rare, this
use is marked by commencing it with a capital.
There are three styles, which correspond to the three grades of
intellectual culture. The sensuous stage uses simple, categorical
sentences, and relates facts, while the reflective stage uses
hypothetical ones, and marks relations between one fact and another; it
introduces antithesis. The stage of the Reason uses the disjunctive
sentence, and makes an assertion exhaustive, by comprehending in it a
multitude of interdependencies and exclusions. Thus it happens that the
style of a Hegel is very difficult to master, and cannot be translated
adequately into the sensuous style, although many have tried it. A
person is very apt to blame the style of a deep thinker when he
encounters him for the first time. It requires an “expert swimmer” to
follow the discourse, but for no other reason than that the mind has not
acquired the strength requisite to grasp in one thought a wide extent of
conceptions.
THE JOURNAL OF SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY.
Vol. I. 1867. No. 3.
THE MONADOLOGY.
[Translated from the French of LEIBNITZ, by F. H. HEDGE.]
1. The Monad, of which we shall here speak, is merely a simple substance
entering into those which are compound; simple, that is to say, without
parts.
2. And there must be simple substances, since there are compounds; for
the compound is only a collection or aggregate of simples.
3. Where there are no parts, neither extension, nor figure, nor
divisibility is possible; and these Monads are the veritable Atoms of
Nature—in one word, the Elements of things.
4. There is thus no danger of dissolution, and there is no conceivable
way in which a simple substance can perish naturally.
5. For the same reason, there is no way in which a simple substance can
begin naturally, since it could not be formed by composition.
6. Therefore we may say that the Monads can neither begin nor end in any
other way than all at once; that is to say, they cannot begin except by
creation, nor end except by annihilation; whereas that which is
compounded, begins and ends by parts.
7. There is also no intelligible way in which a Monad can be altered or
changed in its interior by any other creature, since it would be
impossible to transpose anything in it, or to conceive in it any
internal movement—any movement excited, directed, augmented or
diminished within, such as may take place in compound bodies, where
there is change of parts. The Monads have no windows through which
anything can enter or go forth. It would be impossible for any accidents
to detach themselves and go forth from the substances, as did formerly
the Sensible Species of the Schoolmen. Accordingly, neither substance
nor accident can enter a Monad from without.
8. Nevertheless Monads must have qualities—otherwise they would not even
be entities; and if simple substances did not differ in their qualities,
there would be no means by which we could become aware of the changes of
things, since all that is in compound bodies is derived from simple
ingredients, and Monads, being without qualities, would be
indistinguishable one from another, seeing also they do not differ in
quantity. Consequently, a _plenum_ being supposed, each place could in
any movement receive only the just equivalent of what it had had before,
and one state of things would be indistinguishable from another.
9. Moreover, each Monad must differ from every other, for there are
never two beings in nature perfectly alike, and in which it is
impossible to find an internal difference, or one founded on some
intrinsic denomination.
10. I take it for granted, furthermore, that every created being is
subject to change—consequently the created Monad; and likewise that this
change is continual in each.
11. It follows, from what we have now said, that the natural changes of
Monads proceed from an internal principle, since no external cause can
influence the interior.
12. But, besides the principle of change, there must also be a detail of
changes, embracing, so to speak, the specification and the variety of
the simple substances.
13. This detail must involve multitude in unity or in simplicity: for as
all natural changes proceed by degrees, something changes and something
remains, and consequently there must be in the simple substance a
plurality of affections and relations, although there are no parts.
14. This shifting state, which involves and represents multitude in
unity, or in the simple substance, is nothing else than what we call
Perception, which must be carefully distinguished from _apperception_,
or consciousness, as will appear in the sequel. Here it is that the
Cartesians have especially failed, making no account of those
perceptions of which we are not conscious. It is this that has led them
to suppose that spirits are the only Monads, and that there are no souls
of brutes or other Entelechies. It is owing to this that they have
vulgarly confounded protracted torpor with actual death, and have fallen
in with the scholastic prejudice, which believes in souls entirely
separate. Hence, also, ill affected minds have been confirmed in the
opinion that the soul is mortal.
15. The action of the internal principle which causes the change, or the
passage from one perception to another, may be called Appetition. It is
true, the desire cannot always completely attain to every perception to
which it tends, but it always attains to something thereof, and arrives
at new perceptions.
16. We experience in ourselves the fact of multitude in the simple
substance, when we find that the least thought of which we are conscious
includes a variety in its object. Accordingly, all who admit that the
soul is a simple substance, are bound to admit this multitude in the
Monad, and Mr. Boyle should not have found any difficulty in this
admission, as he has done in his dictionary—Art. Rorarius.
17. Besides, it must be confessed that Perception and its consequences
are inexplicable by mechanical causes—that is to say, by figures and
motions. If we imagine a machine so constructed as to produce thought,
sensation, perception, we may conceive it magnified—the same proportions
being preserved—to such an extent that one might enter it like a mill.
This being supposed, we should find in it on inspection only pieces
which impel each other, but nothing which can explain a perception. It
is in the simple substance, therefore—not in the compound, or in
machinery—that we must look for that phenomenon; and in the simple
substance we find nothing else—nothing, that is, but perceptions and
their changes. Therein also, and therein only, consist all the internal
acts of simple substances.
18. We might give the name of Entelechies to all simple substances or
created Monads, inasmuch as there is in them a certain completeness
(perfection), (ἔχουσι τὸ ἔντελες). There is a sufficiency (αὐτάρκεια)
which makes them the sources of their own internal actions, and, as it
were, incorporeal automata.
19. If we choose to give the name of soul to all that has perceptions
and desires, in the general sense which I have just indicated, all
simple substances or created Monads may be called souls. But as
sentiment is something more than simple perception, I am willing that
the general name of Monads and Entelechies shall suffice for those
simple substances which have nothing but perceptions, and that the term
souls shall be confined to those whose perceptions are more distinct,
and accompanied by memory.
20. For we experience in ourselves a state in which we remember nothing,
and have no distinct perception, as when we are in a swoon or in a
profound and dreamless sleep. In this state the soul does not differ
sensibly from a simple Monad; but since this state is not permanent, and
since the soul delivers herself from it, she is something more.
21. And it does not by any means follow, in that case, that the simple
substance is without perception: that, indeed, is impossible, for the
reasons given above; for it cannot perish, neither can it subsist
without affection of some kind, which is nothing else than its
perception. But where there is a great number of minute perceptions, and
where nothing is distinct, one is stunned, as when we turn round and
round in continual succession in the same direction; whence arises a
vertigo, which may cause us to faint, and which prevents us from
distinguishing anything. And possibly death may produce this state for a
time in animals.
22. And as every present condition of a simple substance is a natural
consequence of its antecedent condition, so its present is big with its
future.
23. Then, as on awaking from a state of stupor, we become conscious of
our perceptions, we must have had perceptions, although unconscious of
them, immediately before awaking. For each perception can have no other
natural origin but an antecedent perception, as every motion must be
derived from one which preceded it.
24. Thus it appears that if there were no distinction—no relief, so to
speak—no enhanced flavor in our perceptions, we should continue forever
in a state of stupor; and this is the condition of the naked Monad.
25. And so we see that nature has given to animals enhanced perceptions,
by the care which she has taken to furnish them with organs which
collect many rays of light and many undulations of air, increasing their
efficacy by their union. There is something approaching to this in odor,
in taste, in touch, and perhaps in a multitude of other senses of which
we have no knowledge. I shall presently explain how that which passes in
the soul represents that which takes place in the organs.
26. Memory gives to the soul a kind of consecutive action which imitates
reason, but must be distinguished from it. We observe that animals,
having a perception of something which strikes them, and of which they
have previously had a similar perception, expect, through the
representation of their memory, the recurrence of that which was
associated with it in their previous perception, and incline to the same
feelings which they then had. For example, when we show dogs the cane,
they remember the pain which it caused them, and whine and run.
27. And the lively imagination, which strikes and excites them, arises
from the magnitude or the multitude of their previous perceptions. For
often a powerful impression produces suddenly the effect of long habit,
or of moderate perceptions often repeated.
28. In men as in brutes, the consecutiveness of their perceptions is due
to the principle of memory—like empirics in medicine, who have only
practice without theory. And we are mere empirics in three-fourths of
our acts. For example, when we expect that the sun will rise to-morrow,
we judge so empirically, because it has always risen hitherto. Only the
astronomer judges by an act of reason.
29. But the cognition of necessary and eternal truths is that which
distinguishes us from mere animals. It is this which gives us Reason and
Science, and raises us to the knowledge of ourselves and of God; and it
is this in us which we call a reasonable soul or spirit.
30. It is also by the cognition of necessary truths, and by their
abstractions, that we rise to acts of reflection, which give us the idea
of that which calls itself “I,” and which lead us to consider that this
or that is in us. And thus, while thinking of ourselves, we think of
Being, of substance, simple or compound, of the immaterial, and of God
himself. We conceive that that which in us is limited, is in him without
limit. And these reflective acts furnish the principal objects of our
reasonings.
31. Our reasonings are founded on two great principles, that of
“_Contradiction_,” by virtue of which we judge that to be false which
involves contradiction, and that to be true which is opposed to, or
which contradicts the false.
32. And that of the “_Sufficient Reason_,” by virtue of which we judge
that no fact can be real or existent, no statement true, unless there be
a sufficient reason why it is thus, and not otherwise, although these
reasons very often cannot be known to us.
33. There are also two sorts of truths—those of reasoning and those of
fact. Truths of reasoning are necessary, and their opposite is
impossible; those of fact are contingent, and their opposite is
possible. When a truth is necessary, we may discover the reason of it by
analysis, resolving it into simpler ideas and truths, until we arrive at
those which are ultimate.[3]
34. It is thus that mathematicians by analysis reduce speculative
theorems and practical canons to definitions, axioms and postulates.
35. And finally, there are simple ideas of which no definition can be
given; there are also axioms and postulates,—in one word, _ultimate
principles_, which cannot and need not be proved. And these are
“Identical Propositions,” of which the opposite contains an express
contradiction.
36. But there must also be a sufficient reason for truths contingent, or
truths of fact—that is, for the series of things diffused through the
universe of creatures—or else the process of resolving into particular
reasons might run into a detail without bounds, on account of the
immense variety of the things of nature, and of the infinite division of
bodies. There is an infinity of figures and of movements, present and
past, which enter into the efficient cause of my present writing; and
there is an infinity of minute inclinations and dispositions of my soul,
present and past, which enter into the final cause of it.
37. And as all this detail only involves other anterior or more detailed
contingencies, each one of which again requires a similar analysis in
order to account for it, we have made no advance, and the sufficient or
final reason must be outside of the series of this detail of
contingencies,[4] endless as it may be.
38. And thus the final reason of things must be found in a necessary
Substance, in which the detail of changes exists eminently as their
source. And this is that which we call GOD.
39. Now this Substance being a sufficient reason of all this detail,
which also is everywhere linked together, _there is but one God, and
this God suffices_.
40. We may also conclude that this supreme Substance, which is Only,[5]
Universal, and Necessary—having nothing outside of it which is
independent of it, and being a simple series of possible beings—must be
incapable of limits, and must contain as much of reality as is possible.
41. Whence it follows that God is perfect, perfection being nothing but
the magnitude of positive reality taken exactly, setting aside the
limits or bounds in that which is limited. And there, where there are no
bounds, that is to say, in God, perfection is absolutely infinite.
42. It follows also that the creatures have their perfections from the
influence of God, but they have their imperfections from their proper
nature, incapable of existing without bounds; for it is by this that
they are distinguished from God.
43. It is true, moreover, that God is not only the source of existences,
but also of essences, so far as real, or of that which is real in the
possible; because the divine understanding is the region of eternal
truths, or of the ideas on which they depend, and without Him there
would be nothing real in the possibilities, and not only nothing
existing, but also nothing possible.
44. At the same time, if there be a reality in the essences or
possibilities, or in the eternal truths, this reality must be founded in
something existing and actual, consequently in the existence of the
necessary Being, in whom essence includes existence, or with whom it is
sufficient to be possible in order to be actual.
45. Thus God alone (or the necessary Being) possesses this privilege,
that he must exist if possible; and since nothing can hinder the
possibility of that which includes no bounds, no negation, and
consequently no contradiction, that alone is sufficient to establish the
existence of God _a priori_. We have likewise proved it by the reality
of eternal truths. But we have also just proved it _a posteriori_ by
showing that, since contingent beings exist, they can have their
ultimate and sufficient reason only in some necessary Being, who
contains the reason of his existence in himself.
46. Nevertheless, we must not suppose, with some, that eternal verities,
being dependent upon God, are arbitrary, and depend upon his will, as
Des Cartes, and afterward M. Poiret, appear to have conceived. This is
true only of contingent truths, the principle of which is fitness, or
the choice of the best; whereas necessary truths depend solely on His
understanding, and are its internal object.
47. Thus God alone is the primitive Unity, or the simple original
substance of which all the created or derived Monads are the products;
and they are generated, so to speak, by continual fulgurations of the
Divinity, from moment to moment, bounded by the receptivity of the
creature, of whose existence limitation is an essential condition.
48. In God is _Power_, which is the source of all; then Knowledge, which
contains the detail of Ideas; and, finally, Will, which generates
changes or products according to the principle of optimism. And this
answers to what, in created Monads, constitutes the subject or the
basis, the perceptive and the appetitive faculty. But in God these
attributes are absolutely infinite or perfect, and in the created
Monads, or in the Entelechies (or _perfectihabiis_, as Hermolaus
Barbarus translates this word), they are only imitations according to
the measure of their perfection.
49. The creature is said to act externally, in so far as it possesses
perfection, and to suffer from another (creature) so far as it is
imperfect. So we ascribe action to the Monad, so far as it has distinct
perceptions, and passion, so far as its perceptions are confused.
50. And one creature is more perfect than another, in this: that we find
in it that which serves to account _a priori_ for what passes in the
other; and it is therefore said to act upon the other.
51. But in simple substances this is merely an ideal influence of one
Monad upon another, which can pass into effect only by the intervention
of God, inasmuch as in the ideas of God one Monad has a right to demand
that God, in regulating the rest from the commencement of things, shall
have regard to it; for since a created Monad can have no physical
influence on the interior of another, it is only by this means that one
can be dependent on another.
52. And hence it is that actions and passions in creatures are mutual;
for God, comparing two simple substances, finds reasons in each which
oblige him to accommodate the one to the other. Consequently that which
is active in one view, is passive in another—active so far as what we
clearly discern in it serves to account for that which takes place in
another, and passive so far as the reason of that which passes in it is
found in that which is clearly discerned in another.
53. Now, as in the ideas of God there is an infinity of possible worlds,
and as only one can exist, there must be a sufficient reason for the
choice of God, which determines him to one rather than another.
54. And this reason can be no other than fitness, derived from the
different degrees of perfection which these worlds contain, each
possible world having a claim to exist according to the measure of
perfection which it enfolds.
55. And this is the cause of the existence of that Best, which the
wisdom of God discerns, which his goodness chooses, and his power
effects.
56. And this connection, or this accommodation of all created things to
each, and of each to all, implies in each simple substance relations
which express all the rest. Each, accordingly, is a living and perpetual
mirror of the universe.
57. And as the same city viewed from different sides appears quite
different, and is perspectively multiplied, so, in the infinite
multitude of simple substances, there are given, as it were, so many
different worlds which yet are only the perspectives of a single one,
according to the different points of view of each Monad.
58. And this is the way to obtain the greatest possible variety with the
greatest possible order—that is to say, the way to obtain the greatest
possible perfection.
59. Thus this hypothesis (which I may venture to pronounce demonstrated)
is the only one which properly exhibits the greatness of God. And this
Mr. Boyle acknowledges, when in his dictionary (Art. Rorarius) he
objects to it. He is even disposed to think that I attribute too much to
God, that I ascribe to him impossibilities; but he can allege no reason
for the impossibility of this universal harmony, by which each substance
expresses exactly the perfections of all the rest through its relations
with them.
60. We see, moreover, in that which I have just stated, the _a priori_
reasons why things could not be other than they are. God, in ordering
the whole, has respect to each part, and specifically to each Monad,
whose nature being representative, is by nothing restrained from
representing the whole of things, although, it is true, this
representation must needs be confused, as it regards the detail of the
universe, and can be distinct only in relation to a small part of
things, that is, in relation to those which are nearest, or whose
relations to any given Monad are greatest. Otherwise each Monad would be
a divinity. The Monads are limited, not in the object, but in the mode
of their knowledge of the object. They all tend confusedly to the
infinite, to the whole; but they are limited and distinguished by the
degrees of distinctness in their perceptions.
61. And compounds symbolize in this with simples. For since the world is
a _plenum_, and all matter connected, and as in a _plenum_ every
movement has some effect on distant bodies, in proportion to their
distance, so that each body is affected not only by those in actual
contact with it, and feels in some way all that happens to them, but
also through their means is affected by others in contact with those by
which it is immediately touched—it follows that this communication
extends to any distance. Consequently, each body feels all that passes
in the universe, so that he who sees all, may read in each that which
passes everywhere else, and even that which has been and shall be,
discerning in the present that which is removed in time as well as in
space. “Συμπνόιει Πάντα,” says Hippocrates. But each soul can read in
itself only that which is distinctly represented in it. It cannot unfold
its laws at once, for they reach into the infinite.
62. Thus, though every created Monad represents the entire universe, it
represents more distinctly the particular body to which it belongs, and
whose Entelechy it is: and as this body expresses the entire universe,
through the connection of all matter in a _plenum_, the soul represents
also the entire universe in representing that body which especially
belongs to it.
63. The body belonging to a Monad, which is its Entelechy or soul,
constitutes, with its Entelechy, what may be termed a living (thing),
and, with its soul, what may be called an animal. And the body of a
living being, or of an animal, is always organic; for every Monad, being
a mirror of the universe, according to its fashion, and the universe
being arranged with perfect order, there must be the same order in the
representative—that is, in the perceptions of the soul, and consequently
of the body according to which the universe is represented in it.
64. Thus each organic living body is a species of divine machine, or a
natural automaton, infinitely surpassing all artificial automata. A
machine made by human art is not a machine in all its parts. For
example, the tooth of a brass wheel has parts or fragments which are not
artificial to us; they have nothing which marks the machine in their
relation to the use for which the wheel is designed; but natural
machines—that is, living bodies—are still machines in their minutest
parts, _ad infinitum_. This makes the difference between nature and art,
that is to say, between the Divine art and ours.
65. And the author of nature was able to exercise this divine and
infinitely wonderful art, inasmuch as every portion of nature is not
only infinitely divisible, as the ancients knew, but is actually
subdivided without end—each part into parts, of which each has its own
movement. Otherwise, it would be impossible that each portion of matter
should express the universe.
66. Whence it appears that there is a world of creatures, of living
(things), of animals, of Entelechies, of souls, in the minutest portion
of matter.
67. Every particle of matter may be conceived as a garden of plants, or
as a pond full of fishes. But each branch of each plant, each member of
each animal, each drop of their humors, is in turn another such garden
or pond.
68. And although the earth and the air embraced between the plants in
the garden, or the water between the fishes of the pond, are not
themselves plant or fish, they nevertheless contain such, but mostly too
minute for our perception.
69. So there is no uncultured spot, no barrenness, no death in the
universe—no chaos, no confusion, except in appearance, as it might seem
in a pond at a distance, in which one should see a confused motion and
swarming, so to speak, of the fishes of the pond, without distinguishing
the fishes themselves.
70. We see, then, that each living body has a governing Entelechy, which
in animals is the soul of the animal. But the members of this living
body are full of other living bodies—plants, animals—each of which has
its Entelechy, or regent soul.
71. We must not, however, suppose—as some who misapprehended my thought
have done—that each soul has a mass or portion of matter proper to
itself, or forever united to it, and that it consequently possesses
other inferior living existences, destined forever to its service. For
all bodies are in a perpetual flux, like rivers. Their particles are
continually coming and going.
72. Thus the soul does not change its body except by degrees. It is
never deprived at once of all its organs. There are often metamorphoses
in animals, but never Metempsychosis—no transmigration of souls. Neither
are there souls entirely separated (from bodies), nor genii without
bodies. God alone is wholly without body.
73. For which reason, also, there is never complete generation nor
perfect death—strictly considered—consisting in the separation of the
soul. That which we call generation, is development and accretion; and
that which we call death, is envelopment and diminution.
74. Philosophers have been much troubled about the origin of forms, of
Entelechies, or souls. But at the present day, when, by accurate
investigations of plants, insects and animals, they have become aware
that the organic bodies of nature are never produced from chaos or from
putrefaction, but always from seed, in which undoubtedly there had been
a _preformation_; it has been inferred that not only the organic body
existed in that seed before conception, but also a soul in that body—in
one word, the animal itself—and that, by the act of conception, this
animal is merely disposed to a grand transformation, to become an animal
of another species. We even see something approaching this, outside of
generation, as when worms become flies, or when caterpillars become
butterflies.
75. Those animals, of which some are advanced to a higher grade, by
means of conception, may be called _spermatic_; but those among them
which remain in their kind—that is to say, the greater portion—are born,
multiply, and are destroyed, like the larger animals, and only a small
number of the elect among them, pass to a grander theatre.
76. But this is only half the truth. I have concluded that if the animal
does not begin to be in the order of nature, it also does not cease to
be in the order of nature, and that not only there is no generation, but
no entire destruction—no death, strictly considered. And these _a
posteriori_ conclusions, drawn from experience, accord perfectly with my
principles deduced _a priori_, as stated above.
77. Thus we may say, not only that the soul (mirror of an indestructible
universe) is indestructible, but also the animal itself, although its
machine may often perish in part, and put off or put on organic spoils.
78. These principles have furnished me with a natural explanation of the
union, or rather the conformity between the soul and the organized body.
The soul follows its proper laws, and the body likewise follows those
which are proper to it, and they meet in virtue of the preëstablished
harmony which exists between all substances, as representations of one
and the same universe.
79. Souls act according to the laws of final causes, by appetitions,
means and ends; bodies act according to the laws of efficient causes, or
the laws of motion. And the two kingdoms, that of efficient causes and
that of final causes, harmonize with each other.
80. Des Cartes perceived that souls communicate no force to bodies,
because the quantity of force in matter is always the same.
Nevertheless, he believed that souls might change the direction of
bodies. But this was because the world was at that time ignorant of the
law of nature, which requires the conservation of the same total
direction in matter. Had he known this, he would have hit upon my system
of preëstablished harmony.
81. According to this system, bodies act as if there were no souls, and
souls act as if there were no bodies; and yet both act as though the one
influenced the other.
82. As to spirits, or rational souls, although I find that at bottom the
same principle which I have stated—namely, that animals and souls begin
with the world and end only with the world—holds with regard to all
animals and living things, yet there is this peculiarity in rational
animals, that although their spermatic animalcules, as such, have only
ordinary or sensitive souls, yet as soon as those of them which are
_elected_, so to speak, arrive by the act of conception at human nature,
their sensitive souls are elevated to the rank of reason and to the
prerogative of spirits.
83. Among other differences which distinguish spirits from ordinary
souls, some of which have already been indicated, there is also this:
that souls in general are living mirrors, or images of the universe of
creatures, but spirits are, furthermore, images of Divinity itself, or
of the Author of Nature, capable of cognizing the system of the
universe, and of imitating something of it by architectonic experiments,
each spirit being, as it were, a little divinity in its own department.
84. Hence spirits are able to enter into a kind of fellowship with God.
In their view he is not merely what an inventor is to his machine (as
God is in relation to other creatures), but also what a prince is to his
subjects, and even what a father is to his children.
85. Whence it is easy to conclude that the assembly of all spirits must
constitute the City of God—that is to say, the most perfect state
possible, under the most perfect of monarchs.
86. This City of God, this truly universal monarchy, is a moral world
within the natural; and it is the most exalted and the most divine among
the works of God. It is in this that the glory of God most truly
consists, which glory would be wanting if his greatness and his goodness
were not recognized and admired by spirits. It is in relation to this
Divine City that he possesses, properly speaking, the attribute of
_goodness_, whereas his wisdom and his power are everywhere manifest.
87. As we have established above, a perfect harmony between the two
natural kingdoms—the one of efficient causes, the other of final
causes—so it behooves us to notice here also a still further harmony
between the physical kingdom of nature and the moral kingdom of
grace—that is to say, between God considered as the architect of the
machine of the universe, and God considered as monarch of the divine
City of Spirits.
88. This harmony makes all things conduce to grace by natural methods.
This globe, for example, must be destroyed and repaired by natural
means, at such seasons as the government of spirits may require, for the
chastisement of some and the recompense of others.
89. We may say, furthermore, that God as architect contains entirely God
as legislator, and that accordingly sins must carry their punishment
with them in the order of nature, by virtue even of the mechanical
structure of things, and that good deeds in like manner will bring their
recompense, through their connection with bodies, although this cannot,
and ought not always to, take place on the spot.
90. Finally, under this perfect government, there will be no good deed
without its recompense, and no evil deed without its punishment, and all
must redound to the advantage of the good—that is to say, of those who
are not malcontents—in this great commonwealth, who confide in
Providence after having done their duty, and who worthily love and
imitate the Author of all good, pleasing themselves with the
contemplation of his perfections, following the nature of pure and
genuine Love, which makes us blest in the happiness of the loved. In
this spirit, the wise and good labor for that which appears to be
conformed to the divine will, presumptive or antecedent, contented the
while with all that God brings to pass by his secret will, consequent
and decisive,—knowing that if we were sufficiently acquainted with the
order of the universe we should find that it surpasses all the wishes of
the wisest, and that it could not be made better than it is, not only
for all in general, but for ourselves in particular, if we are attached,
as is fitting, to the Author of All, not only as the architect and
efficient cause of our being, but also as our master and the final
cause, who should be the whole aim of our volition, and who alone can
make us blest.
Footnote 3:
_Primitifs._
Footnote 4:
i. e., Accidental causes.
Footnote 5:
_Unique._
A CRITICISM OF PHILOSOPHICAL SYSTEMS.
[Translated from the German of J. G. FICHTE, by A. E. KROEGER.]
[NOTE.—The following completes Fichte’s Second Introduction to the
Science of Knowledge, or his Criticism of Philosophical Systems. In
the first division of what follows, Fichte traces out his own
transcendental standpoint in the Kantian Philosophy, and next
proceeds, in the second division, to connect it with what was
printed in our previous number, criticising without mercy the
dogmatic standpoint. By the completion of this article, we have
given to the readers of our _Journal_ Fichte’s own great
Introductions to that Science of Knowledge, which is about to be
made accessible to American readers through the publishing house of
Messrs. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia. Our readers are, therefore,
especially prepared to enter upon a study of Fichte’s wonderful
system, for none of these Introductions, as indeed none of Fichte’s
works of Science, have ever before been published in the English
language. In a subsequent number we shall print Fichte’s “Sun-clear
Statement regarding the true nature of the Science of Knowledge,” a
masterly exhibition of the treatment of scientific subjects in a
popular form. We hope that all who have read, or will read these
articles, will also enter upon a study of the great work which they
are designed to prepare for; the study is worth the pains.—EDITOR.]
I.
It is not the habit of the _Science of Knowledge_, nor of its author, to
seek protection under any authority whatever. The person who has first
to see whether this doctrine agrees with the doctrine of somebody else
before he is willing to be convinced by it, is not one whom this science
calculates to convince, because the absolute self-activity and
independent faith in himself which this science presupposes, is wanting
in him.
It was therefore quite a different motive than a desire to recommend his
doctrines, which led the author of the Science of Knowledge to state
that his doctrine was in perfect harmony with Kant’s doctrine, and was
indeed the very same. In this opinion he has been confirmed by the
continued elaboration of his system, which he was compelled to
undertake. Nevertheless, all others who pass for students of Kant’s
philosophy, and who have spoken on the subject—whether they were friends
or opponents of the Science of Knowledge—have unanimously asserted the
contrary; and _by their advice_, even Kant himself, who ought certainly
best to understand himself, asserts the contrary. If the author of the
Science of Knowledge were disposed towards a certain manner of thinking,
this would be welcome news to him. Moreover, since he considers it no
disgrace to have misunderstood Kant, and foresees that to have
misunderstood him will soon be considered no disgrace by general
opinion, he ought surely not to hesitate to assume that disgrace,
especially as it would confer upon him the honor of being the first
discoverer of a philosophy which will certainly become universal, and be
productive of the most beneficial results for mankind.
It is indeed scarcely explicable why friends and opponents of the
Science of Knowledge so zealously contradict that assertion of its
author, and why they so earnestly request him to prove it, although he
never promised to do so, nay, expressly refused, since such a proof
would rather belong to a future History of Philosophy than to a present
representation of that system. The opponents of the Science of Knowledge
in thus calling for a proof, are certainly not impelled by a tender
regard for the fame of the author of that Science; and the friends of it
might surely leave the subject alone, as I myself have no taste for such
an honor, and seek the only honor which I know, in quite a different
direction. Do they clamor for this proof in order to escape my charge,
that they did not understand the writings of Kant? But such an
accusation from the lips of the author of the Science of Knowledge is
surely no reproach, since he confesses as loudly as possible, that he
also has not understood them, and that only after he had discovered in
his own way the Science of Knowledge, did he find a correct and
harmonious interpretation of Kant’s writings. Indeed, that charge will
soon cease to be a reproach from the lips of anybody. But perhaps this
clamor is raised to escape the charge that they did not recognize their
own doctrine, so zealously defended by them, when it was placed before
them in a different shape from their own. If this is the case, I should
like to save them this reproach also, if there were not another
interest, which to me appears higher than theirs, and to which their
interest _shall_ be sacrificed. The fact is, I do not wish to be
considered for one moment more than I am, nor to ascribe to myself a
merit which I do not possess.
I shall therefore, in all probability, be compelled to enter upon the
proof which they so earnestly demand, and hence improve the opportunity
at present offered to me.
The Science of Knowledge starts, as we have just now seen, from an
intellectual contemplation, from the absolute self-activity of the Ego.
Now it would seem beyond a doubt, and evident to all the readers of
Kant’s writings, that this man has declared himself on no subject more
decisively, nay, I might say contemptuously, than in denying this power
of an intellectual contemplation. This denial seems so thoroughly rooted
in the Kantian System, that, after all the elaboration of his
philosophy, which he has undertaken _since_[6] the appearance of the
_Critique of Pure Reason_, and by means of which, as will be evident to
any one, the propositions of that first work have received a far higher
clearness and development than they originally possessed;—he yet, in one
of his latest works, feels constrained to repeat those assertions with
undiminished energy, and to show that the present style of philosophy,
which treats all labor and exertion with contempt, as well as a most
disastrous fanaticism, have resulted from the phantom of an intellectual
contemplation.
Is any further proof needed, that a Philosophy, which is based on the
very thing so decidedly rejected by the Kantian System, must be
precisely the opposite of that system, and must be moreover the very
senseless and disastrous system, of which Kant speaks in that work of
his? Perhaps, however, it might be well first to inquire, whether the
same word may not express two utterly different conceptions in the two
systems. In Kant’s terminology, all contemplation is directed upon a
_Being_ (a permanent Remaining); and intellectual contemplation would
thus signify in his system the immediate consciousness of a non-sensuous
Being, or the immediate consciousness (through pure thinking) of the
thing per se; and hence a creation of the thing _per se_ through its
conception, in nearly the same manner as the existence of God is
demonstrated from the mere conception of God;—those who do so must look
upon God’s existence as a mere sequence of their thinking. Now Kant’s
system—taking the direction it did take—may have considered it necessary
in this manner to keep the thing _per se_ at a respectful distance. But
the Science of Knowledge has finished the thing _per se_ in another
manner; that Science knows it to be the completest perversion of reason,
a purely irrational conception. To that science all being is necessarily
_sensuous_, for it evolves the very conception of Being from the form of
sensuousness. That science regards the intellectual contemplation of
Kant’s system as a phantasm, which vanishes the moment one attempts to
think it, and which indeed is not worth a name at all. The intellectual
contemplation, whereof the Science of Knowledge speaks, is not at all
directed upon a Being, but upon an Activity; and Kant does not even
designate it, (unless you wish to take the expression “_Pure
apperception_” for such a designation). Nevertheless, it can be clearly
shown where in Kant’s System it ought to have been mentioned. I hope
that the _categorical imperative_ of Kant occurs in consciousness,
according to his System. Now what sort of consciousness is this of the
categorical imperative? This question Kant never proposed to himself,
because he never treated of the basis of _all_ Philosophy. In his
_Critique of Pure Reason_ he treated only of theoretical Philosophy, and
could therefore not introduce the categorical imperative; in his
_Critique of Practical Reason_, he treated only of practical Philosophy,
wherein the question concerning the manner of consciousness could not
arise.
This consciousness is doubtless an immediate, but no sensuous
consciousness—hence exactly what I call intellectual contemplation. Now,
since we have no classical author in Philosophy, I give it the latter
name, with the same right with which Kant gives it to something else,
which is a mere nothing; and with the same right I insist that people
ought first to become acquainted with the significance of my terminology
before proceeding to judge my system.
My most estimable friend, the Rev. Mr. Schulz—to whom I had made known
my indefinite idea of building up the whole Science of Philosophy on the
pure Ego, long before I had thoroughly digested that idea, and whom I
found less opposed to it than any one else—has a remarkable passage on
this subject. In his review of Kant’s _Critique of Pure Reason_, he
says: “The pure, active self-consciousness, in which really every one’s
Ego consists, must not be confounded—for the very reason because it can
and must teach us in an immediate manner—with the _power of
contemplation_, and must not be made to involve the doctrine that we are
in possession of a _supersensuous, intellectual power of contemplation_.
For we call _contemplation_ a _representation_, which is _immediately_
related to an object. But pure self-consciousness is not representation,
but is rather that which first makes a representation to become really a
representation. If I say, ‘I represent something to myself,’ it
signifies just the same as if I said, ‘I am conscious that I have a
representation of this object.’”
According to Mr. Schulz, therefore, a representation is that whereof
consciousness is possible. Now Mr. Schulz also speaks of pure
self-consciousness. Undoubtedly he knows whereof he speaks, and hence,
as philosopher, he most truly has a representation of pure
self-consciousness. It was not of this consciousness of the philosopher,
however, that Mr. Schulz spoke, but of original consciousness; and hence
the significance of his assertion is this: Originally (i. e. in common
consciousness without philosophical reflection) mere self-consciousness
does not constitute full consciousness, but is merely a necessary
compound, which makes full consciousness first possible. But is it not
the same with _sensuous_ contemplation? Does _sensuous_ contemplation
constitute a consciousness, or is it not rather merely that whereby a
representation first becomes a representation? Contemplation without
conception is confessedly blind. How, then, can Mr. Schulz call
(sensuous) contemplation (excluding from it self-consciousness)
representation? From the standpoint of the philosopher, as we have just
seen, self-consciousness is equally representation; from the standpoint
of original contemplation, sensuous contemplation is equally _not_
representation. Or does the conception constitute a representation? The
conception without contemplation is confessedly empty. In truth,
self-consciousness, sensuous contemplation, and conception, are, in
their isolated separateness, not representations—they are only that
through which representations become possible. According to Kant, to
Schulz, and to myself, a complete representation contains a threefold:
1st. That whereby the representation relates itself to an object, and
becomes the representative of a _Something_—and this we unanimously call
the _sensuous contemplation_ (even if I am myself the object of my
representation, it is by virtue of a sensuous contemplation, for then I
become to myself a permanent in time); 2d. That through which the
representation relates itself to the subject, and becomes _my_
representation; this I also call contemplation (but _intellectual
contemplation_), because it has the same relation to the complete
representation which the sensuous contemplation has; but Kant and Schulz
do not want it called so; and, 3d. That through which both are united,
and only in this union become representation; and this we again
unanimously call _conception_.
But to state it tersely: what is really the Science of Knowledge in two
words? It is this: Reason is absolutely self-determined; Reason is only
for Reason; but for Reason there is also nothing but Reason. Hence,
everything, which Reason is, must be grounded in itself, and out of
itself, but not in or out of another—some external other, which it could
never grasp without giving up itself. In short, the Science of Knowledge
is transcendental idealism. Again, what is the content of the Kantian
system in two words? I confess that I cannot conceive it possible how
any one can understand even one sentence of Kant, and harmonize it with
others, except on the same presupposition which the Science of Knowledge
has just asserted. I believe that that presupposition is the everlasting
refrain of his system; and I confess that one of the reasons why I
refused to prove the agreement of the Science of Knowledge with Kant’s
system was this: It appeared to me somewhat too ridiculous and too
tedious to show up the forest by pointing out the several trees in it.
I will cite here one chief passage from Kant. He says: “The highest
principle of the possibility of all contemplation in relation to the
understanding is this: that all the manifold be subject to the
conditions of the original unity of apperception.” That is to say, in
other words, “That something which is contemplated be also _thought_, is
only possible on condition that the possibility of the original unity of
apperception can coexist with it.” Now since, according to Kant,
contemplation also is possible only on condition that it be thought and
comprehended—otherwise it would remain blind—and since contemplation
itself is thus subject to the conditions of the possibility of
thinking—it follows that, according to Kant, not only Thinking
immediately, but by the mediation of thinking, contemplation also, and
hence _all consciousness_, is subject to the conditions of the original
unity of apperception.
Now, what is this condition? It is true, Kant speaks of conditions, but
he states only one as a fundamental condition. What is this condition of
the original unity of apperception? It is this (see § 16 of the
_Critique of Pure Reason_), “that my representations _can_ be
accompanied by the ‘_I_ think’”—the word “_I_” alone is italicised by
Kant, and this is somewhat important; that is to say, _I am the
thinking_ in this thinking.
Of what “I” does Kant speak here? Perhaps of the Ego, which his
followers quietly heap together by a manifold of representations, in no
single one of which it was, but in all of which collectively it now is
said to be. Then the words of Kant would signify this: I, who think D,
am the same I who thought A, B and C, and it is only through the
thinking of my manifold thinking, that I first became I to myself—that
is to say, the _identical_ in the manifold? In that case Kant would have
been just such a pitiable tattler as these Kantians; for in that case
the possibility of all thinking would be conditioned, according to him,
by another thinking, and by the thinking of this thinking; and I should
like to know how we could ever arrive at a thinking.
But, instead of tracing the consequences of Kant’s statement, I merely
intended to cite his own words. He says again: “This representation,
‘_I_ think,’ is an act of spontaneity, i. e. it cannot be considered as
belonging to ‘sensuousness’.“ (I add: and hence, also, not to inner
sensuousness, to which the above described identity of consciousness
most certainly does belong.) Kant continues: “I call it pure
apperception, in order to distinguish it from the empirical (just
described) apperception, and because it is that self-consciousness,
which, in producing the representation ‘I think’—which must accompany
all other representations, and is _in all consciousness one and the
same_—can itself be accompanied by no other representation.”
Here the character of pure self-consciousness is surely clearly enough
described. It is in all consciousness the same—hence undeterminable by
any accident of consciousness; in it the Ego is only determined through
itself, and is thus absolutely determined. It is also clear here, that
Kant could not have understood this pure apperception to mean the
consciousness of our individuality, nor could he have taken the latter
for the former; for the consciousness of my individuality, as an _I_, is
necessarily conditioned by, and only possible through, the consciousness
of another individuality, a _Thou_.
Hence we discover in Kant’s writings the conception of the _pure Ego_
exactly as the Science of Knowledge has described it, and completely
determined. Again, in what relation does Kant, in the above passage,
place this pure Ego to all consciousness? As _conditioning the same_.
Hence, according to Kant, the possibility of all consciousness is
conditioned by the possibility of the pure Ego, or by pure
self-consciousness, just as the Science of Knowledge holds. In thinking,
the conditioning is made the prior of the conditioned—for this is the
significance of that relation; and thus it appears that, according to
Kant, a systematic deduction of all consciousness, or, which is the
same, a System of Philosophy, must proceed from the pure Ego, just as
the Science of Knowledge proceeds; and Kant himself has thus suggested
the idea of such a Science.
But some one might wish to weaken this argument by the following
distinction: It is one thing to _condition_, and another to _determine_.
According to Kant, all consciousness is only _conditioned_ by
self-consciousness; i. e. the _content_ of that consciousness may have
its ground in something else than self-consciousness; provided the
results of that grounding do not _contradict_ the conditions of
self-consciousness; those results need not _proceed_ from
self-consciousness, provided they do not cancel its possibility.
But, according to the Science of Knowledge, all consciousness is
_determined_ through self-consciousness; i. e. everything which occurs
in consciousness is _grounded_, _given_ and _produced_ by the conditions
of self-consciousness, and a ground of the same in something other than
self-consciousness does not exist at all.
Now, to meet this argument, I must show that in the present case the
_determinateness_ follows immediately from the _conditionedness_, and
that, therefore, the distinction drawn between both is not valid in this
instance. Whosoever says, “All consciousness is conditioned by the
possibility of self-consciousness, _and as such I now propose to
consider it_,” knows in this his investigation, nothing more concerning
consciousness, and abstracts from everything he may believe, further to
know concerning it. He deduces what is required from the asserted
principle, and only what he thus has _deduced_ as consciousness is for
him consciousness, and everything else is and remains nothing. Thus the
derivability from self-consciousness _determines_ for him the extent of
that which he holds to be consciousness, because he starts from the
presupposition that all consciousness is _conditioned_ by the
possibility of self-consciousness.
Now I know very well that Kant has by no means _built up_ such a system;
for if he had, the author of the Science of Knowledge would not have
undertaken that work, but would have chosen another branch of human
knowledge for his field. I know that he has by no means _proven_ his
categories to be conditions of self-consciousness; I know that he has
simply asserted them so to be; that he has still less deduced time and
space, and that which in original consciousness is _inseparable_ from
them—the matter which fills time and space—as such conditions; since of
these he has not even expressly stated, as he has done in the case of
the categories, that they are such conditions. But I believe I know
quite as well that Kant has _thought_ such a system; that all his
writings and utterances are fragments and results of this system, and
that his assertions get meaning and intention only through this
presupposition. Whether he did not himself think this system with
sufficient clearness and definiteness to enable him to utter it for
others; or whether he did, indeed, think it thus clearly and merely _did
not want_ so to utter it, as some remarks would seem to indicate, might,
it seems to me, be left undecided; at least somebody else must
investigate this matter, for I have never asserted anything on this
point.[7] But, however such an investigation may result, this _merit_
surely belongs altogether to the great man; that he first of all
consciously separated philosophy from external objects, and led that
science into the Self. This is the spirit and the inmost soul of all his
philosophy, and this also is the spirit and soul of the Science of
Knowledge.
I am reminded of a chief distinction which is said to exist between the
Science of Knowledge and Kant’s system, and a distinction which but
recently has been again insisted upon by a man who is justly supposed to
have understood Kant, and who has shown that he also has understood the
Science of Knowledge. This man is Reinhold, who, in a late essay, in
endeavoring to prove that I have done injustice to _myself_, and to
other successful students of Kant’s writings—in stating what I have just
now reiterated and proved, i. e. that Kant’s system and the Science of
Knowledge are the same—proceeds to remark: “The _ground_ of our
assertion, that there is an external something corresponding to our
representations, is most certainly held by the _Critique of Pure Reason_
to be contained in the Ego; but only in so far as _empirical knowledge_
(experience) has taken place in the Ego as a fact; that is to say, the
_Critique of Pure Reason_ holds that this empirical knowledge has its
ground in the pure Ego only in relation to its _transcendental content_,
which is the _form_ of that knowledge; but in regard to its _empirical_
content, which gives that knowledge objective validity, it is grounded
in the Ego through a something _which is not the Ego_. Now, a scientific
form of philosophy was not possible so long as that something, which is
not Ego, was looked for outside of the Ego as ground of the objective
reality of the transcendental content of the Ego.”
Thus Reinhold. I have not convinced my readers, or demonstrated my
proof, until I have met this objection.
The (purely historical) question is this: Has Kant really placed the
ground of experience (in its empirical content) _in a something
different from the Ego_?
I know very well that all the Kantians, except Mr. Beck, whose work
appeared after the publication of the Science of Knowledge, have really
understood Kant to say this. Nay, the last interpreter of Kant, Mr.
Schulz, whom Kant himself has endorsed, thus interprets him. How often
does Mr. Schulz admit that _the objective ground of the appearances is
contained in something which is a thing in itself_, &c., &c. We have
just seen how Reinhold also interprets Kant.
Now it may seem presumptuous for one man to arise and say: “Up to this
moment, amongst a number of worthy scholars who have devoted their time
and energies to the interpretation of a certain book, not a single one
has understood that book otherwise than _utterly falsely_; they all have
discovered in that system the very doctrine which it refutes—dogmatism,
instead of transcendental idealism; _and I alone understand it
rightly_.” Yet this presumption might be but seemingly so; for it is to
be hoped that other persons will adopt that one man’s views, and that,
therefore, he will not always stand alone. There are other reasons why
it is not very presumptuous to contradict the whole number of Kantians,
but I will not mention them here.
But what is most curious in this matter is this—the discovery that Kant
did not intend to speak of a something different from the Ego, is by no
means a new one. For ten years everybody could read the most thorough
and complete proof of it in Jacobi’s “Idealism and Realism,” and in his
“Transcendental Idealism.” In those works, Jacobi has put together the
most evident and decisive passages from Kant’s writings on this subject,
in Kant’s own words. I do not like to do again what has once been done,
and cannot be done better; and I refer my readers with the more pleasure
to those works, as they, like all philosophical writings of Jacobi, may
be even yet of advantage to them.
A few questions, however, I propose to address to those interpreters of
Kant. Tell me, how far does the applicability of the categories extend,
according to Kant, particularly of the category of causality? Clearly
only to the field of appearances, and hence only to that which is
already in us and for us. But in what manner do we then come to accept a
something different from the Ego, as the ground of the empirical content
of Knowledge? I answer: only by drawing a conclusion from the grounded
to the ground; hence by applying the category of causality. Thus,
indeed, Kant himself discovers it to be, and hence rejects the
assumption of _things, &c., &c., outside of us_. But his interpreters
make him forget for the present instance the validity of categories
generally, and make him arrive, by a bold leap, from the world of
appearances to the thing _per se_ outside of us. Now, how do these
interpreters justify this inconsequence?
Kant evidently speaks of a thing _per se_. But what is this thing to
him? A _noumenon_, as we can find in many passages of his writings.
Reinhold and Schulz also hold it to be a _noumenon_. Now, what is a
_noumenon_? According to Kant, to Reinhold, and Schulz, a something,
which our _thinking_—by laws to be shown up, and which Kant has shown
up—_adds_ to the appearance, and which _must_ so be added in
_thought_;[8] which, therefore, is produced _only through our thinking_;
not, however, through our _free_, but through a _necessary_ thinking,
which is only _for our thinking_—for us thinking beings.
But what do those interpreters make of this _noumenon_ or thing in
itself? The thought of this thing in itself is grounded in sensation,
and sensation they again assert to be grounded in the thing in itself.
Their globe rests on the great elephant, and the great elephant—rests on
the globe. Their thing in itself, which is a mere thought, they say
_affects_ the Ego. Have they then forgotten their first speech, and is
the thing, _per se_, which a moment ago was but a mere thought, now
turned into something more? Or do they seriously mean to apply to a mere
thought, the exclusive predicate of reality, i. e. causality? And such
teachings are put forth as the astonishing discoveries of the great
genius, who, with his torch, lights up the retrograde philosophical
century.
It is but too well known to me that the Kantianism of the Kantians is
precisely the just described system—is really this monstrous composition
of the most vulgar dogmatism, which allows things _per se_ to make
impressions upon us, and of the most decided idealism, which allows all
being to be generated only through the thinking of the intelligence, and
which knows nothing of any other sort of being. From what I am yet going
to say on this subject, I except two men—Reinhold, because with a power
of mind and a love of truth which do credit to his heart and head, he
has abandoned this system, (which, however, he still holds to be the
Kantian system, and I only disagree with him on this purely historical
question,) and Schulz, because he has of late been silent on
philosophical questions, which leaves it fair to assume that he has
begun to doubt his former system.
But concerning the others, it must be acknowledged by all who have still
their inner sense sufficiently under control to be able to distinguish
between being and thinking and not to mix both together, that a system
which thus mixes being and thinking receives but too much honor if it is
spoken of seriously. To be sure, very few men may be properly required
to overcome the natural tendency towards dogmatism sufficiently to lift
themselves up to the free flight of Speculation. What was impossible for
a man of overwhelming mental activity like Jacobi, how can it be
expected of certain other men, whom I would rather not name? But that
these incurable dogmatists should have persuaded themselves that Kant’s
_Critique of Pure Reason_ was food for them; that they had the boldness
to conclude—since Kant’s writings had been praised (God may know by what
chance!) in some celebrated journal—they might also now follow the
fashion and become Kantians; that since then, for years, they, in their
intoxication, have be-written many a ream of valuable paper, without
ever, in all this time, having come to their senses, or understood but
one period of all they have written; that up to the present day, though
they have been somewhat rudely shaken, they have not been able to rub
the sleep out of their eyes, but rather prefer to beat and kick about
them, in the hope of striking some of these unwelcome disturbers of
their peace; and that the German public, so desirous of acquiring
knowledge, should have bought their blackened paper with avidity, and
attempted to suck up the spirit of it—nay, should even, perhaps, have
copied and recopied these writings without ever clearly perceiving that
there was no sense in them: all this will forever, in the annals of
philosophy, remain the disgrace of our century, and our posterity will
be able to explain these occurrences of our times only on the
presupposition of a mental epidemic, which had taken hold of this age.
But, will these interpreters reply: your argument is, after all—if we
abstract from Jacobi’s writings, which, to be sure, are rather hard to
swallow, since they quote Kant’s own words—no more than this: it is
absurd; hence Kant cannot have meant to say it. Now, if we admit the
absurdity, as unfortunately we must, why, then, might not Kant have said
these absurdities, just as well as we others, amongst whom there are
some, of whom you yourself confess the merits, and to whom you doubtless
will not deny all sound understanding?
I reply: to be the inventor of a system is one thing, and to be his
commentators and successors, another. What, in case of the latter, would
not testify to an absolute want of sound sense, might certainly evince
it in the former. The ground is this: the latter are not yet possessed
of the idea of the whole—for if they were so possessed, there would be
no necessity for them to study the system; they are merely to construct
it out of the _parts_ which the inventor hands over to them; and all
these parts are, in their minds, not fully determined, rounded off, and
made smooth, until they are united into a natural whole. Now, this
construction of the parts may require some time, and during this time it
may occur that these men determine some parts inaccurately, and hence
place them in contradiction with the whole, of which they are not yet
possessed. The discoverer of the idea of the whole, on the contrary,
proceeds from this idea, in which all parts are united, and these parts
he separately places before his readers, because only thus can he
communicate the whole. The work of the former is a synthetizing of that
which they do not yet possess, but are to obtain through the synthesis;
the work of the latter is an analyzing of that which he already
possesses. It is very possible that the former may not be aware of the
contradiction in which the several parts stand to the whole which is to
be composed of them, for they may not have got so far yet as to compare
them. But it is quite certain that the latter, who proceeded from the
composite, must have thought, or believed that he thought, the
contradiction which is in the parts of his representation—for _he_
certainly at one time held all the parts together. It is not absurd to
think dogmatism now, and in another moment transcendental idealism; for
this we all do, and must do, if we wish to philosophize about both
systems; but it is absurd to think both systems as _one_. The
interpreters of Kant’s system do not necessarily think it thus as one;
but the author of that system must certainly have done so if his system
was intended to effect such a union.
Now, I, at least, am utterly incapable of believing such an absurdity on
the part of any one who has his senses; how, then, can I believe Kant to
have been guilty of it? Unless Kant, therefore, declares expressly in so
many words, _that he deduces sensation from an impression of the thing_,
_per se_, or, to use his own terminology, _that sensation must be
explained in philosophy, from a transcendental object which exists
outside of us_, I shall not believe what these interpreters tell us of
Kant. But if he does make this declaration, I shall consider the
_Critique of Pure Reason_ rather as the result of the most marvellous
accident than as the product of a mind.
But, say our opponents, does not Kant state expressly that “The object
is given to us,” and “that this is possible because the object affects
us as in a certain manner,” and “that there is a power of attaining
representations by the manner in which objects affect us, which power is
called _sensuousness_.” Nay, Kant says even this: “How should our
knowledge be awakened into exercise if it were not done by objects that
touch our senses and partly produce representations themselves, while
partly putting our power of understanding into motion, to compare,
connect and separate these representations, and thus to form the _raw
material_ of our sensuous impressions into a knowledge which is called
experience.” Well, these are probably all the passages which can be
adduced by our opponents. Now, putting merely passages against passages,
and words against words, and abstracting altogether from the idea of the
whole, which I assume these interpreters never to have had, let me ask
first, if these passages could really not be united with Kant’s other
frequently repeated statements, viz., that it is folly to speak of an
impression produced upon us by an external transcendental object,—how
did it happen that these interpreters preferred to sacrifice the many
statements, which assert a transcendental idealism, to these _few_
passages, which assert a dogmatism, than _vice versa_? Doubtless because
they did not attempt the study of Kant’s writings with an impartial
mind, but had their heads full of that dogmatism—which constitutes their
very being—as the only correct system, which they assumed such a
sensible man as Kant must necessarily also hold to be the only correct
system; and because they thus did not seek to be taught by Kant, but
merely to be confirmed by him in their old way of thinking.
But cannot these seemingly opposite statements be united? Kant speaks in
these passages of _objects_. What this word is to signify, we clearly
must learn from Kant himself. He says: “It is the understanding which
adds the object to the appearance, by _connecting_ the manifold of the
appearance _in one consciousness_. When this is done, we say we know the
_object_, for we have effected a synthetical unity in the manifold of
the contemplation, and the conception of this unity is the
representation of the object = X. _But this_ X _is not the
transcendental object_ (i. e. the thing _per se_), _for of that we know
not even so much_.”
What, then, is this object? That which the understanding _adds_ to the
appearance, _a mere thought_. Now, the object affects—i. e. _something
which is a mere thought affects_. What does this mean? If I have but a
spark of logic, it means simply: it affects in so far as it is; hence
_it is only thought as affecting_. Let us now see what Kant means when
he speaks about the “power to obtain representations by the manner in
which objects affect us.” Since we only _think_ the affection itself, we
doubtless only think likewise that which is common to the affection. Or:
if you posit an object with the thought that it has affected you, you
think yourself _in this case affected_; and if you think that this
occurs in respect to _all_ the objects of your perception, you think
yourself as _liable to be affected generally_—or, in other words, you
ascribe to yourself, _through this your thinking_, receptivity or
sensuousness.
But do we not thus assume, after all, _affection_ to explain knowledge?
Let me state the difference in one word: it is true, all our knowledge
proceeds from _an affection_, but not an affection _through an object_.
This is Kant’s doctrine, and that of the Science of Knowledge. As Mr.
Beck has overlooked this important point, and as Reinhold does not call
sufficient attention to that which makes the positing of a non-Ego
possible, I consider it proper to explain the matter in a few words. In
doing so I shall use my own terminology, and not Kant’s, because I
naturally have my own more at my command.
When I posit myself, I posit myself as a limited; in consequence of the
contemplation of my self-positing, I am finite.
This, my limitedness—since it is the condition which makes my
self-positing possible—is an original limitedness. Somebody might wish
to explain this still further, and either deduce the limitedness of
myself as the reflected, from my necessary limitedness as the
reflecting; which would result in the statement: I am finite to myself,
because I can think only the finite;—or he might explain the limitedness
of the reflecting from that of the reflected, which would result in the
statement: I can think only the finite, because I am finite. But such an
explanation would explain nothing, for I am originally neither the
reflecting nor the reflected, but _both in their union_; which union I
cannot think, it is true, because I separate, in thinking, the
reflecting from the reflected.
All limitedness is, by its very conception, a _determined_, and not a
general limitedness.
From the possibility of an Ego, we have thus deduced the necessity of a
_general limitedness_ of the Ego. But the _determinedness_ of this
limitedness cannot be deduced, since it is, as we have seen, that which
conditions all Egoness. Here, therefore, all deduction is at an end.
This _determinedness_ appears as the absolutely accidental, and
furnishes the _merely empirical_ of our knowledge. It is this
determinedness, for instance, by virtue of which I am, amongst all
possible rational beings, a _man_, and amongst all men this _particular_
person, &c., &c.
This, my limitation, in its determinedness, manifests itself as a
limitation of my practical power (here philosophy is therefore driven
from the theoretical to the practical sphere); and the immediate
perception of this limitation is a _feeling_ (I prefer to use this word
instead of Kant’s “_sensation_,” for feeling only becomes sensation by
being related in thinking to an object); for instance, the feeling of
sweet, red, cold, &c.
To forget this original feeling, leads to a bottomless transcendental
idealism, and to an incomplete philosophy, which cannot explain the
simply sensible predicates of objects. Now, the endeavor to explain this
original feeling from the causality of a _something_, is the dogmatism
of the Kantians, which I have just shown up, and which they would like
to put on Kant’s shoulders. This, their something, is the everlasting
thing _per se_. All _transcendental_ explanation, on the contrary, stops
at the immediate feeling, from the reason just pointed out. It is true,
the _empirical_ Ego, which transcendental idealism observes, explains
this feeling to itself by the law, “No limitation without a limiting;”
and thus, through contemplation of the limiting, produces extended
matter, of which it now, as of its ground, predicates the merely
subjective sensation of feeling; and it is only by virtue of this
synthesis that the Ego makes itself an object. The continued analysis
and the continued explanation of its own condition, give to the Ego its
own system of a universe; and the observation of the laws of this
explanation gives to the philosopher his science. It is here that Kant’s
_Realism_ is based, but his Realism is a _transcendental idealism_.
This whole determinedness, and hence also the total of feelings which it
makes possible, is to be regarded as _a priori_—i. e. absolutely,
without any action of our own—determined. It is Kant’s _receptivity_,
and a particular of this receptivity is an _affection_. Without it,
consciousness is unexplainable.
There is no doubt that it is an immediate fact of consciousness—I feel
_myself_ thus or thus determined. Now, when the oft-lauded philosophers
attempt to _explain_ this feeling, is it not clear that they attempt to
append something to it which is not immediately involved in the fact?
and how can they do this, except through thinking, and through a
thinking according to a category, which category is here that of the
real ground? Now, if they have not an immediate contemplation of the
thing _per se_ and its relations, what else can they possibly know of
this category, but that they are compelled to think according to it?
They assert nothing but that _they_ are compelled to add in thought a
thing as the ground of this feeling. But this we cheerfully admit in
regard to the standpoint which they occupy. Their thing is produced by
their thinking; and now it is at the same time to be a thing _per se_,
i. e. not produced by thinking.
I really do not comprehend them; I can neither think this thought, nor
think an understanding which does think it; and by this declaration, I
hope I have done with them forever.
VII.
Having finished this digression, we now return to our original
intention, which was to describe the procedure of the Science of
Knowledge, and to justify it against the attacks of certain
philosophers. We said, the philosopher observes himself in the act
whereby he constructs for himself the conception of himself; and we now
add, he also _thinks this act of his_.
For the philosopher, doubtless, knows whereof he speaks; but a mere
contemplation gives no consciousness; only that is known which is
conceived and thought. This conception or comprehension of his activity
is very well possible for the philosopher, since he is already in
possession of experience; for he has a conception of _activity in
general, and as such_, namely, as the opposite of the equally well known
conception of _Being_; and he also has a conception of this _particular_
activity, as that of an _intelligence_, i. e. as simply an ideal
activity, and not the real causality of the practical Ego; and moreover,
a conception of the peculiar character of this particular activity as an
_in itself returning activity_, and not an activity directed upon an
external object.
But here as well as everywhere it is to be well remembered that the
contemplation is and remains the basis of the conception, i. e. of that
which is conceived in the conception. We cannot absolutely create or
produce by thinking; we can only think that which is immediately
contemplated by us. A thinking, which has no contemplation for its
basis, which does not embrace a contemplation entertained in the same
undivided moment, is an empty thinking, or is really no thinking at all.
At the utmost it may be the thinking of a mere sign of the conception,
and if this sign is a word, as seems likely, the mere thoughtless
utterance of this word. I determine my contemplation by the thinking of
an opposite; this and nothing else is the meaning of the expression—I
comprehend the contemplation.
Through thinking, the activity, which the philosopher thinks, becomes
_objective_ to him, i. e. it floats before him, in so far as he thinks
it, as something which checks or limits the freedom (the
undeterminedness) of his thinking. This is the true and original
significance of objectivity. As certain as I think, I think a determined
something; or, in other words, the freedom of my thinking, which might
have been directed upon an infinite manifold of objects, is now, when I
think, only directed upon that limited sphere of my thinking which the
present object fills. It is limited to this sphere. _I restrict myself_
with freedom to this sphere, if I contemplate _myself_ in the doing of
it. _I am restricted_ by this sphere, if I contemplate only the _object_
and forget myself, as is universally done on the standpoint of common
thinking. What I have just now said is intended to correct the following
objections and misunderstandings.
All thinking is necessarily directed upon a being, say some. Now the Ego
of the Science of Knowledge is not to have being; hence it is
unthinkable, and the whole Science, which is built upon such a
contradiction, is null and void.
Let me be permitted to make a preliminary remark concerning the spirit
which prompts this objection. When the wise men, who urge it, take the
conception of the Ego as determined in the Science of Knowledge, and
examine it by the rules of their logic, they doubtless think that
conception, for how else could they compare and relate it to something
else? If they really could not think it, they would not be able to say a
word about it, and it would remain altogether unknown to them. But they
have really, as we see, happily achieved the thinking of it, and so must
be able to think it. Yet, because according to their traditional and
misconceived rules, they _ought to have been_ unable to think it, they
would now rather deny the possibility of an act, while doing it, than
give up their rule; they would believe an old book rather than their own
consciousness. How little can these men be aware of what they really do!
How mechanically, and without any inner attention and spirit, must they
produce their philosophical specimens! Master Jourdan after all was
willing to believe that he had spoken prose all his lifetime, without
knowing it, though it did appear rather curious; but these men, if they
had been in his place, would have proven in the most beautiful prose
that they could not speak prose, since they did not possess the rules of
speaking prose, and since the conditions of the possibility of a thing
must always precede its reality. Nay, if critical idealism should
continue to be a burden to them, it is to be expected that they will
next go to Aristotle for advice as to whether they really live, or are
already dead and buried. By doubting the possibility of ever becoming
conscious of their freedom and Egoness, they are covertly already
doubting this very point.
Their objection might therefore be summarily put aside, since it
contradicts, and thus annihilates itself. But let us see where the real
ground of the misunderstanding may be concealed.
All thinking necessarily proceeds from a being, say they. Now what does
this mean? If it is to mean what we have just shown up, namely, that
there is in all thinking a thought, an object of the thinking, to which
this particular thinking confines itself, and by which it seems to be
limited, then their premise must undoubtedly be admitted; and it is not
the Science of Knowledge which is going to deny it. This objectivity for
the mere thinking does doubtless also belong to the Ego, from which the
Science of Knowledge proceeds; or, which means the same, to the act
whereby the Ego constructs itself for itself. But it is only through
thinking and only for thinking that it has this objectivity; it is
merely an _ideal_ being.
If, however, the being, of their above assertion, is to mean not a _mere
ideal_, but a _real_ being, i. e. a something, limiting not only the
ideal, but also the actually productive, the practical activity of the
Ego—that is to say, a something permanent in time and persistent in
space—then that assertion of theirs is unwarranted. If it were correct,
no science of philosophy were possible, for the conception of the Ego
would be unthinkable; and self-consciousness, nay, even consciousness,
would also be impossible. If it were correct, we, it is true, should be
compelled to stop philosophizing; but this would be no gain to them, for
they would also have to stop refuting us. But do they not themselves
repudiate the correctness of their assertion? Do they not think
themselves every moment of their life as free and as having causality?
Do they not, for instance, think themselves the free, active authors of
the very sensible and very original objections, which they bring up from
time to time against our system? Now, is then this “themselves”
something which checks and limits their causality, or is it not rather
the very opposite of the check, namely, the very causality itself? I
must refer them to what I have said in § v. on this subject. If such a
sort of being were ascribed to the Ego, the Ego would cease to be Ego;
it would become a _thing_, and its conception would be annihilated. It
is true that afterwards—not afterwards as a posteriority in time, but
afterwards in the series of the dependence of thinking—we also ascribe
such a being to the Ego, which, nevertheless, remains and must remain
Ego in the original meaning of the word; this being consisting partly of
extension and persistency in space, _and in this respect it becomes a
body_, and partly identity and permanency in time, and in this respect
it becomes a soul. But it is the business of philosophy to prove, and
genetically to explain how the Ego comes to think itself thus, and all
this belongs not to that which is presupposed, but to that which is to
be deduced. The result, therefore, remains thus: the Ego is originally
only an act_ing_; if you but think it as an act_ive_, you have already
an Empirical, and hence a conception of it, which must first be
deduced.[9]
But our opponents claim that they do not make their assertion without
all proof; they want to prove it by logic, and, if God is willing, by
the logical proposition of contradiction.
If there is anything which clearly shows the lamentable condition of
philosophy as a science in these our days, it is that such occurrences
can take place. If anybody were to speak about mathematics, natural
sciences, or any other science, in a manner which would indicate beyond
a doubt his complete ignorance concerning the first principles of such a
science, he would be at once sent back to the school from which he ran
away too soon. But in philosophy it is not to be thus. If in philosophy
a man shows in the same manner his complete ignorance, we are, with many
bows and compliments to the sharp-sighted man, to give him publicly that
private schooling which he so sadly needs, and without betraying the
least smile or gesture of disgust. Have, then, the philosophers in two
thousand years made clear not a single proposition which might now be
considered as established for that science without further proof? If
there is such a proposition, it is certainly that of the distinction of
logic, as a purely formal science, from real philosophy or metaphysics.
But what is really the true meaning of this terrible logical proposition
of contradiction which is to crush at one stroke our whole system? As
far as I know, simply this: _if_ a conception is already determined by a
certain characteristic, then it must not be determined by another
opposite characteristic. But by what characteristic the conception is
originally to be characterized, this logical theorem does not say, nor
can say, for it presupposes the original determination, and is
applicable only in so far as that is presupposed. Concerning the
original determination another science will have to decide.
These wise men tell us that it is _contradictory_ not to determine a
conception by the predicate of actual being. Yet how can this be
contradictory, unless the conception has first been thus determined by
the predicate of actual being, and has then had that predicate denied to
it? But who authorized them to determine the conception by that
predicate? Do not these adepts in logic perceive that they postulate
their principle, and turn around in an evident circle? Whether there
really be a conception, which is originally—by the laws of the
synthetizing, not of the merely analyzing reason—_not determined by that
predicate of actual being_, this they will have to go and learn from
contemplation; logic only warns them against afterwards again applying
the same predicate to that conception; of course also, in the same
respect, in which they have denied the determinability of the conception
by that predicate.
But certainly if they have not yet elevated themselves to _the
consciousness_ of that contemplation, which is not determined by the
predicate of being, (for that they should unconsciously possess that
contemplation itself, Reason herself has taken care of,) then _all
their_ conceptions, which can be derived only from sensuous
contemplation, are very properly determined by the predicate of this
actual being. In that case, however, they must not believe that logic
has taught them this asserted connection of thinking and being, for
their knowledge of it is altogether derived from their unfortunate
empirical self. They, standing on the standpoint of knowing no other
conceptions than those derived from sensuous contemplation, would, of
course, contradict _themselves_ if they were to think one of _their_
conceptions without the predicate of actual being. We, on our part, are
also well content to let them retain this rule for themselves, since it
is most assuredly universally valid for the whole sphere of _their_
possible thinking; and to let them always carefully keep an eye on this
rule, so that they may not violate it. As for ourselves, however, we
cannot use this their rule any longer, for we possess a few conceptions
more, resting in a sphere over which their rule does not extend, and
about which they can speak nothing, since it does not exist for them.
Let them, therefore, attend to their own business hereafter, and leave
us to attend to ours. Even in so far as we grant them the rule, namely,
that every thinking must have an object of thinking; it is by no means a
logical rule, but rather one which logic presupposes, and through which
logic first becomes possible. _To think_, is the same as to determine
objects; both conceptions are identical; logic furnishes the _rules_ of
this determining, and hence presupposes clearly enough the determining
generally as a part of consciousness. That all thinking has an object
can be shown only in contemplation. Think! and observe in this thinking
how you do it, and you will doubtless find that you oppose to your
thinking an object of this thinking.
Another objection, somewhat related to the above, is this: If you do not
proceed from a being, how can you, without being illogical, deduce a
being? You will never be able to get anything else out of what you take
in hand than what is already contained in it, unless you proceed
dishonestly and use juggler tricks.
I reply: Nor do we deduce being in the sense in which you use the word,
i. e. as _being_, _per se_. What the philosopher takes up is an
_acting_, which acts according to certain laws, and what he establishes
is the series of necessary acts of this acting. Amongst these acts there
occurs one which to the acting itself appears as a being, and which by
laws to be shown up, _must_ so appear to it. The philosopher who
observes the acting from a higher standpoint, never ceases to regard it
as an acting. A being exists only for the observed Ego, which thinks
realistically; but for the philosopher there is acting, and only acting,
for he thinks idealistically.
Let me express it on this occasion in all clearness: The essence of
transcendental idealism generally, and of the Science of Knowledge
particularly, consists in this, that the conception of being is not at
all viewed as a _first_ and _original_ conception, but simply as a
_derived_ conception; derived from the opposition of activity. Hence it
is considered only as a _negative_ conception. The only positive for the
idealist is _Freedom_; being is the mere negative of freedom. Only thus
has idealism a firm basis, and is in harmony with itself. But dogmatism,
which believed itself safely reposing upon being, as a basis no further
to be investigated or grounded, regards this assertion as a stupidity
and horror, for it is its annihilation. That wherein the dogmatist,
amongst all the inflictions which he has experienced from time to time,
still found a hiding place—namely, some original being, though it were
but a raw and formless _matter_—is now utterly destroyed, and he stands
naked and defenceless. He has no weapons against this attack except the
assurance of his hearty disgust, and his confession, that he does not
understand, and positively cannot and will not think, what is required
of him. We cheerfully give credence to this statement, and only beg that
he will also place faith in our assurance, that we find it not at all
difficult to think our system. Nay, if this should be too much for him,
we can even abstain from it, and leave him to believe whatever he
chooses on this point. That we do not and cannot force him to adopt our
system, because its adoption depends upon freedom, has already been
often enough admitted.
I say that the dogmatist has nothing left but the assurance of his
incapacity, for the idea of intrenching himself behind general logic,
and conjuring the shade of the Stagirite, because he knows not how to
defend his own body, is altogether new, and will find few imitators even
in this universal state of despair; since the least school knowledge of
what logic really is, will suffice to make every one reject this
protection.
Let no one be deceived by these opponents, if they adopt the language of
idealism, and admitting with their lips the correctness of its views,
protest that they know well enough that being is only to signify _being
for us_. They are dogmatists. For every one who asserts that all
thinking and consciousness must proceed from a being, makes being
something primary; and it is this which constitutes dogmatism. By such a
confusion of speech they but demonstrate the utter confusion of their
conceptions; for what may a _being for us_ mean, which is, nevertheless,
to be an original _not_-derived being? Who, then, are those “_we_,” for
whom alone this being is? Are they _intelligences_ as such? Then the
statement “there is something for the intelligence,” signifies, this
something is represented by the intelligence; and the statement “it is
_only_ for the intelligence,” signifies, it is _only_ represented. Hence
the conception of a being, which, from a certain point of view, is to be
independent of the representation, must, after all, be derived from the
representation, since it is to be, only through it; and these men would,
therefore, be more in harmony with the Science of Knowledge than they
believed. Or are those “_we_” themselves things, original things, things
in themselves? How, then, can anything be _for_ them; how can they even
be for themselves, since the conception of a thing involves merely that
it is, but not that the thing is _for itself_? What may the word _for_
signify to them? Is it, perhaps, but an innocent adornment which they
have adopted for the sake of fashion?
VIII.
The Science of Knowledge has said, “It is not possible to abstract from
the Ego.” This assertion may be regarded from two points of view—either
from the standpoint of common consciousness, and then it means, “We
never have another representation than that of ourselves; throughout our
whole life, and in all moments of our life, we think only I, I, I, and
nothing but I.” Or it may be viewed from the standpoint of the
philosopher, and then it will have the following significance: “The Ego
must necessarily be added in thought to whatever occurs in
consciousness;” or as Kant expresses it, “All my representations must be
thought as accompanied by—I think.” What nonsense were it to maintain
the first interpretation to be the true one, and what wretchedness to
refute it in that interpretation. But in the latter interpretation the
assertion of the Science of Knowledge will doubtless be acceptable to
every one who is but able to understand it; and if it had only been thus
understood before, we should long ago have been rid of the thing _per
se_, for it would have been seen that we are always the Thinking,
whatever we may think, and that hence nothing can occur in us which is
independent of us, because it all is necessarily related to our
thinking.
IX.
“But,” confess other opponents of the Science of Knowledge, “as far as
our own persons are concerned, we cannot, under the conception of the
Ego, think anything else than our own dear persons as opposed to other
persons. Ego (I) signifies my particular person, named, for instance,
Caius or Sempronius, as distinguished from other persons not so named.
Now, if I should abstract, as the Science of Knowledge requires me to
do, from this individual personality, there would be nothing left to me
which might be characterized as _I_; I might just as well call the
remainder _It_.”
Now, what is the real meaning of this objection, so boldly put forth?
Does it speak of the original real synthesis of the conception of the
individual (their own dear persons and other persons), and do they
therefore mean to say, “there is nothing synthetized in this conception
but the conception of an object generally—of the _It_, and of other
objects (_Its_)—from which the first one is distinguished?” Or does that
objection fly for protection to the common use of language, and do they
therefore mean to say, “In language, the word I (Ego) signifies only
individuality?” As far as the first is concerned, every one, who is as
yet possessed of his senses, must see that by distinguishing one object
from its equals, i. e. from other objects, we arrive only at a
_determined object_, but not at a determined _person_. The synthesis of
the conception of the personality is quite different. The _Egoness_ (the
in itself returning activity, the subject-objectivity, or whatever you
choose to call it,) is originally opposed to the _It_, to the mere
objectivity; and the positing of these conceptions is absolute, is
conditioned by no other positing, is thetical, not synthetical. This
conception of the Egoness, which has arisen in our Self, is now
transferred to something, which in the first positing was posited as an
_It_, as mere object, and is synthetically united with it; and it is
only through this conditional synthesis that there first arises for us a
_Thou_. The conception of Thou arises from the union of the It and the
I. The conception of the Ego in this opposition; hence, as conception of
the individual, is the synthesis of the I with itself. That which posits
itself in the described act, not generally, but _as Ego_, is I; and that
which in the same act is posited as Ego, not _through itself_, but
_through me_, is Thou. Now it is doubtless possible to abstract from
this product of a synthesis, for what we ourselves have synthetized we
doubtless can analyze again, and when we so abstract, the remainder will
be the general Ego, i. e. the not-object. Taken in this interpretation,
the objection would be simply absurd.
But how if our opponents cling to the use of language? Even if it is
true that the word “I” has hitherto signified in language only the
individual, would this make it necessary that a distinction in the
original synthesis is not to be remarked and named, simply because it
has never before been noticed? But is it true? Of what use of language
do they speak? Of the philosophical language? I have shown already that
Kant uses the conception of the pure Ego in the same meaning I attach to
it. If he says, “I am the thinking in this thinking,” does he then only
oppose himself to other persons, and not rather to all object of
thinking generally? Kant says again, “The fundamental principle of the
necessary unity of apperception is itself identical, and hence an
analytical proposition.” This signifies precisely what I have just
stated, i. e. that the Ego arises through no synthesis, the manifold
whereof might be further analyzed, but through an absolute thesis. But
this Ego is the _Egoness_ generally; for the conception of individuality
arises clearly enough through synthesis, as I have just shown; and the
fundamental principle of individuality is therefore a synthetical
proposition. Reinhold, it is true, speaks of the Ego simply as of the
representing; but this does not affect the present case; for when I
distinguish myself as the representing from the represented, do I then
distinguish myself from other persons, and not rather from all object of
representation as such? But take even the case of these same much lauded
philosophers, who do not, like Kant and like the Science of Knowledge,
presuppose the Ego in advance of the manifold of representation, but
rather heap it together, out of that manifold; do they, then, hold their
one thinking in the manifold thinking to be only the thinking of the
individual, and not rather of the intelligence generally? In one word:
is there any philosopher of repute, who before them has ventured to
discover that the Ego signifies only the individual, and that if the
individuality is abstracted from, only an object in general remains?
Or do they mean ordinary use of language? To prove this use, I am
compelled to cite instances from common life. If you call to anybody in
the darkness “Who is there?” and he, presupposing that his voice is
well-known to you, replies, “It is I,” then it is clear that he speaks
of himself as this particular person, and wishes to be understood: “It
is I, who am named thus or thus, and it is not any one of all the
others, named otherwise;” and he so desires to be understood, because
your question, “_Who_ is there?” presupposes already that it is a
rational being who is there, and expresses only that you wish to know
which particular one amongst all the rational beings it may be.
But if you should, for instance—permit me this example, which I find
particularly applicable—sew or cut at the clothing of some person, and
should unawares cut the person himself, then he would probably cry out:
“Look here, this is _I_; you are cutting _me_!” Now, what does he mean
to express thereby? Not that he is this particular person, named thus or
thus, and none other; for that you know very well; but that that which
was cut was not his dead and senseless clothing, but his living and
sensitive self, which you did not know before. By this “It is _I_,” the
person does not distinguish himself from other _persons_, but from
_things_. This distinction occurs continually in life; and we cannot
take a step or move our hand without making it.
In short, Egoness and Individuality are very different conceptions, and
the synthesis of the latter is clearly to be observed. Through the
former conception, we distinguish ourselves from all that is external to
us—not merely from all _persons_ that are external to us—and hence we
embrace by it not our particular personality, but our general
spirituality. It is in this sense that the word is used, both in
philosophical and in common language. The above objection testifies,
therefore, not only to an unusual want of thought, but also to great
ignorance in philosophical literature.
But our opponents insist on their incapability to think the required
conception, and we must place faith in their assertions. Not that they
lack the general conception of the pure Ego, for if they did, they would
be obliged to desist from raising objections, just as a piece of log
must desist. But it is the _conception of this conception_ which they
lack, and which they cannot attain. They have that conception in
themselves, but do not know _that_ they have it. The ground of this
their incapability does not lie in any particular weakness of their
thinking faculties, but in a weakness of their whole character. Their
Ego, in the sense in which they take the word—i. e. their individual
person—is the last object of their acting, and hence also the limit of
their explicit thinking. It is to them, therefore, the only true
substance, and reason is only an accident thereof. Their person does not
exist as a particular expression of reason; but reason exists to help
their person through the world; and if the person could get along just
as well without reason, we might discharge reason from service, and
there would be no reason at all. This, indeed, lurks in the whole system
of their conceptions, and through all their assertions, and many of them
are honest enough not to conceal it. Now, they are quite correct as far
as they assert this incapacity in respect to their own persons—they only
must not state as objective that which has merely subjective validity.
In the Science of Knowledge the relation is exactly reversed: Reason
alone is in itself, and individuality is but accidental; reason is the
object, and personality the means to realize it; personality is only a
particular manner of manifesting reason, and must always more and more
lose itself in the universal form of reason. Only reason is eternal;
individuality must always die out. And whosoever is not prepared to
succumb to this order of things, will also never get at the true
understanding of the Science of Knowledge.
X.
This fact that they can never understand the Science of Knowledge unless
they first comply with certain conditions, has been told them often
enough. They do not want to hear it again, and our frank warning affords
them a new opportunity to attack us. Every conviction, they assert, must
be capable of being communicated by conceptions—nay, it must even be
possible to compel its acknowledgment. They say it is a bad example to
assert that our Science exists for only certain privileged spirits, and
that others cannot see or understand anything of it.
Let us see, first of all, what the Science of Knowledge does assert on
this point. It does not assert that there is an original and inborn
distinction between men and men, whereby some are made capable of
thinking and learning what the others, by their nature, cannot think or
learn. Reason is common to all, and is the same in all rational beings.
Whatsoever one rational being possesses as a talent, all others possess
also. Nay, we have even in this present article expressly admitted that
the conceptions upon which the Science of Knowledge insists, are
actually effective in all rational beings; for their efficacy furnishes
the ground of a possibility of consciousness. The pure Ego, which they
charge is incapable of thinking, lies at the bottom of all their
thinking, and occurs in all their thinking, since all thinking is
possible only through it. Thus far everything proceeds mechanically. But
to get an insight into this asserted necessity—to think again this
thinking—does not lie in mechanism, but, on the contrary, requires an
elevation, through _freedom_, to a new sphere, which our immediate
existence does not place in our possession. Unless this faculty of
freedom has already existence, and has already been practised, the
Science of Knowledge can accomplish nothing in a person. It is this
power of freedom which furnishes the premises upon which the structure
is to rest.
They certainly will not deny that every science and every art
presupposes certain primary rudiments, which must first be acquired
before we can enter into the science or art. “But,” say they, “if you
only require a knowledge of the rudiments, why do you not teach them to
us, if we lack them? Why do you not place them before us definitely and
systematically? Is it not your own fault if you plunge us at once _in
medias res_, and require the public to understand you before you have
communicated the rudiments?” I reply: that is exactly the difficulty!
These rudiments cannot be systematically forced upon you—they cannot be
taught to you by compulsion! In one word, they are a knowledge which we
can get only from ourselves. Everything depends upon this, that by the
constant use of freedom, with _clear consciousness_ of this freedom, we
should become thoroughly conscious and enamored of this our freedom.
Whenever it shall have become the well-matured object of education—from
tenderest youth upwards—to _develop_ the inner power of the scholar, but
not to _give it a direction_; to educate man for his own use, and as
instrument of his own will, but not as the soulless instrument of
others;—then the Science of Knowledge will be universally and easily
comprehensible. Culture of the whole man, from earliest youth—this is
the only way to spread philosophy. Education must first content itself
to be more negative than positive—more a mutual interchange _with_ the
scholar than a working _upon_ him; more negative as far as possible—i.
e. education must at least propose to itself this negativeness as its
object, and must be positive only as a means of being negative. So long
as education, whether with or without clear consciousness, proposes to
itself the opposite object—labors only for usefulness through others,
without considering that the using principle lies also in the
individual; so long as education thus eradicates in earliest youth the
root of self-activity, and accustoms man not to determine himself but to
await a determination through others—so long, talent for philosophy will
always remain an extraordinary favor of nature, which cannot be further
explained, and which may therefore be called by the indefinite
expression of “philosophical genius.”
The chief ground of all the errors of our opponents may perhaps be this,
that they have never yet made clear to themselves what _proving_ means,
and that hence they have never considered that there is at the bottom of
all demonstration something absolutely undemonstrable.
Demonstration effects only a conditioned, mediated certainty; by virtue
of it, something is certain if another thing is certain. If any doubt
arises as to the certainty of this other, then this certainty must again
be appended to the certainty of a third, and so on. Now, is this
retrogression carried on _ad infinitum_, or is there anywhere a final
link? I know very well that some are of the former opinion; but these
men have never considered that if it were so, they would not even be
capable of entertaining the idea of certainty—no, not even of hunting
after certainty. For what this may mean: to be certain; they only know
by being themselves certain of something; but if everything is certain
only on condition, then nothing is certain, and there is even no
conditioned certainty. But if there is a final link, regarding which no
question can be raised, why it is certain, then, there is an
undemonstrable at the base of all demonstration.
They do not appear to have considered what it means: to have proven
something to _somebody_. It means: we have demonstrated to him that a
certain other certainty is contained, by virtue of the laws of thinking,
which he admits, in a certain first certainty which he assumes or
admits, and that he must necessarily assume the first if he assumes the
second, as he says he does. Hence all communication of a conviction by
proof, presupposes that both parts are at least agreed on something.
Now, how could the Science of Knowledge communicate itself to the
dogmatist, since they are positively _not agreed in a single point_, so
far as the _material_ of knowledge is concerned, and since thus the
common point is wanting from which they might jointly start.[10]
Finally, they seem not to have considered that even where there is such
a common point, no one can think into the soul of the other; that each
must calculate upon the self-activity of the other, and cannot furnish
him the necessary thoughts, but can merely advise how to construct or
think those thoughts. The relation between free beings is a reciprocal
influence upon each other through freedom, but not a causality through
mechanically effective power. And thus the present dispute returns to
the chief point of dispute, from which all our differences arise. They
presuppose everywhere the relation of causality, because they indeed
know no higher relation; and it is upon this that they base their
demand: we ought to graft our conviction on their souls without any
activity on their own part. But we proceed from freedom, and—which is
but fair—presuppose freedom in them. Moreover, in thus presupposing the
universal validity of the mechanism of cause and effect, they
immediately contradict themselves; what they say and what they do, are
in palpable contradiction. For, in _presupposing_ the mechanism of cause
and effect, they elevate themselves beyond it; their thinking of the
mechanism is not contained in the mechanism itself. The mechanism cannot
seize itself, for the simple reason that it is mechanism. Only free
consciousness can seize itself. Here, therefore, would be a way to
convince them of their error. But the difficulty is that this thought
lies utterly beyond the range of their vision, and that they lack the
agility of mind to think, when they think an object, not only the
object, but also their thinking of the object; wherefore this present
remark is utterly incomprehensible to them, and is indeed written only
for those who are awake and see.
We reiterate, therefore, our assurance: we _will_ not convince them,
because one cannot _will_ an impossibility; and we will not refute their
system for them, because we cannot. True, we can refute it easily enough
_for us_; it is very easy to throw it down—the mere breath of a free man
destroys it. But we cannot refute it for _them_. We do not write, speak
or teach _for them_, since there is positively no point from which we
could reach them. If we speak _of_ them, it is not for their own sake,
but for the sake of others—to warn these against their errors, and
persuade these not to listen to their empty and insignificant prattle.
Now, they must not consider this, our declaration, as degrading for
them. By so doing, they but evince their bad conscience, and publicly
degrade themselves amongst us. Besides, they are in the same position in
regard to us. They also cannot refute or convince us, or say anything,
which could have an effect upon us. This we confess ourselves, and would
not be in the least indignant if they said it. What we tell them, we
tell them not at all with the evil purpose of causing them anger, but
merely to save us and them unnecessary trouble. We should be truly glad
if they were thus to accept it.
Moreover, there is nothing degrading in the matter itself. Every one who
to-day charges his brother with this incapacity, has once been
necessarily in the same condition. For we all are born in it, and it
requires time to get beyond it. If our opponents would only not be
driven into indignation by our declaration, but would reflect about it,
and inquire whether there might not be some truth in it, they might then
probably get out of that incapacity. They would at once be our equals,
and we could henceforth live in perfect peace together. The fault is not
ours, if we occasionally are pretty hard at war with them.
From all this it also appears, which I consider expedient to remark
here, that a philosophy, in order to be a science, need not be
_universally valid_, as some philosophers seem to assume. These
philosophers demand the impossible. What does it mean: a philosophy is
really universally valid? Who, then, are all these for whom it is to be
valid? I suppose not to every one who has a human face, for then it
would also have to be valid for children and for the common man, for
whom thinking is never object, but always the means for his real
purpose. Universally valid, then, for the philosophers? But who, then,
are the philosophers? I hope not all those who have received the degree
of doctor from some philosophical faculty, or who have printed something
which they call philosophical, or who, perhaps, are themselves members
of some philosophical faculty? Indeed, how shall we even have a fixed
conception of the philosopher, unless we have first a fixed conception
of philosophy—i. e. unless we first possess that fixed philosophy? It is
quite certain that all those who believe themselves possessed of
philosophy, as a science, will deny to all those who do not recognize
their philosophy the name of philosopher, and hence will make the
acknowledgment of their philosophy the criterion of a philosopher. This
they must do, if they will proceed logically, for there is only one
philosophy. The author of the Science of Knowledge, for instance, has
long ago stated that he is of this opinion in regard to his system—not
in so far as it is an _individual representation_ of that system, but in
so far as it is a system of _transcendental idealism_—and he hesitates
not a moment to repeat this assertion. But does not this lead us into an
evident circle? Every one will then say, “My philosophy is universally
valid for all philosophers;” and will say so with full right if he only
be himself convinced, though no other mortal being should accept his
doctrine; “for,” he will add, “he who does not recognize it as valid is
no philosopher.”
Concerning this point, I hold the following: If there be but one man who
is fully and at all times equally convinced of his philosophy, who is in
complete harmony with himself in this his philosophy, whose free
judgment in philosophizing agrees perfectly with the judgment daily life
forces upon him, then in this one man philosophy has fulfilled its
purpose and completed its circle; for it has put him down again at the
very same point from which he started with all mankind; and henceforth
philosophy as a science really exists, though no other man else should
comprehend and accept it; nay, though that one man might not even know
how to teach it to others.
Let no one here offer the trivial objection that all systematic authors
have ever been convinced of the truth of their systems. For this
assertion is utterly false, and is grounded only in this, that few know
what conviction really is. This can only be experienced by having the
fullness of conviction in one’s self. Those authors were only convinced
of one or the other point in their system, which perhaps was not even
clearly conscious to themselves, but not of the whole of their
system—they were convinced only in certain moods. This is no conviction.
Conviction is that which depends on no time and no change of condition;
which is not accidental to the soul, but which is the soul itself. One
can be convinced only of the unchangeably and eternally True: to be
convinced of error is impossible. But of such true convictions very few
examples may probably exist in the history of philosophy; perhaps but
one; perhaps not even this one. I do not speak of the ancients. It is
even doubtful whether they ever proposed to themselves the great problem
of philosophy. But let me speak of modern authors. Spinoza could not be
convinced; he could only _think_, not _put faith_ in his philosophy; for
it was in direct contradiction with his necessary conviction in daily
life, by virtue of which he was forced to consider himself free and
self-determined. He could be convinced of it only in so far as it
contained truth, or as it contained a part of philosophy as a science.
He was clearly convinced that mere objective reasoning would necessarily
lead to his system; for in that he was correct; but it never occurred to
him that in thinking he ought to reflect upon his own thinking, and in
that he was wrong, and thus made his speculation contradictory to his
life. Kant might have been convinced; but, if I understand him
correctly, he was not convinced when he wrote his _Critique_. He speaks
of _a deception, which always recurs, although we know that it is a
deception_. Whence did Kant learn, as he was the first who discovered
this pretended deception, that it always recurs, and in whom could he
have made the experience that it did so recur? Only in himself. But to
know that one deceives one’s self, and still to deceive one’s self is
not the condition of conviction and harmony within—it is the symptom of
a dangerous inner disharmony. My experience is that no deception recurs,
for reason contains no deception. Moreover, of what deception does Kant
speak? Clearly of the belief that things _per se_ exist externally and
independent of us. But who entertains this belief? Not common
consciousness, surely, for common consciousness only speaks _of itself_,
and can therefore say nothing but that things exist for it (i. e. for
us, on this standpoint of common consciousness); and that certainly is
no deception, for it is our own truth. Common consciousness knows
nothing of a thing _per se_, for the very reason that it is common
consciousness, which surely never goes beyond itself. It is a false
philosophy which first makes common consciousness assert such a
conception, whilst only that false philosophy discovered it in _its_ own
sphere. Hence this so-called deception—which is easily got rid of, and
which true philosophy roots out utterly—that false philosophy has itself
produced, and as soon as you get your philosophy perfected, the scales
will fall from your eyes, and the deception will never recur. You will,
in all your life thereafter, never believe to know more than that you
are finite, and finite in _this determined_ manner, which you must
explain to yourself, by the existence of _such a determined world_; and
you will no more think of breaking through this limit than of ceasing to
be yourself. Leibnitz, also, may have been convinced, for, properly
understood—and why should he not have properly understood himself?—he is
right. Nay, more—if highest ease and freedom of mind may suggest
conviction; if the ingenuity to fit one’s philosophy into all forms, and
apply it to all parts of human knowledge—the power to scatter all doubts
as soon as they appear, and the manner of using one’s philosophy more as
an instrument than as an object, may testify of perfect clearness; and
if self-reliance, cheerfulness and high courage in life may be signs of
inner harmony, then Leibnitz was perhaps convinced, and the only example
of conviction in the history of philosophy.
XI.
In conclusion, I wish to refer in a few words to a very curious
misapprehension. It is that of mistaking the Ego, as intellectual
contemplation, from which the Science of Knowledge proceeds, for the
Ego, as idea, with which it concludes. In the Ego, as intellectual
contemplation, we have only the form of the Egoness, the in itself
returning activity, sufficiently described above. The Ego in this form
is only _for the philosopher_, and by seizing it thus, you enter
philosophy. The Ego, as idea, on the contrary, is _for the Ego_ itself,
which the philosopher considers. He does not establish the latter Ego as
his own, but as the idea of the natural but perfectly cultured man; just
as a real being does not exist for the philosopher, but merely for the
Ego he observes.
The Ego as idea is the rational being—firstly, in so far as it
completely represents in itself the universal reason, or as it is
altogether rational and only rational, and hence it must also have
ceased to be individual, which it was only through sensuous limitation;
and secondly, in so far as this rational being has also realized reason
in the eternal world, which, therefore, remains constantly posited in
this idea. The world remains in this idea as world generally, as
_substratum_ with these determined mechanical and organic laws; but all
these laws are perfectly suited to represent the final object of reason.
The idea of the Ego and the Ego of the intellectual contemplation have
only this in common, that in neither of them the thought of the
individual enters; not in the latter, because the Egoness has not yet
been determined as individuality; and not in the former, because the
determination of individuality has vanished through universal culture.
But both are opposites in this, that the Ego of the contemplation
contains only the _form_ of the Ego, and pays no regard to an actual
material of the same, which is only thinkable by its thinking of a
world; while in the Ego of the Idea the complete material of the Egoness
is thought. From the first conception all philosophy proceeds, and it is
its fundamental conception; to the latter it does not return, but only
determines this idea in the practical part as highest and ultimate
object of reason. The first is, as we have said, original contemplation,
and becomes a conception in the sufficiently described manner; the
latter is only idea, it cannot be thought determinately and will never
be actual, but will always more and more approximate to the actuality.
XII.
These are, I believe, all the misunderstandings which are to be taken
into consideration, and to correct which a clear explanation may hope
somewhat to aid. Other modes of working against the new system cannot
and need not be met by me.
If a system, for instance, the beginning and end, nay, the whole essence
of which, is that individuality be theoretically forgotten and
practically denied, is denounced as egotism, and by men who, for the
very reason because they are covertly theoretical egotists and overtly
practical egotists, cannot elevate themselves into an insight into this
system; if a conclusion is drawn from the system that its author has an
evil heart, and if again from this evil-heartedness of the author the
conclusion is drawn that the system is false; then arguments are of no
avail; for those who make these assertions know very well that they are
not true, and they have quite different reasons for uttering them than
because they believed them. The system bothers them little enough; but
the author may, perhaps, have stated on other occasions things which do
not please them, and may, perhaps—God knows, how or where!—be in their
way. Now such persons are perfectly in conformity with their mode of
thinking, and it would be an idle undertaking to attempt to rid them of
their nature. But if thousands and thousands who know not a word of the
Science of Knowledge, nor have occasion to know a word of it, who are
neither Jews nor Pagans, neither aristocrats nor democrats, neither
Kantians of the old or of the modern school, or of any school, and who
even are not originals—who might have a grudge against the author of the
Science of Knowledge, because he took away from them the original ideas
which they have just prepared for the public—if such men hastily take
hold of these charges, and repeat and repeat them again without any
apparent interest, other than that they might appear well instructed
regarding the secrets of the latest literature; then it may, indeed, be
hoped that for their own sakes they will take our prayer into
consideration, and reflect upon what they wish to say before they say
it.
Footnote 6:
Critique of Practical Reason; Critique of the Power of Judgment; and
Critique of a Pure Doctrine of Religion.—_Translator._
Footnote 7:
For instance—_Critique of Pure Reason_, p. 108: “I purposely pass by
the definition of these categories, _although I may be in possession
of it_.” Now, these categories can be defined, each by its determined
relation to the possibility of self consciousness, and whoever is in
possession of these definitions, is necessarily possessed of the
Science of Knowledge. Again, p. 109: “_In a system of pure reason_
this definition might justly be required of me, but in the present
work they would only obscure the main point.” Here he clearly opposes
two systems to each other—the _System of Pure Reason_ and the “present
work,” i. e. the _Critique of Pure Reason_—and the latter is said
_not_ to be the former.
Footnote 8:
Here is the corner stone of Kant’s realism. I _must think_ something
as thing in itself, i. e. as independent of _me, the empirical_,
whenever I occupy the standpoint of the empirical; and because I _must
think_ so, I never become conscious of this activity in my thinking,
_since it is not free_. Only when I occupy the standpoint of
philosophy can I _draw the conclusion_ that I am active in this
thinking.
Footnote 9:
To state the main point in a few words: _All being_ signifies a
_limitation of free activity_. Now this activity is regarded _either_
as that of the mere intelligence, and then that which is posited as
limiting this activity has a mere _ideal being, mere objectivity in
regard to consciousness_.—This objectivity is in every representation
(even in that of the Ego, of virtue, of the moral law, &c., or in that
of complete phantasms, as, for instance, a squared circle, a sphynx,
&c.) _object of the mere representation_. Or the free activity is
regarded as _having actual causality_; and then that which limits it,
has _actual_ existence, the _real world_.
Footnote 10:
I have repeated this frequently. I have stated that I could absolutely
have no point in common with certain philosophers, and that they are
not, and cannot be, where I am. This seems to have been taken rather
for an hyperbole, uttered in indignation, than for real earnest; for
they do not cease to repeat their demand: “Prove _to us_ thy
doctrine!” I must solemnly assure them that I was perfectly serious in
that statement, that it is my deliberate and decided conviction.
Dogmatism proceeds from a _being_ as the Absolute, and hence its
system never rises above being. Idealism knows no being, as something
for itself existing. In other words: Dogmatism proceeds from
necessity—Idealism from freedom. They are, therefore, in two utterly
different worlds.
INTRODUCTION TO IDEALISM.
[From the German of SCHELLING. Translated by TOM DAVIDSON.]
I.—IDEA OF TRANSCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
1. All knowing is based upon the agreement of an objective with a
subjective. For we _know_ only the true, and truth is universally held
to be the agreement of representations with their objects.
2. The sum of all that is purely objective in our knowledge we may call
Nature; while the sum of all that is subjective may be designated the
_Ego_, or Intelligence. These two concepts are mutually opposed.
Intelligence is originally conceived as that which solely
represents—Nature as that which is merely capable of representation; the
former as the conscious—the latter as the unconscious. There is,
moreover, necessary in all knowledge a mutual agreement of the two—the
conscious and the unconscious _per se_. The problem is to explain this
agreement.
3. In knowledge itself, in my knowing, objective and subjective are so
united that it is impossible to say to which of the two the priority
belongs. There is here no first and no second—the two are
contemporaneous and one. In my efforts to explain this identity, I must
first have it undone. In order to explain it, inasmuch as nothing else
is given me as a principle of explanation beyond these two factors of
knowledge, I must of necessity place the one before the other—set out
from the one in order from it to arrive at the other. From which of the
two I am to set out is not determined by the problem.
4. There are, therefore, only two cases possible:
A. _Either the objective is made the first, and the question comes to be
how a subjective agreeing with it is superinduced._
The idea of the subjective is not contained in the idea of the
objective; they rather mutually exclude each other. The subjective,
therefore, must be _superinduced_ upon the objective. It forms no part
of the conception of Nature that there should be something intelligent
to represent it. Nature, to all appearance, would exist even were there
nothing to represent it. The problem may therefore likewise be expressed
thus: How is the Intelligent superinduced upon Nature? or, How comes
Nature to be represented?
The problem assumes Nature, or the objective, as first. It is,
therefore, manifestly, a problem of natural science, which does the
same. That natural science really, and without knowing it, approximates,
at least, to the solution of this problem can be shown here only
briefly.
If all knowledge has, as it were, two poles, which mutually suppose and
demand each other, they must reciprocally be objects of search in all
sciences. There must, therefore, of necessity, be two fundamental
sciences; and it must be impossible to set out from the one pole without
being driven to the other. The necessary tendency of all natural
science, therefore, is to pass from Nature to the intelligent. This, and
this alone, lies at the bottom of the effort to bring theory into
natural phenomena. The final perfection of natural science would be the
complete mentalization of all the laws of Nature into laws of thought.
The phenomena, that is, the material, must vanish entirely, and leave
only the laws—that is, the formal. Hence it is that the more the
accordance with law is manifested in Nature itself, the more the
wrappage disappears—the phenomena themselves become more mental, and at
last entirely cease. Optical phenomena are nothing more than a geometry
whose lines are drawn through the light; and even this light itself is
of doubtful materiality. In the phenomena of magnetism all trace of
matter has already disappeared, and of those of gravitation; which even
physical philosophers believed could be attributed only to direct
spiritual influence, there remains nothing but the law, whose action on
a large scale is the mechanism of the heavenly motions. The complete
theory of Nature would be that whereby the whole of Nature should be
resolved into an intelligence. The dead and unconscious products of
Nature are only unsuccessful attempts of Nature to reflect itself, and
dead Nature, so-called, is merely an unripe Intelligence; hence in its
phenomena the intelligent character peers through, though yet
unconsciously. Its highest aim, namely, that of becoming completely
self-objective, Nature reaches only in its highest and last reflection,
which is nothing else than man, or, more generally, what we call reason,
by means of which Nature turns completely back upon itself, and by which
is manifested that Nature is originally identical with what in us is
known as intelligent and conscious.
This may perhaps suffice to prove that natural science has a necessary
tendency to render Nature intelligent. By this very tendency it is that
it becomes natural philosophy, which is one of the two necessary
fundamental sciences of philosophy.
B. _Or the subjective is made the first, and the problem is, how an
objective is superinduced agreeing with it._
If all knowledge is based upon the agreement of these two, then the task
of explaining this agreement is plainly the highest for all knowledge;
and if, as is generally admitted, philosophy is the highest and loftiest
of all sciences, it is certainly the main task of philosophy.
But the problem demands only the explanation of that agreement
generally, and leaves it entirely undecided where the explanation shall
begin, what it shall make its first, and what its second. Moreover, as
the two opposites are mutually necessary to each other, the result of
the operation must be the same, from whichever point it sets out.
To make the objective the first, and derive the subjective from it, is,
as has just been shown, the task of natural philosophy.
If, therefore, there is a transcendental philosophy, the only course
that remains for it is the opposite one, namely: to set out from the
subjective as the first and the absolute, and deduce the origin of the
objective from it.
Into these two possible directions of philosophy, therefore, natural and
transcendental philosophy have separated themselves; and if all
philosophy must have for its aim to make either an Intelligence out of
Nature or a Nature out of Intelligence, then transcendental philosophy,
to which the latter task belongs, is the other necessary fundamental
science of philosophy.
II.—COROLLARIES.
In the foregoing we have not only deduced the idea of transcendental
philosophy, but have also afforded the reader a glance into the whole
system of philosophy, composed, as has been shown, of two principal
sciences, which, though opposed in principle and direction, are
counter-parts and complements of each other. Not the whole system of
philosophy, but only one of the principal sciences of it, is to be here
discussed, and, in the first place, to be more clearly characterized in
accordance with the idea already deduced.
1. If, for transcendental philosophy, the subjective is the starting
point, the only ground of all reality, and the sole principle of
explanation for everything else, it necessarily begins with universal
doubt regarding the reality of the objective.
As the natural philosopher, wholly intent upon the objective, seeks,
above all things, to exclude every admixture of the subjective from his
knowledge, so, on the other hand, the transcendental philosopher seeks
nothing so much as the entire exclusion of the objective from the purely
subjective principle of knowledge. The instrument of separation is
absolute scepticism—not that half-scepticism which is directed merely
against the vulgar prejudices of mankind and never sees the
foundation—but a thorough-going scepticism, which aims not at individual
prejudices, but at the fundamental prejudice, with which all others must
stand or fall. For over and above the artificial and conventional
prejudices of man, there are others of far deeper origin, which have
been placed in him, not by art or education, but by Nature itself, and
which pass with all other men, except the philosopher, as the principles
of knowledge, and with the mere self-thinker as the test of all truth.
The one fundamental prejudice to which all others are reducible, is
this: that there are things outside of us; an opinion which, while it
rests neither on proofs nor on conclusions (for there is not a single
irrefragable proof of it), and yet cannot be uprooted by any opposite
proof (_naturam furcâ expellas, tamen usque redibit_), lays claim to
immediate certainty; whereas, inasmuch as it refers to something quite
different from us—yea, opposed to us—and of which there is no evidence
how it can come into immediate consciousness, it must be regarded as
nothing more than a prejudice—a natural and original one, to be sure,
but nevertheless a prejudice.
The contradiction lying in the fact that a conclusion which in its
nature cannot be immediately certain, is, nevertheless, blindly and
without grounds, accepted as such, cannot be solved by transcendental
philosophy, except on the assumption that this conclusion is implicitly,
and in a manner hitherto not manifest, not founded upon, but identical,
and one and the same with an affirmation which is immediately certain;
and to demonstrate this identity will really be the task of
transcendental philosophy.
2. Now, even for the ordinary use of reason, there is nothing
immediately certain except the affirmation _I am_, which, as it loses
all meaning outside of immediate consciousness, is the most individual
of all truths, and the absolute prejudice, which must be assumed if
anything else is to be made certain. The affirmation _There are things
outside of us_, will therefore be certain for the transcendental
philosopher, only through its identity with the affirmation _I am_, and
its certainty will be only equal to the certainty of the affirmation
from which it derives it.
According to this view, transcendental knowledge would be distinguished
from ordinary knowledge in two particulars.
_First_—That for it the certainty of the existence of external objects
is a mere prejudice, which it oversteps, in order to find the grounds of
it. (It can never be the business of the transcendental philosopher to
prove the existence of things in themselves, but only to show that it is
a natural and necessary prejudice to assume external objects as real.)
_Second_—That the two affirmations, _I am_ and _There are things outside
of me_, which in the ordinary consciousness run together, are, in the
former, separated and the one placed before the other, with a view to
demonstrate as a fact their identity, and that immediate connection
which in the other is only felt. By the act of this separation, when it
is complete, the philosopher transports himself to the transcendental
point of view, which is by no means a natural, but an artificial one.
3. If, for the transcendental philosopher, the subjective alone has
original reality, he will also make the subjective alone in knowledge
directly his object; the objective will only become an object indirectly
to him, and, whereas, in ordinary knowledge, knowledge itself—the act of
knowing—vanishes in the object, in transcendental knowledge, on the
contrary, the object, as such, will vanish in the act of knowing.
Transcendental knowledge is a knowledge of knowing, in so far as it is
purely subjective.
Thus, for example, in intuition, it is only the objective that reaches
the ordinary consciousness; the act of intuition itself is lost in the
object; whereas the transcendental mode of intuition rather gets only a
glimpse of the object of intuition through the act. Ordinary thought,
therefore, is a mechanism in which ideas prevail, without, however,
being distinguished as ideas; whereas transcendental thought interrupts
this mechanism, and in becoming conscious of the idea as an act, rises
to the idea of the idea. In ordinary action, the acting itself is
forgotten in the object of the action; philosophizing is also an action,
but not an action only. It is likewise a continued self-intuition in
this action.
The nature of the transcendental mode of thought consists, therefore,
generally in this: that, in it, that which in all other thinking,
knowing, or acting escapes the consciousness, and is absolutely
non-objective, is brought into consciousness, and becomes objective; in
short, it consists in a continuous act of becoming an object to itself
on the part of the subjective.
The transcendental art will therefore consist in a readiness to maintain
one’s self continuously in this duplicity of thinking and acting.
III.—PRELIMINARY ARRANGEMENT OF TRANSCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
This arrangement is preliminary, inasmuch as the principles of
arrangement can be arrived at only in the science itself.
We return to the idea of science.
Transcendental philosophy has to explain how knowledge is possible at
all, supposing that the subjective in it is assumed as the chief or
first element.
It is not, therefore, any single part, or any particular object of
knowledge, but knowledge itself, and knowledge generally, that it takes
for its object.
Now all knowledge is reducible to certain original convictions or
original fore-judgments; these different convictions transcendental
philosophy must reduce to one original conviction; this one, from which
all others are derived, is expressed in the first principle of this
philosophy, and the task of finding such is no other than that of
finding the absolutely certain, by which all other certainty is arrived
at.
The arrangement of transcendental philosophy itself is determined by
those original convictions, whose validity it asserts. Those convictions
must, in the first place, be sought in the common understanding. If,
therefore, we fall back upon the standpoint of the ordinary view, we
find the following convictions deeply engraven in the human
understanding:
A. That there not only exists outside of us a world of things
independent of us, but also that our representations agree with them in
such a manner that there is nothing else in the things beyond what they
present to us. The necessity which prevails in our objective
representations is explained by saying that the things are unalterably
determined, and that, by this determination of the things, our ideas are
also indirectly determined. By this first and most original conviction,
the first problem of the philosophy is determined, _viz._: to explain
how representations can absolutely agree with objects existing
altogether independently of them. Since it is upon the assumption that
things are exactly as we represent them—that we certainly, therefore,
know things as they are in themselves—that the possibility of all
experience rests, (for what would experience be, and where would
physics, for example, wander to, but for the supposition of the absolute
identity of being and seeming?) the solution of this problem is
identical with theoretical philosophy, which has to examine the
possibility of experience.
B. The second equally original conviction is, that ideas which spring up
in us freely and without necessity are capable of passing from the world
of thought into the real world, and of arriving at objective reality.
This conviction stands in opposition to the first. According to the
first, it is assumed that objects are unalterably determined, and our
ideas by them; according to the other, that objects are alterable, and
that, too, by the causality of ideas in us. According to the first,
there takes place a transition from the real world into the world of
ideas, or a determining of ideas by something objective; according to
the second, a transition from the world of ideas into the real world, or
a determining of the objective by a (freely produced) idea in us.
By this second conviction, a second problem is determined, _viz._: how,
by something merely thought, an objective is alterable, so as completely
to correspond with that something thought.
Since upon this assumption the possibility of all free action rests, the
solution of this problem is practical philosophy.
C. But with these two problems we find ourselves involved in a
contradiction. According to B, there is demanded the dominion of thought
(the ideal) over the world of sense; but how is this conceivable, if
(according to A) the idea, in its origin, is already only the slave of
the objective? On the other hand, if the real world is something quite
independent of us, and in accordance with which, as their pattern, our
ideas must shape themselves (by A), then it is inconceivable how the
real world, on the other hand, can shape itself after ideas in us (by
B). In a word, in the theoretical certainty we lose the practical; in
the practical we lose the theoretical. It is impossible that there
should be at once truth in our knowledge and reality in our volition.
This contradiction must be solved, if there is to be a philosophy at
all; and the solution of this problem, or the answering of the question:
How can ideas be conceived as shaping themselves according to objects,
and at the same time objects as shaping themselves to ideas?—is not the
first, but the highest, task of transcendental philosophy.
It is not difficult to see that this problem is not to be solved either
in theoretical or in practical philosophy, but in a higher one, which is
the connecting link between the two, neither theoretical nor practical,
but both at once.
How at once the objective world conforms itself to ideas in us, and
ideas in us conform themselves to the objective world, it is impossible
to conceive, unless there exists, between the two worlds—the ideal and
the real—a preëstablished harmony. But this preëstablished harmony
itself is not conceivable, unless the activity, whereby the objective
world is produced, is originally identical with that which displays
itself in volition, and _vice versa_.
Now it is undoubtedly a _productive_ activity that displays itself in
volition; all free action is productive and productive only with
consciousness. If, then, we suppose, since the two activities are one
only in their principle, that the same activity which is productive
_with_ consciousness in free action, is productive _without_
consciousness in the production of the world, this preëstablished
harmony is a reality, and the contradiction is solved.
If we suppose that all this is really the case, then that original
identity of the activity, which is busy in the production of the world,
with that which displays itself in volition, will exhibit itself in the
productions of the former, and these will necessarily appear as the
productions of an activity at once conscious and unconscious.
Nature, as a whole, no less than in its different productions, will, of
necessity, appear as a work produced with consciousness, and, at the
same time, as a production of the blindest mechanism. It is the result
of purpose, without being demonstrable as such. The philosophy of the
aims of Nature, or teleology, is therefore the required point of union
between theoretical and practical philosophy.
D. Hitherto, we have postulated only in general terms the identity of
the unconscious activity, which has produced Nature, and the conscious
activity, which exhibits itself in volition, without having decided
where the principle of this activity lies—whether in Nature or in us.
Now, the system of knowledge can be regarded as complete only when it
reverts to its principle. Transcendental philosophy, therefore, could be
complete only when that identity—the highest solution of its whole
problem—could be demonstrated in its principle, the _Ego_.
It is therefore postulated that, in the subjective—in the consciousness
itself—that activity, at once conscious and unconscious, can be shown.
Such an activity can be no other than the _æsthetic_, and every work of
art can be conceived only as the product of such. The ideal work of art
and the real world of objects are therefore products of one and the same
activity; the meeting of the two (the conscious and the unconscious)
_without_ consciousness, gives the real—_with_ consciousness, the
æsthetic world.
The objective world is only the primal, still unconscious, poetry of the
mind; the universal _organum_ of philosophy, the key-stone of its whole
arch, is the philosophy of art.
IV.—ORGAN OF TRANSCENDENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
1. The only immediate object of transcendental consideration is the
subjective (II.); the only organ for philosophizing in this manner is
the _inner sense_, and its object is such that, unlike that of
mathematics, it can never become the object of external intuition. The
object of mathematics, to be sure, exists as little outside of
knowledge, as that of philosophy. The whole existence of mathematics
rests on intuition; it exists, therefore, only in intuition; and this
intuition itself is an external one. In addition to this, the
mathematician never has to deal immediately with the intuition—the
construction itself—but only with the thing constructed, which, of
course, can be exhibited outwardly; whereas the philosopher looks only
at the act of construction itself, which is purely an internal one.
2. Moreover, the objects of the transcendental philosopher have no
existence, except in so far as they are freely produced. Nothing can
compel to this production, any more than the external describing of a
figure can compel one to regard it internally. Just as the existence of
a mathematical figure rests on the outer sense, so the whole reality of
a philosophical idea rests upon the inner sense. The whole object of
this philosophy is no other than the action of Intelligence according to
fixed laws. This action can be conceived only by means of a peculiar,
direct, inner intuition, and this again is possible only by production.
But this is not enough. In philosophizing, one is not only the object
considered, but always at the same time the subject considering. To the
understanding of philosophy, therefore, there are two conditions
indispensable: first, that the philosopher shall be engaged in a
continuous internal activity, in a continuous production of those primal
actions of the intelligence; second, that he shall be engaged in
continuous reflection upon the productive action;—in a word, that he
shall be at once the contemplated (producing) and the contemplating.
3. By this continuous duplicity of production and intuition, that
must become an object which is otherwise reflected by nothing. It
cannot be shown here, but will be shown in the sequel, that this
becoming-reflected on the part of the absolutely unconscious and
non-objective, is possible only by an æsthetic act of the
imagination. Meanwhile, so much is plain from what has already been
proved, that all philosophy is productive. Philosophy, therefore, no
less than art, rests upon the productive faculty, and the difference
between the two, upon the different direction of the productive
power. For whereas production in art is directed outward, in order
to reflect the unconscious by products, philosophical production is
directed immediately inward, in order to reflect it in intellectual
intuition. The real sense by which this kind of philosophy must be
grasped, is therefore the æsthetic sense, and hence it is that the
philosophy of art is the true organum of philosophy (III.)
Out of the vulgar reality there are only two means of exit—poetry, which
transports us into an ideal world, and philosophy, which makes the real
world vanish before us. It is not plain why the sense for philosophy
should be more generally diffused than that for poetry, especially among
that class of men, who, whether by memory-work (nothing destroys more
directly the productive) or by dead speculation (ruinous to all
imaginative power), have completely lost the æsthetic organ.
4. It is unnecessary to occupy time with common-places about the sense
of truth, and about utter unconcern in regard to results, although it
might be asked, what other conviction can yet be sacred to him who lays
hands upon the most certain of all—that there are things outside of us?
We may rather take one glance more at the so-called claims of the common
understanding.
The common understanding in matters of philosophy has no claims
whatsoever, except those which every object of examination has, _viz._,
to be completely explained.
It is not, therefore, any part of our business to prove that what it
considers true, is true, but only to exhibit the unavoidable character
of its illusions. This implies that the objective world belongs only to
the necessary limitations which render self-consciousness (which is I)
possible; it is enough for the common understanding, if from this view
again the necessity of its view is derived.
For this purpose it is necessary, not only that the inner works of the
mental activity should be laid open, and the mechanism of necessary
ideas revealed, but also that it should be shown by what peculiarity of
our nature it is, that what has reality only in our intuition, is
reflected to us as something existing outside of us.
As natural science produces idealism out of realism, by mentalizing the
laws of Nature into laws of intelligence, or super-inducing the formal
upon the material (I.), so transcendental philosophy produces realism
out of idealism, by materializing the laws of Nature, or introducing the
material into the formal.
GENESIS.
By A. BRONSON ALCOTT.
“God is the constant and immutable Good; the world is Good in a
state of becoming, and the human soul is that in and by which the
Good in the world is consummated.”—PLATO.
I.—VESTIGES.
Behmen, the subtilest thinker on Genesis since Plato, conceives that
Nature fell from its original oneness by fault of Lucifer before man
rose physically from its ruins; and moreover, that his present
existence, being the struggle to recover from Nature’s lapse, is
embarrassed with double difficulties by deflection from rectitude on his
part. We think it needs no Lucifer other than mankind collectively
conspiring, to account for Nature’s mishaps, or Man’s. Since, assuming
man to be Nature’s ancestor, and Nature man’s ruins rather, himself is
the impediment he seeks to remove; and, moreover, conceiving Nature as
corresponding in large—or macrocosmically—to his intents, for whatsoever
embarrassments he finds therein, himself, and none other, takes the
blame. Eldest of creatures, and progenitor of all below him, personally
one and imperishable in essence, it follows that if debased forms appear
in Nature, it must be consequent on Man’s degeneracy prior to their
genesis. And it is only as he lapses out of his integrity, by debasing
his essence, that he impairs his original likeness, and drags it into
the prone shapes of the animal kingdom—these being the effigies and
vestiges of his individualized and shattered personality. Behold these
upstarts of his loins, everywhere the mimics jeering at him saucily, or
gaily parodying their fallen lord.
“Most happy he who hath fit place assigned
To his beasts, and disaforestered his mind;
Can use his horse, goat, wolf, and every beast,
And is not ape himself to all the rest.”[11]
It is man alone who conceives and brings forth the beast in him, that
swerves and dies; perversion of will by mis-choice being the fate that
precipitates him into serpentine form, clothed in duplicity, cleft into
sex,
“Parts of that Part which once was all.”
It is but one and the same soul in him, entertaining a dialogue with
himself, that is symbolized in The Serpent, Adam, and the Woman; nor
need there be fabulous “Paradises Lost or Regained,” for setting in
relief this serpent symbol of temptation, this Lord or Lucifer in our
spiritual Eden:
“First state of human kind,
Which one remains while man doth find
Joy in his partner’s company;
When two, alas! adulterate joined,
The serpent made the three.”
II.—THE DEUCE.
“I inquired what iniquity was, and found it to be no substance, but
perversion of the Will from the Supreme One towards lower
things.”—_St. Augustine._
Better is he who is above temptation than he who, being tempted,
overcomes; since the latter but suppresses the evil inclination in his
breast, which the former has not. Whoever is tempted has so far sinned
as to entertain the tempting lust stirring within him, and betraying his
lapse from singleness or holiness. The virtuous choose, and are virtuous
by choice; while the holy, being one, are above all need of
deliberating, their volitions answering spontaneously to their desires.
It is the cleft personality, or _other_ within, that confronts and
seduces the Will; the Adversary and Deuce we become individually, and
thus impersonate in the Snake.[12]
III.—SERPENT SYMBOL.
One were an Œdipus to expound this serpent mythology; yet failing this,
were to miss finding the keys to the mysteries of Genesis, and Nature
were the chaos and abyss; since hereby the one rejoins man’s parted
personality, and recreates lost mankind. Coeval with flesh, the symbol
appears wherever traces of civilization exist, a remnant of it in the
ancient Phallus worship having come to us disguised in our May-day
dance. Nor was it confined to carnal knowledge merely. The serpent
symbolized divine wisdom, also; and it was under this acceptation that
it became associated with those “traditionary teachers of mankind whose
genial wisdom entitled them to divine honors.” An early Christian sect,
called Ophites, worshipped it as the personation of natural knowledge.
So the injunction, “Be ye wise as serpents and harmless as doves,”
becomes the more significant when we learn that _seraph_ in the original
means a serpent; _cherub_, a dove; these again symbolizing facts in
osteological science as connected with the latest theories of the
invertebrated cranium accepted by eminent naturalists, and so
substantiating the symbol in nature; this being ophiomorphous, a series
of spires, crowned, winged, webbed, finned, footed in structure, set
erect, prone, trailing, as charged with life in higher potency or lower;
man, supreme in personal uprightness, and holding the sceptre of
dominion as he maintains his inborn rectitude, or losing his prerogative
as he lapses from his integrity, thus debasing his form and parcelling
his gifts away in the prone shapes distributed throughout Nature’s
kingdoms; or, again, aspiring for lost supremacy, he uplifts and crowns
his fallen form with forehead, countenance, speech, thereby liberating
the genius from the slime of its prone periods, and restoring it to
rectitude, religion, science, fellowship, the ideal arts.[13]
“Unless above himself he can
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man.”
IV.—EMBRYONS.
“The form is in the archetype before it appears in the work, in the
divine mind before it exists in the creature.”—_Leibnitz._
As the male impregnates the female, so mind charges matter with form and
fecundity; the spermatic world being life in transmission and body in
embryo. So the egg is a genesis and seminary of forms, (the kingdoms of
animated nature sleeping coiled in its yolk) and awaits the quickening
magnetism that ushers them into light. Herein the human embryon unfolds
in series the lineaments of all forms in the living hierarchy, to be
fixed at last in its microcosm, unreeling therefrom its faculties into
filamental organs, spinning so minutely the threads, “that were it
physically possible to dissolve away all other members of the body,
there would still remain the full and perfect figure of a man. And it is
this perfect cerebro-spinal axis, this statue-like tissue of filaments,
that, physically speaking, is the man.“ The mind above contains him
spiritually, and reveals him physically to himself and his kind. Every
creature assists in its own formation, souls being essentially creative
and craving form.
“For the creature delights in the image of the Creator; and the soul of
man will in a manner clasp God to herself. Having nothing mortal, she is
wholly inebriated from God; for she glories in the harmony under which
the human body exists.”[14]
V.—PROMETHEUS.
“Imago Dei in animo; mundi, in corpore.”
Man is a soul, informed by divine ideas, and bodying forth their image.
His mind is the unit and measure of things visible and invisible. In him
stir the creatures potentially, and through his personal volitions are
conceived and brought forth in matter whatsoever he sees, touches, and
treads under foot. The planet he spins.
He omnipresent is,
All round himself he lies,
Osiris spread abroad;
Upstaring in all eyes.
Nature his globed thought,
Without him she were not,
Cosmos from chaos were not spoken,
And God bereft of visible token.
A theosmeter—an instrument of instruments—he gathers in himself all
forces, partakes in his plenitude of omniscience, being spirit’s acme,
and culmination in nature. A quickening spirit and mediator between mind
and matter, he conspires with all souls, with the Soul of souls, in
generating the substance in which he immerses his form, and wherein he
embosoms his essence. Not elemental, but fundamental, essential, he
generates elements and forces, expiring while consuming, and perpetually
replenishing his waste; the final conflagration a current fact of his
existence. Does the assertion seem incredible, absurd? But science,
grown luminous and transcendent, boldly declares that life to the senses
is ablaze, refeeding steadily its flame from the atmosphere it kindles
into life, its embers the spent remains from which rises perpetually the
new-born Phœnix into regions where flame is lost in itself, and light
its resolvent emblem.[15]
“Thee, Eye of Heaven, the great soul envies not,
By thy male force is all we have, begot.”
VI.—IDEAL METHOD.
“It has ever been the misfortune of the mere materialist, in his
mania for matter on the one hand and dread of ideas on the other, to
invert nature’s order, and thus hang the world’s picture as a man
with his heels upwards.”—_Cudworth._
This inverse order of thought conducts of necessity to conclusions as
derogatory to himself as to Nature’s author. Assuming matter as his
basis of investigation, force as father of thought, he confounds
faculties with organs, life with brute substance, and must needs pile
his atom atop of atom, cement cell on cell, in constructing his column,
sconce mounting sconce aspiringly as it rises, till his shaft of gifts
crown itself surreptitiously with the ape’s glorified effigy, as
Nature’s frontispiece and head. Life’s atomy with life omitted
altogether, man wanting. Not thus reads the ideal naturalist the Book of
lives. But opening at spirit, and thence proceeding to ideas and finding
their types in matter, life unfolds itself naturally in organs,
faculties begetting forces, mind moulding things substantially, its
connections and inter-dependencies appear in series and degrees as he
traces the leaves, thought the key to originals, man the connexus,
archetype, and classifier of things; he, straightway, leading forth
abreast of himself the animated creation from the chaos,—the primeval
Adam naming his mates, himself their ancestor, contemporary and
survivor.
VII.—DIALOGIC.
If the age of iron and brass be hard upon us, fast welding its fetters
and chains about our foreheads and limbs, here, too, is the Promethean
fire of thought to liberate letters, science, art, philosophy, using the
new agencies let loose by the Dædalus of mechanic invention and
discovery, in the service of the soul, as of the senses. Having
recovered the omnipresence in nature, graded space, tunnelled the abyss,
joined ocean and land by living wires, stolen the chemistry of atom and
solar ray, made light our painter, the lightning our runner, thought is
pushing its inquiries into the unexplored regions of man’s personality,
for whose survey and service every modern instrument lends the outlay
and means—facilities ample and unprecedented—new instruments for the new
discoverers. Using no longer contentedly the eyes of a toiling
circuitous logic, the genius takes the track of the creative thought,
intuitively, cosmically, ontologically. A subtler analysis is finely
disseminated, a broader synthesis accurately generalized from the
materials accumulated on the mind during the centuries, the globe’s
contents being gathered in from all quarters: the book of creation,
newly illustrated and posted to date. The new Calculus is ours: an
organon alike serviceable to naturalist and metaphysician: a Dialogic
for resolving things into thoughts, matter into mind, power into
personality, man into God, many into one; soul in souls seen as the
creative controlling spirit, pulsating in all bodies, inspiring,
animating, organizing, immanent in the atoms, circulating at centre and
circumference, willing in all wills, personally embosoming all persons
an unbroken synthesis of Being.
Footnote 11:
“Had man withstood the trial, his descendants would have been born one
from another in the same way that Adam—i. e. mankind—was, namely, in
the image of God; for that which proceeds from the Eternal has eternal
manner of birth.”—_Behmen._
Footnote 12:
“It is a miserable thing to have been happy; and a self-contracted
wretchedness is a double one. Had felicity always been a stranger to
humanity, our present misery had been none; and had not ourselves been
the authors of our ruins, less. We might have been made unhappy, but,
since we are miserable, we chose it. He that gave our outward
enjoyments might have taken them from us, but none could have robbed
us of innocence but ourselves. While man knew no sin, he was ignorant
of nothing that it imported humanity to know; but when he had sinned,
the same transgression that opened his eyes to see his own shame, shut
them against most things else but it and the newly purchased misery.
With the nakedness of his body, he saw that of his soul, and the
blindness and dismay of his faculties to which his former innocence
was a stranger, and that which showed them to him made them. We are
not now like the creatures we were made, having not only lost our
Maker’s image but our own; and do not much more transcend the
creatures placed at our feet, than we come short of our ancient
selves.”—_Glanvill._
Footnote 13:
“I maintain that the different types of the human family have an
independent origin, one from the other, and are not descended from
common ancestors. In fact, I believe that men were created in nations,
not in individuals; but not in nations in the present sense of the
word; on the contrary, in such crowds as exhibited slight, if any,
diversity among themselves, except that of sex.”—_Agassiz._
Footnote 14:
“Thou hast possessed my reins, thou hast covered me in my mother’s
womb. My substance was not hid from thee when I was made in a secret
place, and there curiously wrought as in the lowest parts of the
earth: there thine eyes did see my substance yet being imperfect: and
in thy Book were all my members written, which in continuance were
fashioned when as yet there was none of them.”—PSALM cxxxix: 13, 15,
16.
Footnote 15:
“Man feeds upon air, the plant collecting the materials from the
atmosphere and compounding them for his food. Even life itself, as we
know it, is but a process of combustion, of which decomposition is the
final conclusion; through this combustion all the constituents return
back into air, a few ashes remaining to the earth from whence they
came. But from these embers, slowly invisible flames, arise into
regions where our science has no longer any value.”—_Schleiden._
ANALYSIS OF HEGEL’S ÆSTHETICS.
Translated from the French of CH. BENARD, by J. A. MARTLING.
Part III.
System of the Particular Arts.
Under the head of “System of the Particular Arts,” Hegel sets forth, in
this third part, the theory of each of the arts—_Architecture_,
_Sculpture_, _Painting_, _Music_ and _Poetry_.
Before proceeding to the division of the arts, he glances at the
different _styles_ which distinguish the different epochs of their
development. He reduces them to three styles: the _simple_ or severe,
the _ideal_ or beautiful, and the graceful.
1. At first the simple and natural style presents itself to us, but it
is not the truly natural or true simplicity. That supposes a previous
perfection. Primitive simplicity is gross, confused, rigid, inanimate.
Art in its infancy is heavy and trifling, destitute of life and liberty,
without expression, or with an exaggerated vivacity. Still harsh and
rude in its commencements, it becomes by degrees master of form, and
learns to unite it intimately with content. It arrives thus at a severe
beauty. This style is the Beautiful in its lofty simplicity. It is
restricted to reproducing a subject with its essential traits.
Disdaining grace and ornament, it contents itself with the general and
grand expression which springs from the subject, without the artist’s
exhibiting himself and revealing his personality in it.
2. Next in order comes the beautiful style, the _ideal_ and pure style,
which holds the mean between simple expression and a marked tendency to
the graceful. Its character is vitality, combined with a calm and
beautiful grandeur. Grace is not wanting, but there is rather a natural
carelessness, a simple complacency, than the desire to please—a beauty
indifferent to the exterior charms which blossom of themselves upon the
surface. Such is the ideal of the beautiful style—the style of Phidias
and Homer. It is the culminating point of art.
3. But this movement is short. The ideal style passes quickly to the
graceful, to the agreeable. Here appears an aim different from that of
the realization of the beautiful, which pure art ought to propose to
itself, to wit: the intention of pleasing, of producing an impression on
the soul. Hence arise works of a style elaborate with art, and a certain
seeking for external embellishments. The subject is no more the
principal thing. The attention of the artist is distracted by ornaments
and accessories—by the decorations, the trimmings, the simpering airs,
the attitudes and graceful postures, or the vivid colors and the
attractive forms, the luxury of ornaments and draperies, the learned
making of verse. But the general effect remains without grandeur and
without nobleness. Beautiful proportions and grand masses give place to
moderate dimensions, or are masked with ornaments. The graceful style
begets the style _for effect_, which is an exaggeration of it. The art
then becomes altogether conspicuous; it calls the attention of the
spectator by everything that can strike the senses. The artist
surrenders to it his personal ends and his design. In this species of
_tête-à-tête_ with the public, there is betrayed through all, the desire
of exhibiting his wit, of attracting admiration for his ability, his
skill, his power of execution. This art—without naturalness, full of
coquetry, of artifice and affectation, the opposite of the severe style
which yields nothing to the public—is the style of the epochs of
decadence. Frequently it has recourse to a last artifice, to the
affectation of profundity and of simplicity, which is then only
obscurity, a mysterious profundity which conceals an absence of ideas
and a real impotence. This air of mystery, which parades itself, is in
its turn, hardly better than coquetry; the principle is the same—the
desire of producing an effect.
The author then passes to the _Division of the Arts_. The common method
classes them according to their means of representation, and the senses
to which they are addressed. Two senses only are affected by the
perception of the beautiful: _sight_, which perceives forms and colors,
and _hearing_, which perceives sounds. Hence the division into _arts of
design_ and _musical art_. _Poetry_, which employs speech, and addresses
itself to the imagination, forms a domain apart. Without discarding this
division, Hegel combines it with another more philosophical principle of
classification, and one which is taken no longer from the external means
of art, but from their internal relation to the very content of the
ideas which it is to represent.
Art has for object the representation of the ideal. The arts ought then
to be classed according to the measure in which they are more or less
capable of expressing it. This gradation will have at the same time the
advantage of corresponding to historic progress, and to the fundamental
forms of art previously studied.
According to this principle, the arts marshal themselves, and succeed
one another, to form a regular and complete system, thus:
1. First _Architecture_ presents itself. This art, in fact, is incapable
of representing an idea otherwise than in a vague, indeterminate manner.
It fashions the masses of inorganic nature, according to the laws of
matter and geometrical proportions; it disposes them with regularity and
symmetry in such a manner as to offer to the eyes an image which is a
simple reflex of the spirit, a dumb symbol of the thought. Architecture
is at the same time appropriated to ends which are foreign to it: it is
destined to furnish a dwelling for man and a temple for Divinity; it
must shelter under its roof, in its enclosure, the other arts, and, in
particular, sculpture and painting.
For these reasons architecture should, historically and logically, be
placed first in the series of the arts.
2. In a higher rank is Sculpture, which already exhibits spirit under
certain determinate traits. Its object, in fact, is spirit
individualized, revealed by the human form and its living organism.
Under this visible appearance, by the features of the countenance, and
the proportions of the body, it expresses ideal beauty, divine calmness,
serenity—in a word, the classic ideal.
3. Although retained in the world of visible forms, Painting offers a
higher degree of spirituality. To form, it adds the different phases of
visible appearance, the illusions of perspective, color, light and
shades, and thereby it becomes capable, not only of reproducing the
various pictures of nature, but also of expressing upon canvas the most
profound sentiments of the human soul, and all the scenes of ethical
life.
4. But, as an expression of sentiment, _Music_ still surpasses painting.
What it expresses is the soul itself, in its most intimate and profound
relations; and this by a sensuous phenomenon, equally invisible,
instantaneous, intangible—sound—sonorous vibrations, which resound in
the abysses of the soul, and agitate it throughout.
5. All these arts culminate in Poetry, which includes them and surpasses
them, and whose superiority is due to its mode of expression—_speech_.
It alone is capable of expressing all ideas, all sentiments, all
passions, the highest conceptions of the intelligence, and the most
fugitive impressions of the soul. To it alone is given to represent an
action in its complete development and in all its phases. It is the
universal art—its domain is unlimited. Hence it is divided into many
species, of which the principal are _epic_, _lyric_ and _dramatic_
poetry.
These five arts form the complete and organized system of the arts.
Others, such as the _art of gardening, dancing, engraving, etc._, are
only accessories, and more or less connected with the preceding. They
have not the right to occupy a distinct place in a general theory; they
would only introduce confusion, and disfigure the fundamental type which
is peculiar to each of them.
Such is the division adopted by Hegel. He combines it, at the same time,
with his general division of the forms of the historic development of
art. Thus architecture appears to him to correspond more particularly to
the _symbolic_ type; sculpture is the _classic_ art, _par excellence_;
painting and music fill the category of the _romantic_ arts. Poetry, as
art universal, belongs to all epochs.
I. ARCHITECTURE.—In the study of architecture, Hegel follows a purely
historic method. He limits himself to describing and characterizing its
principal forms in the different epochs of history. This art, in fact,
lends itself to an abstract theory less than the others. There are here
few principles to establish; and when we depart from generalities, we
enter into the domain of mathematical laws, or into the technical
applications, foreign to pure science. It remains, then, only to
determine the sense and the character of its monuments, in their
relation to the spirit of the people, and the epochs to which they
belong. It is to this point of view that the author has devoted himself.
The division which he adopts on this subject, and the manner in which he
explains it, are as follows:
The object of architecture, independent of the positive design and the
use to which its monuments are appropriated, is to express a general
thought, by forms borrowed from inorganic nature, by masses fashioned
and disposed according to the laws of geometry and mechanics. But
whatever may be the ideas and the impressions which the appearance of an
edifice produces, it never furnishes other than an obscure and enigmatic
emblem. The thought is vaguely represented by those material forms which
spirit itself does not animate.
If such is the nature of this art, it follows that, essentially
symbolic, it must predominate in that first epoch of history which is
distinguished by the symbolic character of its monuments. It must show
itself there freer, more independent of practical utility, not
subordinated to a foreign end. Its essential object ought to be to
express ideas, to present emblems, to symbolize the beliefs of those
peoples, incapable as they are of otherwise expressing them. It is the
proper language of such an epoch—a language enigmatic and mysterious; it
indicates the effort of the imagination to represent ideas, still vague.
Its monuments are problems proposed to future ages, and which as yet are
but imperfectly comprehended.
Such is the character of oriental architecture. There the end is
valueless or accessory; the symbolic expression is the principal object.
Architecture is _independent_, and sculpture is confounded with it.
The monuments of Greek and Roman architecture present a wholly different
character. Here, the aim of utility appears clearly distinct from
expression. The purpose, the design of the monument comes out in an
evident manner. It is a dwelling, a shelter, a temple, etc.
Sculpture, for its part, is detached from architecture, and assigns its
end to it. The image of the god, enclosed in the temple, is the
principal object. The temple is only a shelter, an external attendant.
Its forms are regulated according to the laws of numbers, and the
proportions of a learned eurythmy; but its true ornaments are furnished
to it by sculpture. Architecture ceases then to be independent and
symbolic; it becomes dependent, subordinated to a positive end.
As to Christian architecture or that of the Middle Ages, it presents the
union of the two preceding characteristics. It is at once devoted to a
useful end, and eminently expressive or symbolic—_dependent_ and
_independent_. The temple is the house of God; it is devoted to the uses
and ceremonies of worship, and shows throughout its design in its forms;
but at the same time these symbolize admirably the Christian idea.
Thus the symbolic, classic and romantic forms, borrowed from history,
and which mark the whole development of art, serve for the division and
classification of the forms of architecture. This being especially the
art which is exercised in the domain of matter, the essential point to
be distinguished is whether the monument which is addressed to the eyes
includes in itself its own meaning, or whether it is considered as a
means to a foreign end, or finally whether, although in the service of a
foreign end, it preserves its independence.
The _basis_ of the division being thus placed, Hegel justifies it by
describing the characters of the monuments belonging to these three
epochs. All this descriptive part can not be analyzed: we are obliged to
limit ourselves to securing a comprehension of the general features, and
to noting the most remarkable points.
(_a_) Since the distinctive characteristic of symbolic architecture is
the expression of a general thought, without other end than the
representation of it, the interest in its monuments is less in their
positive design than in the religious conceptions of the people, who,
not having other means of expression, have embodied their thought, still
vague and confused, in these gigantic masses and these colossal images.
Entire nations know not how otherwise to express their religious
beliefs. Hence the symbolic character of the structures of the
Babylonians, the Indians and the Egyptians, of those works which
absorbed the life of those peoples, and whose meaning we seek to explain
to ourselves.
It is difficult to follow a regular order in the absence of chronology,
when we review the multiplicity of ideas and forms which these monuments
and these symbols present. Hegel thinks, nevertheless, that he is able
to establish the following gradations:
In the first rank are the simplest monuments, such as seem only designed
to serve as a bond of union to entire nations, or to different nations.
Such gigantic structures as the tower of Belus or Babylon, upon the
shores of the Euphrates, present the image of the union of the peoples
before their dispersion. Community of toil and effort is the aim and the
very idea of the work; it is the common work of their united efforts,
the symbol of the dissolution of the primitive family and of the
formation of a vaster society.
In a rank more elevated, appear the monuments of a more determined
character, where is noticeable a mingling of architecture and sculpture,
although they belong to the former. Such are those symbols which, in the
East, represent the generative force of nature; the _phallus_ and the
_lingam_ scattered in so great numbers throughout Phrygia and Syria, and
of which India is the principal seat; in Egypt, the obelisks, which
derive their symbolic significance from the rays of the sun; the
Memnons, colossal statues which also represent the sun and his
beneficent influence upon nature; the sphinxes, which one finds in Egypt
in prodigious numbers and of astonishing size, ranged in rows in the
form of avenues. These monuments, of an imposing sculpture, are grouped
in masses, surrounded by walls so as to form buildings.
They present, in a striking manner, the twofold character indicated
above: free from all positive design, they are, above all, symbols;
afterward, sculpture is confounded with architecture. They are
structures without roof, without doors, without aisles, frequently
forests of colums where the eye loses itself. The eye passes over
objects which are there for their own sake, designed only to strike the
imagination by their colossal aspect and their enigmatic sense, not to
serve as a dwelling for a god, and as a place of assemblage for his
worshippers. Their order and their disposition alone preserve for them
an architectural character. You walk on into the midst of those human
works, mute symbols which remind you of divine things; your eyes are
everywhere struck with the aspect of those forms and those extraordinary
figures, of those walls besprinkled with hieroglyphics, books of stone,
as it were, leaves of a mysterious book. Everything there is
symbolically determined—the proportions, the distances, the number of
columns, etc. The Egyptians, in particular, consecrated their lives to
constructing and building these monuments, by instinct, as a swarm of
bees builds its hive. This was the whole life of the people. It placed
there all its thought, for it could no otherwise express it.
Nevertheless, that architecture, in one point, by its chambers and its
halls, its tombs, begins to approach the following class, which exhibits
a more positive design, and of which the type is a house.
A third rank marks the transition of symbolic to classic architecture.
Architecture already presents a character of utility, of conformity to
an end. The monument has a precise design; it serves for a particular
use taken aside from the symbolic sense. It is a temple or a tomb. Such,
in the first place, is the subterranean architecture of the Indians,
those vast excavations which are also temples, species of subterranean
cathedrals, the caverns of Mithra, likewise filled with symbolic
sculpture. But this transition is better characterized by the double
architecture, (subterranean and above ground) of the Egyptians, which is
connected with their worship of the dead. An individual being, who has
his significance and his proper value; the dead one, distinct from his
habitation which serves him only for covering and shelter, resides in
the interior. The most ancient of these tombs are the pyramids, species
of crystals, envelopes of stone which enclose a kernel, an invisible
being, and which serve for the preservation of the bodies. In this
concealed dead one, resides the significance of the _monument_ which is
subordinate to him.
Here, then, _Architecture_ ceases to be independent. It divides itself
into two elements—the end and the means; it is the means, and it is
subservient to an end. Further, sculpture separates itself from it, and
obtains a distinct office—that of shaping the image within, and its
accessories. Here appears clearly the special design of architecture,
conformity to an end; also it assumes inorganic and geometric forms, the
abstract, mathematical form, which befits it in particular. The pyramid
already exhibits the design of a house, the rectangular form.
(_b_) Classic architecture has a two-fold point of departure—symbolic
architecture and necessity. The adaptation of parts to an end, in
symbolic architecture, is accessory. In the house, on the contrary, all
is controlled, from the first, by actual necessity and convenience. Now
classic architecture proceeds both from the one and from the other
principle, from necessity and from art, from the useful and from the
beautiful, which it combines in the most perfect manner. Necessity
produces regular forms, right angles, plane surfaces. But the end is not
simply the satisfaction of a physical necessity; there is also an idea,
a religious representation, a sacred image, which it has to shelter and
surround, a worship, a religious ceremonial. The temple ought then, like
the temple fashioned by sculpture, to spring from the creative
imagination of the artist. There is necessary a dwelling for the god,
fashioned by art and according to its laws.
Thus, while falling under the law of conformity to an end, and ceasing
to be independent, architecture escapes from the useful and submits to
the law of the beautiful; or rather, the beautiful and useful meet and
combine themselves in the happiest manner. Symmetry, eurythmy, organic
forms the most graceful, the most rich, and the most varied, join
themselves as ornaments to the architectural forms. The two points of
view are united without being confounded, and form an harmonious whole;
there will be, at the same time, a useful, convenient and beautiful
architecture.
What best marks the transition to Greek architecture, is the appearance
of the column, which is its type. The column is a support. Therein is
its useful and mechanical design; it fulfils that design in the most
simple and perfect manner, because with it the power of support is
reduced to its minimum of material means. From another side, in order to
be adapted to its end and to beauty, it must give up its natural and
primitive form. The beautiful column comes from a form borrowed from
nature; but carved, shaped, it takes a regular and geometric
configuration. In Egypt, human figures serve as columns; here they are
replaced by caryatides. But the natural, primitive form is the tree, the
trunk, the flexible stock, which bears its crown. Such, too, appears the
Egyptian column; columns are seen rising from the vegetable kingdom in
the stalks of the lotus and other trees; the base resembles an onion.
The leaf shoots from the root, like that of a reed, and the capital
presents the appearance of a flower. The mathematical and regular form
is absent. In the Greek column, on the contrary, all is fashioned
according to the mathematical laws of regularity and proportion. The
beautiful column springs from a form borrowed from nature, but fashioned
according to the artistic sense.
Thus the characteristic of classic architecture, as of architecture in
general, is the union of beauty and utility. Its beauty consists in its
regularity, and although it serves a foreign end, it constitutes a whole
perfect in itself; it permits its essential aim to look forth in all its
parts, and through the harmony of its relations, it transforms the
useful into the beautiful.
The character of classic architecture being subordination to an end, it
is that end which, without detriment to beauty, gives to the entire
edifice its proper signification, and which becomes thus the principal
regulator of all its parts; as it impresses itself on the whole, and
determines its fundamental form. The first thing as to a work of this
sort, then, is to know what is its purpose, its design. The general
purpose of a Grecian temple is to hold the statue of a god. But in its
exterior, the character of the temple relates to a different end, and
its spirit is the life of the Greek people.
Among the Greeks, open structures, colonnades and porticoes, have as
object the promenade in the open air, conversation, public life under a
pure sky. Likewise the dwellings of private persons are insignificant.
Among the Romans, on the contrary, whose national architecture has a
more positive end in utility, appears later the luxury of private
houses, palaces, villas, theatres, circuses, amphitheatres, aqueducts
and fountains. But the principal edifice is that whose end is most
remote from the wants of material life; it is the temple designed to
serve as a shelter to a divine object, which already belongs to the fine
arts—to the statue of a god.
Although devoted to a determinate end, this architecture is none the
less free from it, in the sense, that it disengages itself from organic
forms; it is more free even than sculpture, which is obliged to
reproduce them; it invents its plan, the general configuration, and it
displays in external forms all the richness of the imagination; it has
no other laws than those of good taste and harmony; it labors without a
direct model. Nevertheless, it works within a limited domain, that of
mathematical figures, and it is subjected to the laws of mechanics. Here
must be preserved, first of all, the relations between the width, the
length, the height of the edifice; the exact proportions of the columns
according to their thickness, the weight to be supported, the intervals,
the number of columns, the style, the simplicity of the ornaments. It is
this which gives to the theory of this art, and in particular of this
form of architecture, the character of dryness and abstraction. But
there dominates throughout, a natural eurythmy, which their perfectly
accurate sense enabled the Greeks to find and fix as the measure and
rule of the beautiful.
We will not follow the author in the description which he gives of the
particular characteristics of architectural forms; we will omit also
some other interesting details upon building in wood or in stone as the
primitive type, upon the relation of the different parts of the Greek
temple. In here following Vitruvius, the author has been able to add
some discriminating and judicious remarks. What he says, in particular,
of the column, of its proportions and of its design, of the internal
unity of the different parts and of their effects as a whole, adds to
what is already known a philosophical explication which satisfies the
reason. We remark, especially, this passage, which sums up the general
character of the Greek temple: “In general, the Greek temple presents an
aspect which satisfies the vision, and, so to speak, surfeits it.
Nothing is very elevated, it is regularly extended in length and
breadth. The eye finds itself allured by the sense of extent, while
Gothic architecture mounts even beyond measurement, and shoots upward to
heaven. Besides, the ornaments are so managed that they do not mar the
general expression of simplicity. In this, the ancients observe the most
beautiful moderation.”
The connection of their architecture with the genius, the spirit, and
the life of the Greek people, is indicated in the following passage: “In
place of the spectacle of an assemblage united for a single end, all
appears directed towards the exterior, and presents us the image of an
animated promenade. There men who have leisure abandon themselves to
conversations without end, wherein rule gayety and serenity. The whole
expression of such a temple remains truly simple and grand in itself,
but it has at the same time an air of serenity, something open and
graceful.” This prepares and conducts us to another kind of
architecture, which presents a striking contrast to the preceding
Christian or Gothic architecture.
(_c_) We shall not further attempt to reproduce, even in its principal
features, the description which Hegel gives, in some pages, of Romantic
or Gothic architecture. The author has proposed to himself, as object,
in the first place, to compare the two kinds of architecture, the Greek
and the Christian, then to secure the apprehension of the relation of
this form of architecture to the Christian idea. This is what
constitutes the peculiar interest of this remarkable sketch, which, by
its vigor and severity of design, preserves its distinctive merit when
compared with all descriptions that have been made of the architecture
of the Middle Ages.
_Gothic_ architecture, according to Hegel, unites, in the first place,
the opposite characters of the two preceding kinds. Notwithstanding,
this union does not consist in the simple fusion of the architectural
forms of the East and of Greece. Here, still more than in the Greek
temple, the house furnishes the fundamental type. An architectural
edifice which is the house of God, shows itself perfectly in conformity
with its design and adapted to worship; but the monument is also there
for its own sake, independent, absolute. Externally, the edifice
ascends, shoots freely into the air.
The conformity to the end, although it presents itself to the eyes, is
therefore effaced, and leaves to the whole the appearance of an
independent existence. The monument has a determinate sense, and shows
it; but, in its grand aspect and its sublime calm, it is lifted above
all end in utility, to something infinite in itself.
If we examine the relation of this architecture to the inner spirit and
the idea of Christian worship, we remark, in the first place, that the
fundamental form is here the house wholly closed. Just as, in fact, the
Christian spirit withdraws itself into the interior of the conscience,
just so the church is an enclosure, sealed on all sides, the place of
meditation and silence. “It is the place of the reflection of the soul
into itself, which thus shuts itself up materially in space. On the
other hand, if, in Christian meditation, the soul withdraws into itself,
it is, at the same time, lifted above the finite, and this equally
determines the character of the house of God. Architecture takes, then,
for its independent signification, elevation towards the infinite, a
character which it expresses by the proportions of its architectural
forms.” These two traits, depth of self-examination and elevation of the
soul towards the infinite, explain completely the Gothic architecture
and its principal forms. They furnish also the essential differences
between Gothic and Greek architecture.
The impression which the Christian church ought to produce in contrast
with this open and serene aspect of the Greek temple, is, in the first
place, the calmness of the soul which reflects into itself, then that of
a sublime majesty which shoots beyond the confines of sense. Greek
edifices extend horizontally; the Christian church should lift itself
from the ground and shoot into the air.
The most striking characteristic which the house of God presents, in its
whole and its parts, is, then, the free flight, the shooting in points
formed either by broken arches or by right lines. In Greek architecture,
exact proportion between support and height is everywhere observed.
Here, on the contrary, the operation of supporting and the disposition
at a right angle—the most convenient for this end—disappears or is
effaced. The walls and the column shoot without marked difference
between what supports and what is supported, and meet in an acute angle.
Hence the acute triangle and the ogee, which form the characteristic
traits of Gothic architecture.
We are not able to follow the author in the detailed explication of the
different forms and the divers parts of the Gothic edifice, and of its
total structure.
THE METAPHYSICS OF MATERIALISM.
By D. G. BRINTON.
_Ubi tres physici, ibi duo athei_,—the proverb is something musty.
Natural science is and always has been materialistic. The explanation is
simple. There is as great antagonism between chemical research and
metaphysical speculation, as there is between what
“Youthful poets dream,
On summer’s eve by haunted stream,”
and book-keeping by double entry, and nothing is more customary than to
deny what we do not understand. Of late years this scientific
materialism has been making gigantic strides. Since the imposing fabric
of the Hegelian philosophy proved but a house built on sands, the scales
and metre have become our only gods.
Germany—mystic, metaphysical Germany—strange to say, leads the van in
this crusade against all faith and all idealism. Vogt, the geologist,
Moleschott, the physiologist, Virchow, the greatest of all living
histologists, Büchner, Tiedemann, Reuchlin, Meldeg, and many others, not
only hold these opinions, but have left the seclusion of the laboratory
and the clinic to enter the arena of polemics in their favor. We do not
mention the French and English advocates of “positive philosophy.” Their
name is Legion.
It is not our design to enter at all at large into these views, still
less to dispute them, but merely to give the latest and most approved
defence of a single point of their position, a point which we submit is
the kernel of the whole controversy, and which we believe to be the very
Achilles heel and crack in the armor of their panoply of argument—that
is, the _Theory of the Absolute_. Demonstrate the possibility of the
Absolute, and materialism is impossible; disprove it, and all other
philosophies are empty nothings,—_vox et præterea nihil_. Here, and only
here, is materialism brought face to face with metaphysics; here is the
combat _à l’outrance_ in which one or the other must perish. No one of
its apostles has accepted the proffered glaive more heartily, and
defended his position with more wary dexterity, than Moleschott, and it
is mainly from his work, entitled _Der Kreislauf des Lebens_, that we
illustrate the present metaphysics of materialism.
Our first question is, What is the test of truth, what sanctions a law?
Until this is answered, all assertion is absurd, and until it is
answered correctly, all philosophy is vain. The response of the
naturalist is: “The necessary sequence of cause and effect is the prime
law of the experimentalist—a law which he does not ask from revelation,
but will find out for himself by observation.” The source of truth is
sensation; the uniform result of manifold experience is a law. Here a
double objection arises: first, that the term “a necessary sequence”
presupposes a law, and begs the question at issue; and, secondly, that,
this necessity unproved, such truth is nothing more than a probability,
for it is impossible to be certain that our next experiment may not have
quite a different result. Either this is not the road to absolute truth,
or absolute truth is unattainable. The latter horn of the dilemma is at
once accepted; we neither know, nor can know, a law to be absolute; to
us, the absolute does not exist. Matter and force with their relations
are there, but what we know of them is a varying quantity, is of this
age or the last, of this man or that, dependent upon the extent and
accuracy of empirical science; we cannot speak of what we do not know,
and we know no law that conceivable experience might not contradict.
But how, objects the reader, can this be reconciled with the pure
mathematics? Here seem to be laws above experience, laws admitting no
exception.
The response leads us back to the origin of our notions of _Space_ and
_Time_, on the the former of which mathematics is founded. The
supposition that they are innate ideas is of course rejected by the
materialist; for he looks upon innate ideas as fables; he considers them
perceptions derived positively from the senses, but they do not belong
to the senses alone, nor are they perceptions merely; “they are ideas,
but ideas that without the sensuous perceptions of proximity and
sequence could never have arisen. Nay, more—the perception of space must
precede that of time,” for it is only through the former that we can
reach the latter. The plainest laws of space, those which were the
earliest impressions on the _tabula rasa_ of the infant mind, and which
the hourly experience of life verifies, are called, by the
mathematician, _axioms_, and on these simplest generalizations of our
perceptions he bases the whole of his structure. Axioms, therefore, are
the uniform results of experiments, the possible conditions of which are
extremely limited, and the factors of which have been subjected to all
these conditions.
It follows from a denial of the absolute that all existence is concrete.
Indeed, we may say that the corner stone of the edifice of materialism
is embraced in the terse sentence of Moleschott—_all existence is
existence through attributes_. Existence _per se_ (_Fürsichsein_) is a
meaningless term, and substance apart from attribute, the _ens
ineffabile_, is a pedantic figment and nothing more. Finally, there can
be no attribute except through a relation.
Let this trilogy of existence, attribute and relation, be clearly before
the mind, and the position that the positive philosophy bears to all
others becomes at once luminous enough. There is no existence apart from
attributes, no attributes but through relations, no relations but to
other existences. To exemplify: a stone is heavy, hard, colored, perhaps
bitter to the taste. Now, says the idealist, this weight, this hardness,
this color, this bitterness, these are not the stone, they are merely
its properties or attributes, and the stone itself is some substance
behind them all, to which they adhere and which we cannot detect with
our senses; further, he might add, if a moderate in his school, these
attributes are independently existent, the bitterness is there when we
are not tasting it, and the attribute of color, though there be no
light. All this the materialist denies. To him, the attributes and
nothing else constitute the stone, and these attributes have no
existence apart from their relations to other objects. The bitterness
exists only in relation to the organs of taste, and the color to the
organs of sight, and the weight to other bodies of matter. Nothing, in
short, can be said to exist to us that is not cognizable by our senses.
But, objects some one, there may be an existence which is not _to us_,
which is as much beyond our ken as color is beyond the conception of the
born blind. The expression was used advisedly: no such existence can
become the subject of rational language. “Does not all knowledge
predicate a knower, consequently a relation of the subject to the the
observer? Such a relation is an attribute. Without it, knowledge is
inconceivable. Neither God nor man can raise himself above the knowledge
furnished by these relations to his organs of apprehension.”
A disagreeable sequence to this logic will not fail to occur to every
one. If all knowledge comes from the organs of sense, then differently
formed organs must furnish very different and contradictory knowledge,
and one is as likely to be correct as another. The radiate animal, who
sees the world through a cornea alone, must have quite another notion of
light, color, and relative size, from the spider whose eye is provided
with lenses and a vitreous humor. Consonantly with the theory, each of
these probably opposing views is equally true. This ugly dilemma is
foreseen by our author, for he grants that “the knowledge of the insect,
its knowledge of the action of the outer world, is altogether a
different one from that of man,” but he avoids the ultimate result of
this reasoning.
To sum up the views of this school: matter is eternal, force is eternal,
but each is impossible without the other; what bears any relation to our
senses we either know or can know; what does not, it is absurd to
discuss; the highest thought is but the physical elaboration of
sensations, or, to use the expression of Carl Vogt, “thought is a
secretion of the brain as urine is of the kidneys. Without phosphorus
there is no thought.” “And so,” concludes Moleschott, “only when thought
is based on fact, only when the reason is granted no sphere of action
but the historical which arises from observation, when the perception is
at the same time thought, and the understanding sees with consciousness,
does the contradiction between Philosophy and Science disappear.”
This, then, is the last word of materialism, this the solution it now
offers us of the great problem of Life. We enter no further into its
views, for all collateral questions concerning the origin of the ideas
of the true, the good and the beautiful, the vital force, and the
spiritual life, depend directly on the question we have above mentioned.
Let the reader turn back precisely a century to the _Système de la
Nature_, so long a boasted bulwark of the rationalistic school, and
judge for himself what advance, if any, materialism has made in
fortifying this, the most vital point of her structure. Let him ask
himself anew whether the criticism of Hume on the law of cause and
effect can in any way be met except after the example of Kant, by the
assumption of the absolute idea, and we have little doubt what
conclusion he will arrive at in reference to that system which, while it
boasts to offer the only method of discovering truth, starts with the
flat denial of all truth other than relative.
LETTERS ON FAUST.
By H. C. BROCKMEYER.
I.
DEAR H.—Yours of a recent date, requesting an epistolary criticism of
“Goethe’s Faust,” has come to hand, and I hasten to assure you of a
compliance of some sort. I say a compliance of some sort, for I cannot
promise you a criticism. This, it seems to me, would be both too little
and too much; too little if understood in the ordinary sense, as meaning
a mere statement of the _relation_ existing between the work and myself;
too much if interpreted as pledging an expression of a work of the
creative imagination, as a totality, in the terms of the understanding,
and submitting the result to the canons of art.
The former procedure, usually called criticism, reduced to its simplest
forms, amounts to this: that I, the critic, report to you, that I was
amused or bored, flattered or satirized, elevated or degraded, humanized
or brutalized, enlightened or mystified, pleased or displeased, by the
work under consideration; and—since it depends quite as much upon my own
humor, native ability, and culture acquired, which set of adjectives I
may be able to report, as it does upon the work—I cannot perceive what
earthly profit such a labor could be to you. For that which is clear to
you may be dark to me; hence, if I report that a given work is a
“perfect riddle to me,” you will only smile at my simplicity. Again,
that which amuses me may bore you, for I notice that even at the
theatre, some will yawn with _ennui_ while others thrill with delight,
and applaud the play. Now, if each of these should tell you how _he_
liked the performance, the one would say “excellent,” and the other
“miserable,” and you be none the wiser. To expect, therefore, that I
intend to enter upon a labor of this kind, is to expect too little.
Besides, such an undertaking seems to me not without its peculiar
danger; for it may happen that the work measures or criticises the
critic, instead of the latter the former. If, for example, I should tell
you that the integral and differential calculus is all fog to
me—mystifies me completely—you would conclude my knowledge of
mathematics to be rather imperfect, and thus use my own report of that
work as a sounding-lead to ascertain the depth of my attainment. Nay,
you might even go further, and regard the work as a kind of Doomsday
Book, on the title page of which I had “written myself down an ass.”
Now, as I am not ambitious of a memorial of this kind, especially when
there is no probability that the pages in contemplation—Goethe’s
Faust—will perish any sooner than the veritable Doomsday Book itself, I
request you, as a special favor, not to understand of me that I propose
engaging in any undertaking of this sort.[16]
Nor are you to expect an inquiry into the quantity or quality of the
author’s food, drink or raiment. For the present infantile state of
analytic science refuses all aid in tracing such _primary_ elements, so
to speak, in the composition of the poem before us; and hence such an
investigation would lead, at best, to very secondary and remote
conclusions. Nor shall we be permitted to explore the likes and dislikes
of the poet, in that fine volume of scandal, for the kindred reason that
neither crucible, reagent nor retort are at hand which can be of the
remotest service.
By the by, has it never occurred to you, when perusing works of the kind
last referred to, what a glowing picture the pious Dean of St.
Patrick’s, the _saintly Swift_, has bequeathed to us of their producers,
when he places the great authors, the historical Gullivers of our race,
in all their majesty of form, astride the public thoroughfare of a
Liliputian age, and marches the inhabitants, in solid battalions,
through between their legs? you recollect what he says?
Nor yet are you to expect a treat of that most delightful of all
compounds, the table talk and conversation—or, to use a homely phrase,
the _literary dishwater_ retailed by the author’s scullion. To expect
such, or the like, would be to expect too little.
On the other hand, to expect that I shall send you an expression, in the
terms of the understanding, of a work of the creative imagination, as a
totality, and submit the result to the canons of art, is to expect too
much. For while I am ready, and while I intend to comply with the first
part of this proposition, I am unable to fulfil the requirement of the
latter part—that is, I am not able to submit the result to the canons of
art. The reason for this inability it is not necessary to develop in
this connection any further than merely to mention that I find it
extremely inconvenient to lay my hand upon the aforementioned canons
just at this time.
I must, therefore, content myself with the endeavor to summon before you
the _Idea_ which creates the poem—each act, scene and verse—so that we
may see the part in its relation to the whole, and the whole in its
concrete, organic articulation. If we succeed in this, then we may say
that we _comprehend_ the work—a condition precedent alike to the
beneficial enjoyment and the rational judgment of the same.
II.
In my first letter, dear friend, I endeavored to guard you against
misapprehension as to what you might expect from me. Its substance, if
memory serves me, was that I did not intend to write on Anthropology or
Psychology, nor yet on street, parlor or court gossip, but simply about
a work of art.
I deemed these remarks pertinent in view of the customs of the time,
lest that, in my not conforming to them, you should judge me harshly
without profit to yourself. With the same desire of keeping up a fair
understanding with you, I must call your attention to some terms and
distinctions which we shall have occasion to use, and which, unless
explained, might prove shadows instead of lights along the path of our
intercourse.
I confess to you that I share the (I might say) abhorrence so generally
entertained by the reading public, of the use of any general terms
whatsoever, and would avoid them altogether if I could only see how. But
in reading the poem that we are to consider, I come upon such passages
as these:
(_Choir of invisible Spirits._)
“Woe! Woe!
Thou hast destroyed it,
The beautiful world!
It reels, it crumbles,
Crushed by a demigod’s mighty hand!”
and I cannot see how we are to understand these spirits, or the poet who
gave them voice, unless we attack this very general expression “The
beautiful world,” here said to have been destroyed by Faust.
I am, however, somewhat reconciled to this by the example of my
neighbor—a non-speculative, practical farmer—now busily engaged in
harvesting his wheat. For I noticed that he first directed his
attention, after cutting the grain, to collecting and tying it together
in bundles; and I could not help but perceive how much this facilitated
his labor, and how difficult it would have been for him to collect his
wheat, grain by grain, like the sparrow of the field. Though wheat it
were, and not chaff, still such a mode of handling would reduce it even
below the value of chaff.
Just think of handling the wheat crop of these United States, the two
hundred and twenty-five millions of bushels a year, in this manner! It
is absolutely not to be thought of, and we must have recourse to
agglomeration, if not to generalization. But the one gives us general
_masses_, and the other general _terms_. The only thing that we can do,
therefore, is, in imitation of our good neighbor of the wheat field, to
handle bundles, bushels, and bags, or—what is still better, if it can be
done by some daring system of intellectual elevators—whole ship loads of
grain at a time, due care being taken that we tie wheat to wheat, oats
to oats, barley to barley, and not promiscuously.
Now, with this example well before our minds, and the necessity
mentioned, which compels us to handle—not merely the wheat crop of the
United States for one year, but—whatever has been raised by the
intelligence of man from the beginning of our race to the time of Goethe
the poet, together with the ground on which it was raised, and the sky
above—for no less than this seems to be contained in the expression “The
beautiful world”—I call your attention first to the expression “form and
matter,” which, when applied to works of intelligence, we must take the
liberty of changing into the expression “form and content,” for since
there is nothing in works of this kind that manifests gravity, it can be
of no use to say so, but may be of some injury.
The next is the expression “works of art,” which sounds rather
suspicious in some of its applications—sounds as if it was intended to
conceal rather than reveal the worker. Now I take it that the “works of
art” are the works of the intelligence, and I shall have to classify
them accordingly. Another point with reference to this might as well be
noticed, and that is that the old expressions “works of art” and “works
of nature” do not contain, as they were intended to, all the works that
present themselves to our observation—the works of science, for example.
Besides, we have government, society, and religion, all of which are
undoubtedly distinct from the “works of art” no less than from the
“works of nature,” and to tie them up in the same bundle with either of
them, seems to me to be like tying wheat with oats, and therefore to be
avoided, as in the example before our minds. This seems to be done in
the expression “works of self-conscious intelligence,” and “works of
nature.”
But if we reflect upon the phrases “works of self-conscious
intelligence” and “works of nature,” it becomes obvious that there must
be some inaccuracy contained in them; for how can two distinct subjects
have the same predicate? It would, therefore, perhaps be better to say
“the works of self-conscious intelligence” and the “_products_ of
nature.”
Without further rasping and filing of old phrases, I call your
attention, in the next place, to the most general term which we shall
have occasion to use—“the world.”
Under this we comprehend:
I. The natural world—Gravity.;
II. The spiritual world—Self-determination.
I. Under the natural world we comprehend the terrestrial globe, and that
part of the universe which is involved in its processes; these are:
(_a_) (1.) Mechanic=Gravity, } Meteorologic=Electricity.
(2.) Chemic=Affinity, }
(_b_) (1.) Organic=Galvanism, } Vital=Sensation.
(2.) Vegetative=Assimilation, }
II. Under “The Spiritual World,” the world of conscious intelligence, we
comprehend:
(_a_) The real world=implement, mediation.
(_b_) The actual world=self-determination.
(_a_) The real world contains whatever derives the end of its existence
only, from self-conscious intelligence.
(1.) The family=Affection.
(2.) Society=Ethics, } Mediation.
(3.) State=Rights, }
(_b_) The actual world contains whatever derives the end and the _means_
of its existence from self-conscious intelligence.
(1.) Art=Manifestation, }
(2.) Religion=Revelation, } Self-determination.
(3.) Philosophy=Definition, }
From this it appears that we have divided the world into three large
slices—the Natural, the Real, and the Actual—with gravity for one and
self-determination for the other extreme, and mediation between them.
III.
In my last, I gave you some general terms, and the sense in which I
intend to use them. I also gave you a reason why I should use them,
together with an illustration. But I gave you no reason why I used these
and no others—or I did not advance anything to show that there are
_objects_ to which they _necessarily apply_. I only take it for granted
that there are some objects presented to your observation and mine, that
gravitate or weigh something, and others that do not. To each I have
applied as nearly as I could the ordinary terms. Now this procedure,
although very unphilosophical, I can justify only by reminding you of
the object of these letters.
If we now listen again to the chant of the invisible choir,
“Thou hast destroyed it,
The beautiful world,”
it will be obvious that this can refer only to the world of mediation
and self-determination, to the world of spirit, of self-conscious
intelligence, for the world of gravitation is not so easily affected.
But how is this—how is it that the world of self-conscious intelligence
is so easily affected, is so dependent upon the individual man? This can
be seen only by examining its genesis.
In the genesis of Spirit we have three stages—manifestation,
realization, and actualization. The first of these, upon which the other
two are dependent and sequent, falls in the individual man. For, in him
it is that Reason manifests itself before it can realize, or embody
itself in this or that political, social, or moral institution. And it
is not merely necessary that it should so manifest itself in the
individual; it must also realize itself in these institutions before it
can actualize itself in Art, Religion, and Philosophy. For in this
actualization it is absolutely dependent upon the former two stages of
its genesis for a content. From this it appears that Art _shows_ what
Religion _teaches_, and what Philosophy _comprehends_; or that Art,
Religion, and Philosophy have the same content. Nor is it difficult to
perceive why this world of spirit or self-conscious intelligence is so
dependent upon the individual man.
Again, in the sphere of manifestation and reality, this content, the
self-conscious intelligence, is the _self-consciousness_ of an
individual, a nation, or an age. And art, in the sphere of actuality, is
this or that work of art, this poem, that painting, or yonder piece of
sculpture, with the self-consciousness of this or that individual,
nation, or age, for its content. Moreover, the particularity (the
individual, nation, or age) of the content constitutes the individuality
of the work of Art. And not only this, but this particularity of the
_self-consciousness_ furnishes the very contradiction itself with the
development and solution of which the work of art is occupied. For the
self-consciousness which constitutes the content, being the self
consciousness of an individual, a nation, or an age, instead of being
self-conscious intelligence in its pure universality, contains in that
very particularity the contradiction which, in the sphere of
manifestation and reality, constitutes the collision, conflict, and
solution.[17]
Now, if we look back upon the facts stated, we have the manifestation,
the realization, and the actualization of self-conscious intelligence as
the three spheres or stages in the process which evolves and involves
the entire activity of man, both practical and theoretical. It is also
obvious that the realization of self-conscious intelligence in the
family, society, and the state, and its actualization in Art, Religion,
and Philosophy, depend in their genesis upon its manifestation in the
individual. Hence a denial of the possibility of this manifestation is a
denial of the possibility of the realization and actualization also.
Now if this denial assume the form of a conviction in the consciousness
of an individual, a nation, or an age, then there results a
contradiction which involves in the sweep of its universality the entire
spiritual world of man. For it is the self-consciousness of that
individual, nation, or age, in direct conflict with itself, not with
this or that particularity of itself, but with its entire content, in
the sphere of manifestation, with the receptivity for, the production
of, and the aspiration after, the Beautiful, the Good, and the True,
within the individual himself; in the sphere of realization with the
Family, with Society, and with the State; and finally, in the sphere of
actuality with Art, Religion, and Philosophy.
Now this contradiction is precisely what is presented in the
proposition, “Man cannot know truth.” This you will remember was, in the
history of modern thought, the result of Kant’s philosophy. And Kant’s
philosophy was the philosophy of Germany at the time of the conception
of Goethe’s Faust. And Goethe was the truest poet of Germany, and thus
he sings:
“So then I have studied philosophy,
Jurisprudence and medicine,
And what is worse, Theology,
Thoroughly, but, alas! in vain,
And here I stand with study hoar,
A fool, and know what I knew before;
Am called Magister, nay, LL.D.,
And for ten years, am busily
Engaged, leading through fen and close,
My trusting pupils by the nose;
Yet see that nothing can be known.
This burns my heart, this, this alone!”
Here, you will perceive in the first sentence of the poem, as was meet,
the fundamental contradiction, the theme, or the “argument,” as it is so
admirably termed by critics, is stated in its naked abstractness, just
as Achilles’ wrath is the first sentence of the Iliad.
This theme, then, is nothing more nor less than the self-consciousness
in contradiction with itself, in conflict with its own content. Hence,
if the poem is to portray this theme, this content, in its totality, it
must represent it in three spheres: first, Manifestation—Faust in
conflict with himself; second, Realization—Faust in conflict with the
Family, Society, and the State; thirdly, Actualization—Faust in conflict
with Art, Religion, and Philosophy.
Now, my friend, please to examine the poem once more, reflect closely
upon what has been said, and then tell how much of the poem can you
spare, or how much is there in the poem as printed, which does not flow
from or develop this theme?
IV.
In my last, dear friend, I called your attention to the theme, to the
content of the poem in a general way, stating it in the very words of
the poet himself. To trace the development of this theme from the
abstract generality into concrete detail is the task before us.
According to the analysis, we have to consider, first of all, the sphere
of _Manifestation_.
In this we observe the three-fold relation which the individual sustains
to self-conscious intelligence, viz: Receptivity for, and production of,
and aspiration for, the True, the Good, and the Beautiful. Now if it is
true that man cannot know truth, then it follows that he can neither
receive nor produce the True. For how shall he know that whatever he may
receive and produce is true, since it is specially denied that he can
know it. This conclusion as conviction, however, does not affect
immediately the third relation—the aspiration—nor quench its gnawing.
And this is the first form of conflict in the individual. Let us now
open the book and place it before us.
The historic origin of our theme places us in a German University, in
the professor’s private studio.
It is well here to remember that it is a German University, and that the
occupant of the room is a _German_ professor. Also that it is the
received opinion that the Germans are a _theoretical_ people; by which
we understand that they act from conviction, and not from instinct.
Moreover, that their conviction is not a mere holiday affair, to be
rehearsed, say on Sunday, and left in charge of a minister, paid for the
purpose, during the balance of the week, but an actual, vital fountain
of action. Hence, the conviction of such a character being given, the
acts follow in logical sequence.
With this remembered, let us now listen to the self-communion of the
occupant of the room.
In bitter earnest the man has honestly examined, and sought to possess
himself of the intellectual patrimony of the race. In poverty, in
solitude, in isolation, he has labored hopefully, earnestly; and now he
casts up his account and finds—what? “That nothing can be known.” His
hair is gray with more than futile endeavor, and for ten years his
special calling has been to guide the students to waste their lives, as
he has done his own, in seeking to accomplish the impossible—to know.
This is the worm that gnaws his heart! As compensation, he is free from
superstition—fears neither hell nor devil. But this sweeps with it all
fond delusions, all conceit that he is able to know, and to teach
something for the elevation of mankind. Nor yet does he possess honor or
wealth—a dog would not lead a life like this.
Here you will perceive how the first two relations are negated by the
conviction that man cannot know truth, and how, on the wings of
aspiration, he sallies forth into the realm of magic, of mysticism, of
subjectivity. For if reason, with its mediation, is impotent to create
an object for this aspiration, let us see what emotion and imagination,
_without_ mediation, can do for subjective satisfaction.
And here all is glory, all is freedom! The imagination seizes the
totality of the universe, and revels in ecstatic visions. What a
spectacle! But, alas! a spectacle only! How am I to know, to comprehend
the fountain of life, the centre of which articulates this totality?
See here another generalization: the practical world as a whole! Ah,
that is my sphere; here I have a firm footing; here I am master; here I
command spirits! Approach, and obey your master!
“_Spirit._ Who calls?
_Faust._ Terrific face!
_Sp._ Art thou he that called?
Thou trembling worm!
_Faust._ Yes; I’m he; am Faust, thy peer.
_Sp._ Peer of the Spirit thou comprehendest—not of me!
_Faust._ What! not of thee! Of whom, then? I, the image of Deity
itself, and not even thy peer?“
No, indeed, Mr. Faust, thou dost not include within thyself the totality
of the practical world, but only that part thereof which thou dost
comprehend—only thy _vocation_, and hark! “It knocks!”
Oh, death! I see, ’t is my vocation; indeed, “It is my famulus!”
And this, too, is merely a delusion; this great mystery of the practical
world shrinks to this dimension—a bread-professorship.
It would seem so; for no theory of the practical world is possible
without the ability to know truth. As individual, you may imitate the
individual, as the brute his kind, and thus transmit a craft; but you
cannot seize the practical world in transparent forms and present it as
a harmonious totality to your fellow-man, for that would require that
these transparent intellectual forms should possess objective
validity—and this they have not, according to your conviction. And so it
cannot be helped.
But see what a despicable thing it is to be a bread-professor!
And is this the mode of existence, this the reality, the only reality to
answer the aspiration of our soul—the aspiration which sought to seize
the universe, to kindle its inmost recesses with the light of
intelligence, and thus illumine the path of life? Alas, Reason gave us
error—Imagination, illusion—and the practical world, the _Will_, a
bread-professorship! Nothing else? Yes; a bottle of laudanum!
Let us drink, and rest forever! But hold, is there nothing else, really?
No emotional nature? Hark! what is that? Easter bells! The recollections
of my youthful faith in a revelation! They must be examined. We cannot
leave yet.
And see what a panorama, what a strange world lies embedded with those
recollections. Let us see it in all its varied character and reality, on
this Easter Sunday, for example.
V.
I have endeavored before to trace the derivation of the content of the
first scene of the poem, together with its character, from the abstract
theme of the work. In it we saw that the fundamental conviction of Faust
leaves him naked—leaves him nothing but a bare avocation, a mere craft,
and the precarious recollections of his youth (when he believed in
revealed truths) to answer his aspirations. These recollections arouse
his emotions, and rescue him from nothingness (suicide)—they fill his
soul with a content.
To see this content with all its youthful charm, we have to retrace our
childhood’s steps before the gates of the city on this the Easter
festival of the year—you and I being mindful, in the meantime, that the
public festivals of the Church belong to the so-called external
evidences of the truth of the Christian Religion.
Well, here we are in the suburbs of the city, and what do we see? First,
a set of journeymen mechanics, eager for beer and brawls, interspersed
with servant girls; students whose tastes run very much in the line of
strong beer, biting tobacco, and the well-dressed servant girls
aforesaid; citizens’ daughters, perfectly outraged at the low taste of
the students who run after the servant girls, “when they might have the
very best of society;” citizens dissatisfied with the new mayor of the
city—“Taxes increase from day to day, and nothing is done for the
welfare of the city.” A beggar is not wanting. Other citizens, who
delight to speak of war and rumors of war in distant countries, in order
to enjoy their own peace at home with proper contrast; also an “elderly
one,” who thinks that she is quite able to furnish what the well-dressed
citizens’ daughters wish for—to the great scandal of the latter, who
feel justly indignant at being addressed in public by such an old witch
(although, “between ourselves, she did show us our sweethearts on St.
Andrew’s night”); soldiers, who sing of high-walled fortresses and proud
women to be taken by storm; and, finally, farmers around the linden
tree, dancing a most furious gallopade—a real Easter Sunday or Monday
“before the gate”—of any city in Germany, even to this day.
And into this real world, done up in holiday attire, but not by the
poet—into this paradise, this very heaven of the people, where great and
small fairly yell with delight—Faust enters, assured that here he can
maintain his rank as a man; “here I dare to be a man!” And, sure enough,
listen to the welcome:
“Nay, Doctor, ’tis indeed too much
To be with us on such a day,
To join the throng, the common mass,
You, you, the great, the learned man!
Take, then, this beaker, too,” &c.
And here goes—a general health to the Doctor, to the man who braved the
pestilence for us, and who even now, does not think it beneath him to
join us in our merry-making—hurrah for the Doctor; hip, hip, &c.
And is not this something, dear friend? Just think, with honest Wagner,
when he exclaims, “What emotions must crowd thy breast, O great man,
while listening to such honors?” and you will also say with him:
“Thrice blest the man who draws such profits rare,
From talents all his own!”
Why, see! the father shows you to his son; every one inquires—presses,
rushes to see you! The fiddle itself is hushed, the dancers stop. Where
you go, they fall into lines; caps and hats fly into the air! But a
little more, and they would fall upon their knees, as if the sacred Host
passed that way!
And is not this great? Is not this the very goal of human ambition? To
Wagner, dear friend, it is; for the very essence of an avocation is, and
must be, “success in life.” But how does it stand with the man whose
every aspiration is the True, the Good, and the Beautiful? Will a hurrah
from one hundred thousand throats, all in good yelling order, assist
him? _No._
To Wagner it is immaterial whether he _knows_ what he _needs_, provided
he sees the day when the man who has been worse to the people than the
very pestilence itself, receives public honors; but to Faust, to the man
really in earnest—who is not satisfied when he has squared life with
life, and obtained zero for a result, or who does not merely _live to
make a living_, but demands a rational end for life, and, in default of
that rational end, spurns life itself—to such a man this whole scene
possesses little significance indeed. It possesses, however, _some_
significance, even for him! For if it is indeed true that man cannot
know truth—that the high aspiration of his soul has no object—then this
scene demonstrates, at least, that Faust possesses power over the
practical world. If he cannot _know_ the world, he can at least swallow
a considerable portion of it, and this scene demonstrates that he can
exercise a great deal of choice as to the parts to be selected; do you
see this conviction?
Do you see this conviction? Do you see this dog? Consider it well; what
is it, think you? Do you perceive how it encircles us nearer and
nearer—becomes more and more certain, and, if I mistake not, a luminous
emanation of gold, of honor, of power, follows in its wake. It seems to
me as if it drew soft magic rings, as future fetters, round our feet!
See, the circles become smaller and smaller-’tis almost a certainty—’tis
already near; come, come home with as!
The temptation here spread before us by the poet, to consider the dog
“_well_,” is almost irresistible; but all we can say in this place, dear
friend, is that if you will look upon what is properly called an
_avocation_ in civil society, eliminate from it all higher ends and
motives other than the simple one of making a living—no matter with what
pomp and circumstance—no doubt you will readily recognize the POODLE.
But we must hasten to the studio to watch further developments, for the
conflict is not as yet decided. We are still to examine the possibility
of a divine revelation to man, who cannot know truth.
And for this purpose our newly acquired conviction, that we possess
power over the practical world—although not as yet in a perfectly clear
form before us—comfortably lodged behind the stove, where it properly
belongs, we take down the original text of the New Testament in order to
realize its meaning, in our own loved mother tongue. It stands written:
“In the beginning was the Word.” Word? Word? Never! _Meaning_ it ought
to be! Meaning what? Meaning? No; it is _Power_! No; _Deed_! Word,
meaning, power, deed—which is it? Alas, how am I to know, unless I can
know truth? ’Tis even so, our youthful recollections dissolve in mist,
into thin air—and nothing is left us but our newly acquired conviction,
the restlessness of which during this examination has undoubtedly not
escaped your attention, dear friend. (“Be quiet, there, behind the
stove.” “See here, poodle, one of us two has to leave this room!”) What,
then, is the whole content of this conviction, which, so long as there
was the hope of a possibility of a worthy object for our aspiration,
seemed so despicable? What is it that governs the practical world of
finite motives, the power that adapts means to ends, regardless of a
final, of an infinite end? Is it not the Understanding? and although
Reason—in its search after the _final end_, with its perfect system of
absolute means, of infinite motives and interests—begets subjective
chimeras, is it not demonstrated that the understanding possesses
objective validity? Nay, look upon this dog well; does it not swell into
colossal proportions—is no dog at all, in fact, but the very power that
holds absolute sway over the finite and negative—the understanding
itself—Mephistopheles in proper form?
And who calls this despicable? Is it not Reason, the power that begets
chimeras, and it alone? And shall we reject the real, the actual—all in
fact that possesses objective validity—because, forsooth, the power of
subjective chimeras declares it negative, finite, perishable? Never. “No
fear, dear sir, that I’ll do this. Precisely what I have promised is the
very aim of all my endeavor. Conceited fool that I was! I prized myself
too highly”—claimed kin with the infinite. “I belong only in thy
sphere”—the finite. “The Great Spirit scorns me. Nature is a sealed book
to me; the thread of thought is severed. Knowing disgusts me. In the
depths of sensuality I’ll quench the burning passion.”
Here, then, my friend, we arrive at the final result of the conflict in
the first sphere of our theme—in the sphere of manifestation—that of the
individual. We started with the conviction _that man cannot know truth_.
This destroyed our spiritual endeavors, and reduced our practical
avocation to an absurdity. We sought refuge in the indefinite—the
mysticism of the past—and were repelled by its subjectivity. We next
examined the theoretical side of the practical world, and found this
likewise an impossibility and suicide—a mere blank nothingness—as the
only resource. But here we were startled by our emotional nature, which
unites us with our fellow-man, and seems to promise some sort of a
bridge over into the infinite—certainly demands such a transition.
Investigating this, therefore, with all candor, we found our fellow-men
wonderfully occupied—occupied like the kitten pursuing its own tail! At
the same time it became apparent that we might be quite a dog in this
kitten dance, or that the activity of the understanding possessed
objective validity. With this conviction fairly established, although
still held in utter contempt, we examined the last resource: the
possibility of a divine revelation of truth to men that cannot know
truth. The result, as the mere statement of the proposition would
indicate, is negative, and thus the last chance of obtaining validity
for anything except the activity of the understanding vanishes utterly.
But with this our contempt for the understanding likewise vanishes. For
whatever our aspiration may say, it has no object to correspond to it,
and is therefore merely subjective, a hallucination, a chimera, and the
understanding is the highest attainable for us. Here, therefore, the
subjective conflict ends, for we have attained to objectivity, and this
is the highest, since there is nothing else that possesses validity for
man. Nor is this by any means contemptible in itself, for it is the
power over the finite world, and the net result is: That if you and I,
my friend, have no reason, cannot know truth, we do have at least a
stomach, a capacity for sensual enjoyment, and an understanding to
administer to the same—to be its servant. This, at least, is
demonstrated by the kitten dance of the whole world.
Footnote 16:
In this connection, permit me, dear friend, to mention a discovery
which I made concerning my son Isaac, now three years old. Just
imagine my surprise when I found that every book in my
possession—Webster’s Spelling-book not excepted—is a perfect riddle to
him, and mystifies him as completely as ever the works of Goethe,
Hegel, Emerson, or any other thinking man, do or did the learned
critics. But my parental pride, so much elated by the discovery of
this remarkable precocity in my son—a precocity which, at the age of
three years, (!) shows him possessed of all the incapacity of such
“learned men”—was shocked, nay, mortified, by the utter want of
appreciation which the little fellow showed of this, his exalted
condition!
Footnote 17:
From this a variety of facts in the character and history of the
different works of art become apparent. The degree of the effect
produced, for example, is owing to the degree of validity attached to
the two sides of the contradiction. If the duties which the individual
owes to the family and the state come into conflict, as in the
Antigone of Sophocles, and the consciousness of the age has not
subordinated the ideas upon which they are based, but accords to each
an equal degree of validity, we have a content replete with the
noblest effects. For this is not a conflict between the abstract good
and bad, the positive and the negative, but a conflict within the good
itself. So likewise the universality of the effect is apparent from
the content. If this is the self-consciousness of a nation, the work
of art will be national. To illustrate this, and, at the same time, to
trace the development of the particularity spoken of into a collision,
we may refer to that great national work of art—the Iliad of Homer.
The particularity which distinguishes the national self-consciousness
of the Greeks is the preëminent validity attached by it to one of the
before-mentioned modes of the actualization of self-conscious
intelligence—the sensuous. Hence its worship of the Beautiful. This
preëminence and the consequent subordination of the moral and the
rational modes to it, is the root of the contradiction, and hence the
basis of the collision which forms the content of the poem. Its motive
modernized would read about as follows: “The son of one of our
Senators goes to England; is received and hospitably entertained at
the house of a lord. During his stay he falls in love and subsequently
elopes with the young wife of his entertainer. For this outrage,
perpetrated by the young hopeful, the entire fighting material of the
island get themselves into their ships, not so much to avenge the
injured husband as to capture the runaway wife.”
But—now mark—adverse winds ensue, powers not human are in arms against
them, and before these can be propitiated, a princess of the blood
royal, pure and undefiled, must be sacrificed!—is sacrificed, and for
what? That all Greece may proclaim to the world that pure womanhood,
pure manhood, family, society, and the state, are nothing, must be
sacrificed on the altar of the Beautiful. For in the sacrifice of
Iphigenia, all that could perish in Helen, and more too—for Iphigenia
was pure and Helen was not—was offered up by the Greeks, woman for
woman, and nothing remained but the Beautiful, for which she
henceforth became the expression. For in this alone did Helen excel
Iphigenia, and all women.
But how is this? Have not the filial, the parental, the social, the
civil relations, sanctity and validity? Not as against the realization
of the Beautiful, says the Greek. Nor yet the state? No; “I do not go
at the command of Agamemnon, but because I pledged fealty to Beauty.”
“But then,” Sir Achilles, “if the Beautiful should present itself
under some individual form—say that of Briseis—you would for the sake
of its possession disobey the will of the state?” “Of course.” And the
poet has to sing, “Achilles’ wrath!” and not “the recovery of the
runaway wife,” the grand historical action.
INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY.
CHAPTER V.
NECESSITY, CHANCE, FREEDOM.
I.
All things are necessitated; each is necessitated by the totality of
conditions; hence, whatever is must be so, and under the conditions
cannot be otherwise.
_Remark._—This is the most exhaustive statement of the position of the
“understanding.” Nothing seems more clear than this to the thinker who
has advanced beyond the sensuous grade of consciousness and the stages
of Perception.
II.
But things change—something new begins and something old ceases; but,
still, in each case, the first principle must apply, and the new
thing—like the old—be so “because necessitated by the totality of
conditions.”
_Remark._—The reader will notice that with the conception of _change_
there enters a second stage of mediation. First, we have simple
mediation in which the ground and grounded are both real. Secondly, we
have the passage of a potentiality into a reality, and _vice versa_.
Therefore, with the consideration of change we have encountered a
contradiction which becomes apparent upon further attempt to adjust the
idea of necessity to it.
III.
If the same totality of conditions necessitates both states of the
thing—the new and the old—it follows that this totality of conditions is
adapted to both, and hence is indifferent to either, i. e. it allows
either, and hence cannot be said to necessitate one to the exclusion of
the other, for it allows one to pass over into the other, thereby
demonstrating that it did not restrict or confine the first to be what
it was. Hence it now appears that chance or contingency participated in
the state of the thing.
IV.
But the states of the thing belong to the totality, and hence when the
thing changes the totality also changes, and we are forced to admit two
different totalities as the conditions of the two different states of
the thing.
_Remark._—Here we have returned to our starting-point, and carried back
our contradiction with us. In our zeal to relieve the thing from the
difficulty presented—that of changing spontaneously—we have posited
duality in the original totality, and pushed our _change_ into _it_. But
it is the same contradiction as before, and we must continue to repeat
the same process forever in the foolish endeavor to go round a circle
until we arrive at its end, or, what is the same, its beginning.
V.
If it requires a different totality of conditions to render possible the
change of a thing from one state to another, then if a somewhat changes
the totality changes. But there is nothing outside of the totality to
necessitate _it_, and it therefore must necessitate _itself_.
VI.
Thus necessity and necessitated have proved in the last analysis to be
one. This, however, is necessity no longer, but spontaneity, for it
begins with itself and ends with itself. (_a_) As _necessitating_ it is
the active determiner which of course contains the _potentiality_ upon
which it acts. Had it no potentiality it could not change. (_b_) As
_necessitated_ it is the potentiality _plus_ the limit which its
activity has fixed there. (_c_) But we have here self-determination, and
thus the _existence_ of the Universal in and for itself, which is the
_Ego_.
_Remark._—It cannot be any other mode of existence than the Ego, for
that which dissolves all determinations and is the universal
potentiality is only _one_ and cannot be distinguished into _modes_, for
it creates and destroys these. The ego can abstract all else and yet
abide—it is the _actus purus_—its negativity annulling all
determinations and finitudes, while it is directed full on itself, and
is in that very act complete self-recognition. (See proof of this in
Chapter IV., III., 3.)
VII.
Thus the doctrine of necessity presupposes self-determination or Freedom
as the form of the Total, and necessity is only one side—the realized or
_determined_ side—of the process isolated and regarded in this state of
isolation. Against this side stands the potentiality which, if isolated
in like manner, is called Chance or Contingency.