(α) The first stage will be marked by objects _in which the reproduction

and recancelling of the antithesis at every step is still itself an

object of perception_.

The whole product is reproduced anew at every step,[36] that is, the

antithesis which cancels itself in it, springs up afresh every moment;

but this reproduction of difference loses itself immediately in

_universal_ gravity;[37] this reproduction, therefore, can be perceived

only in _individual_ objects, which seem to gravitate _towards each

other_; since, if to the one factor of an antithesis is offered its

opposite (in another) _both factors_ become _heavy with reference to

each other_, in which case, therefore, the general gravity is not

cancelled, but a special one occurs _within_ the general.—An instance of

such a mutual relation between two products, is that of the earth and

the magnetic needle, in which is distinguished the continual

recancelling of indifference in gravitation towards the poles[38]—the

continual sinking back into identity[39] in gravitation towards the

universal indifference-point. Here, therefore, it is not the _object_,

but the _being-reproduced of the object_ that becomes object.[40]

(β) At the first stage, _in_ the identity of the product, its duplicity

again appears; at the second, the antithesis will divide up and

distribute itself among different objects (_A_ and _B_). From the fact

that the one factor of the antithesis attained a _relative_

preponderance in _A_, the other in _B_, there will arise, according to

the same law as in α, a _gravitation_ of the factors toward each other,

and so a new difference, which, when the relative equiponderance is

restored in each, results in repulsion[41]—(change of attraction and

repulsion, _second_ stage in which matter is seen)—_electricity_.

(γ) At the second stage the one factor of the product had only a

_relative_ preponderance;[42] at the _third_ it will attain an

_absolute_ one—by the two bodies _A_ and _B_, the original antithesis is

again completely represented—matter will revert to the _first stage_ of

becoming.

At the _first stage_ there is still PURE _difference_, without substrate

[for it was only out of it that a substrate arose]; at the second stage

it is the _simple_ factors of two _products_ that are opposed to each

other; at the third it is the PRODUCTS THEMSELVES that are opposed; here

is difference in the _third_ power.

If two products are absolutely opposed to each other,[43] then in each

of them singly indifference of gravity (by which alone each _is_) must

be _cancelled_, and they must gravitate to _each other_.[44] (In the

second stage there was only a mutual gravitating of the factors to each

other—here there is a gravitating of the products.)[45]—This process,

therefore, first assails the _indifferent (element) of the_ PRODUCT—that

is, the products themselves dissolve.

Where there is equal difference there is equal indifference; difference

of _products_, therefore, can end only with _indifference of

products_.—(All hitherto deduced indifference has been only indifference

of substrateless, or at least simple factors.—Now we come to speak of an

indifference of products.) This struggle will not cease till there

exists a common product. The product, in forming itself, passes, from

both sides, through all the intermediate links that lie between the two

products [for example, through all the intermediate stages of specific

gravity], till it finds the point at which it succumbs to indifference,

and the product is fixed.

GENERAL REMARK.

By virtue of the first construction, the product is posited as identity;

this identity, it is true, again resolves itself into an antithesis,

which, however, is no longer an antithesis cleaving to _products_, but

an antithesis in the _productivity_ itself.—The product, therefore, _as_

product, is identity.—But even in the sphere of products, there again

arises a duplicity in the second stage, and it is only in the third that

even the duplicity of the _products_ again becomes _identity_ of the

products.[46]—There is therefore here also a progress from thesis to

antithesis, and thence to synthesis.—The last synthesis of matter closes

in the chemical process; if composition is to proceed yet further in it,

then this circle must open again.

We must leave it to our readers themselves to make out the conclusions

to which the principles here stated lead, and the universal

interdependence which is introduced by them into the phenomena of

Nature.—Nevertheless, to give one instance: when in the chemical process

the bond of gravity is loosed, the phenomenon of _light_ which

accompanies the chemical process in its greatest perfection (in the

process of combustion), is a remarkable phenomenon, which, when followed

out further, confirms what is stated in the Outlines, page 146:—“The

action of light must stand in secret interdependence with the action of

gravity which the central bodies exercise.”—For, is not the indifference

dissolved at every step, since gravity, as ever active, presupposes a

continual cancelling of indifference?—It is thus, therefore, that the

sun, by the distribution exercised on the earth, causes a universal

separation of matter into the primary antithesis (and hence gravity).

This universal cancelling of indifference is what appears to us (who are

endowed with life) as _light_; wherever, therefore, that indifference is

dissolved (in the chemical process), there light _must_ appear to us.

According to the foregoing, it is _one_ antithesis which, beginning at

magnetism, and proceeding through electricity, at last loses itself in

the chemical phenomena.[47] In the chemical process, namely, _the whole

product_ + _E_ or - _E_ (the _positively_ electric body, in the case of

absolutely _unburnt_ bodies, is always the _more combustible_;[48]

whereas the _absolutely incombustible_ is the cause of all _negatively_

electric condition;) and if we may be allowed to invert the case, what

then are bodies themselves but condensed (confined) electricity? In the

chemical process the whole body dissolves into + _E_ or - _E_. Light is

everywhere the appearing of the _positive_ factor in the primary

antithesis; hence, wherever the antithesis is restored, there is _light_

for us, because generally only the positive factor is beheld, and the

negative one is only felt.—Is the connection of the diurnal and annual

deviations of the magnetic needle with light now conceivable—and, if in

every chemical process the antithesis is dissolved, is it conceivable

that Light is the cause and beginning of all chemical process?[49]

(_f_) The dynamical process is nothing but the second construction of

matter, and however many stages there are in the dynamical process,

there are the same number in the original construction of matter. This

axiom is the converse of axiom _e_.[50] That which, in the dynamical

process is perceived in the product, takes place _outside_ of the

product with the simple factors of all duality.

The first start to original production is the limitation of productivity

through the primitive antithesis, which, _as_ antithesis (and as the

condition of all construction), is distinguished only in _magnetism_;

the second stage of production is the _change_ of contraction and

expansion, and as such becomes visible only in _electricity_; finally,

the third stage is the transition of this change into indifference—a

change which is recognized as such only in _chemical_ phenomena.

MAGNETISM, ELECTRICITY AND CHEMICAL PROCESS are the _categories_ of the

original construction of nature [matter]—the latter escapes us and lies

outside of intuition, the former are what of it remains behind, what

stands firm, what is fixed—the general schemes for the construction of

matter.[51]

And—in order to close the circle at the point where it began—just as in

organic nature, in the scale of sensibility, irritability, and formative

instinct, the secret of the production of the _whole of organic nature_

lies in each individual, so in the scale of magnetism, electricity, and

chemical process, so far as it (the scale) can be distinguished in the

individual body, is to be found the secret of the production of _Nature

from itself_ [of the whole of Nature[52]].

C.

We have now approached nearer the solution of our problem, which was: To

reduce the construction of organic and inorganic nature to a common

expression.

Inorganic nature is the product of the _first_ power, organic nature of

the _second_[53]—(this was demonstrated above; it will soon appear that

the latter is the product of a still higher power)—hence the latter, in

view of the former, appears contingent; the former, in view of the

latter, necessary. Inorganic nature can take its origin from _simple_

factors, organic nature only from products, which again become factors.

Hence an inorganic nature generally will appear as having been from all

eternity, the organic nature as _originated_.

In the organic nature, indifference can never be arrived at in the same

way in which it is arrived at in inorganic nature, because life consists

in nothing more than a continual _prevention of the attainment of

indifference_ [a prevention of the absolute transition of productivity

into product] whereby manifestly there comes about only a condition

which is, so to speak, extorted from Nature.

By organization, matter—which has already been composed for the second

time by the chemical process—is once more thrown back to the initial

point of formation (the circle above described is again opened); it is

no wonder that matter always thrown back again into formation at last

returns as a perfect product.

The same stages, through which the production of Nature originally

passes, are also passed through by the production of the organic

product; only that the latter, even _in the first stage_, at least

begins with products of the _simple_ power.—Organic production also

begins with limitation, not of the _primary_ productivity, but of the

_productivity of a product_; organic formation also takes place through

the change of expansion and contraction, just as primary formation does;

but in this case it is a change taking place, not in the simple

productivity, but in the compound.

But there is all this, too, in the chemical process,[54] and yet in the

chemical process indifference is attained. The vital process, therefore,

must again be a higher power of the chemical; and if the scheme that

lies at the base of the latter is duplicity, the scheme of the former

will of necessity be _triplicity_ [the former will be a process of the

third power]. But the scheme of triplicity is [in reality] that [the

fundamental scheme] of the galvanic process (Ritter’s _Demonstration_,

&c., p. 172); therefore the galvanic process (or the process of

irritation) stands a power higher than the chemical, and the third

element, which the latter lacks and the former has, prevents

indifference from being arrived at in the organic product.[55]

As irritation does not allow indifference to be arrived at in the

individual product, and as the antithesis is still there (for the

primary antithesis still pursues us),[56] there remains for nature no

alternative but separation of the factors in _different_ products.[57]

The formation of the individual product, for that very reason, cannot be

a completed formation, and the product can never cease to be

productive.[58] The contradiction in Nature is this, that the product

must be _productive_ [i. e. a product of the third power], and that,

notwithstanding, the product, _as_ a product of the third power, must

pass over into indifference.[59]

This contradiction Nature tries to solve by mediating _indifference_

itself through _productivity_, but even this does not succeed—for the

act of productivity is only the kindling spark of a new process of

irritation; the product of productivity is a _new productivity_. Into

this as its product the productivity of the _individual_ now indeed

passes over; the individual, therefore, ceases more rapidly or slowly to

be productive, and Nature reaches the indifference-point with it only

after the latter has got down to a product of the second power.[60]

And now the result of all this?—The condition of the inorganic (as well

as of the organic) product, is duality. In any case, however, organic

_productive product_ is so only from the fact _that the difference_

NEVER _becomes indifference_.

It is [in so far] therefore impossible to reduce the construction of

organic and of inorganic product to a _common_ expression, and the

problem is incorrect, and therefore the solution impossible. The problem

presupposes that organic product and inorganic product are mutually

_opposed_, whereas the latter is only the _higher power_ of the former,

and is produced only by the higher power of the forces through which the

latter also is produced. Sensibility is only the higher power of

magnetism; irritability only the higher power of electricity; formative

instinct only the higher power of the chemical process.—But sensibility,

and irritability, and formative instinct are all only included in that

_one_ process of irritation. (Galvanism affects them all).[61] But if

they are only the higher functions of magnetism, electricity, &c., there

must again be a higher synthesis for these in Nature[62]—and this,

however, it is certain, can be sought for only in Nature, in so far as,

viewed as a whole, it is _absolutely_ organic.

And this, moreover, is also the result to which the genuine Science of

Nature must lead, viz: that the difference between organic and

inorganic nature is only in Nature as object, and that Nature as

originally-_productive_ soars above both.[63]

* * * * *

There remains only one remark, which we may make, not so much on account

of its intrinsic interest, as in order to justify what we said above in

regard to the relation of our system to the hitherto so-called dynamical

system. If it were asked, for instance, in what form our original

antithesis, cancelled, or rather fixed, in the product, would appear

from the stand-point of reflection, we cannot better designate what is

found in the product by analysis, than as _expansive_ and _attractive_

(retarding) _force_, to which then however, gravitation must always be

added as the _tertium quid_, whereby those opposites become what they

are.

Nevertheless, the designation is valid only for the stand-point of

reflection or of _analysis_, and cannot be applied for _synthesis_ at

all; and thus our system leaves off exactly at the point where the

Dynamical Physics of Kant and his successors begins, namely, at the

antithesis as it presents itself in the product.

And with this the author delivers over these Elements of a System of

Speculative Physics to the thinking heads of the age, begging them to

make common cause with him in this science, which opens up views of no

mean order, and to make up by their own powers, acquirements and

external relations, for what, in these respects, he lacks.

[The notes not marked as “Remarks of the original” are by the German

Editor.—_Note of the Translator._]

Footnote 18:

Thus, for example, it becomes very clear through the whole course of

our inquiry, that, in order to render the dynamic organization of the

Universe evident in all its parts, we still lack that central

phenomenon of which Bacon already speaks, which certainly lies in

Nature, but has not yet been extracted from it by experiment. [_Remark

of the Original._ Compare below, third note to “General Remark.”]

Footnote 19:

If only those warm panegyrists of empiricism, who exalt it at the

expense of science, did not, true to the idea of empiricism, try to

palm off upon us as empiricism their own judgments, and what they have

put into nature, and imposed upon objects; for though many persons

think they can talk about it, there is a great deal more belonging to

it than many imagine—to eliminate purely the accomplished from Nature,

and to state it with the same fidelity with which it has been

eliminated.—_Remark of the Original._

Footnote 20:

A traveller in Italy makes the remark that the whole history of the

world may be demonstrated on the great obelisk at Rome; so, likewise,

in every product of Nature. Every mineral body is a fragment of the

annals of the earth. But what is the earth? Its history is interwoven

with the history of the whole of Nature, and so passes from the fossil

through the whole of inorganic and organic Nature, till it culminates

in the history of the universe—one chain.—_Remark of the Original._

Footnote 21:

Volta already asks, with reference to the affection of the senses by

galvanism—“Might not the electric fluid be the immediate cause of all

flavors? Might it not be the cause of sensation in all the other

senses?”—_Remark of the Original._

Footnote 22:

According to the foregoing experiments, it is at least not impossible

to regard the phenomena of light and those of electricity as one,

since in the prismatic spectrum the colors _may_ at least be

considered as opposites, and the white light, which regularly falls in

the middle, be regarded as the indifference-point; and for reasons of

analogy one is tempted to consider _this_ construction of the

phenomena of light as the real one.—_Remark of the Original._

Footnote 23:

Hence wherever the antithesis is cancelled or deranged, the

metamorphosis becomes irregular. For what is disease even but

metamorphosis?—_Remark of the Original._

Footnote 24:

From this point onwards, there are, as in the Outlines, additions in

notes (similar to the few that have already been admitted into the

text in brackets []). They are excerpted from a MS. copy of the

author’s.

Footnote 25:

The first postulate of natural science is an antithesis in the pure

identity of Nature. This antithesis must be thought quite purely, and

not with any other substrate besides that of activity; for it is the

condition of all substrate. The person who cannot think activity or

opposition without a substrate, cannot philosophize at all. For all

philosophizing goes only to the deduction of a substrate.

Footnote 26:

The phenomena of electricity show the scheme of nature oscillating

between productivity and product. This condition of oscillation or

change, attractive and repulsive force, is the real condition of

formation.

Footnote 27:

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

from.

Footnote 28:

The whole of the uncancelled antithesis of _A_ is carried over to _B_.

But again, it cannot entirely cancel itself in _B_, and is therefore

carried over to _C_. The antithesis in _C_ is therefore maintained by

_B_, but only in so far as _A_ maintains the antithesis which is the

condition of _B_.

Footnote 29:

That is, distribution exists only, when the antithesis in a product is

not absolutely but only relatively cancelled.

Footnote 30:

The struggle towards indifference attains the preponderance over the

antithesis, at a greater or less distance from the body which

exercises the distribution, (as, for example, at a certain distance,

the action by distribution, which an electric or magnetic body

exercises upon another body, appears as cancelled.) The difference in

this distance is the ground of the difference of world-bodies in one

and the same system, inasmuch, namely, as one part of the matter is

subjected to indifference more than the rest. Since, therefore, the

condition of all product is difference, difference must again arise at

every step as the source of all existence, but must also be thought as

again cancelled. By this continual reproduction and resuscitation

creation takes place anew at every step.

Footnote 31:

It is precisely zero to which Nature continually strives to revert,

and to which it would revert, if the antithesis were ever cancelled.

Let us suppose the original condition of Nature = 0 (want of reality).

Now zero can certainly be thought as dividing itself into 1 - 1 (for

this = 0); but if we posit that this division as not infinite (as it

is in the infinite series 1 - 1 + 1 - 1 ...), then Nature will as it

were oscillate continually between zero and unity—and this is

precisely its condition.

Footnote 32:

Baader on the Pythagorean Square. 1798. (_Remark of the original._)

Footnote 33:

Except by the thoughtful author of a review of my work on the

world-soul, in the Würzburg _Gelehrte Anzeiger_, the only review of

that work that has hitherto come under my notice. (_Remark of the

original._)

Footnote 34:

It is here taken for granted that what we call the quality of bodies,

and what we are wont to regard as something homogeneous, and the

ground of all homogeneity is really only an expression for a cancelled

difference.

Footnote 35:

In the M.S. copy the last part of this sentence reads as follows: The

construction of quality ought necessarily to be capable of

experimental proof, by the recancelling the identity, and of the

phenomena which accompany it.

Footnote 36:

Every body must be thought as reproduced at every step—and therefore

also every total product.

Footnote 37:

The _universal_, however, is never perceived, for the simple reason

that it is universal.

Footnote 38:

Whereby what was said above is confirmed,—that falling toward the

centre is a compound motion.

Footnote 39:

The reciprocal cancelling of opposite motions.

Footnote 40:

Or the object is seen in the first stage of becoming, or of transition

from difference to indifference. The phenomena of magnetism even

serve, so to speak, as an impulse, to transport us to the standpoint

beyond the product, which is necessary in order to the construction of

the product.

Footnote 41:

There will result the opposite effect—a _negative_ attraction, that

is, repulsion. Repulsion and attraction stand to each other as

positive and negative magnitudes. Repulsion is only negative

attraction—attraction only negative repulsion; as soon, therefore, as

the maximum of attraction is reached, it passes over into its

opposite—into repulsion.

Footnote 42:

If we designate the factors as + and - electricity, then, in the

second stage, + electricity had a relative preponderance over -

electricity.

Footnote 43:

If no longer the individual factors of the two products, but the whole

products themselves are absolutely opposed to each other.

Footnote 44:

For product is something wherein antithesis cancels itself, but it

cancels itself only through indifference of gravity. When, therefore,

two products are opposed to each other, the indifference in each

_individually_ must be absolutely cancelled, and the whole products

must gravitate towards each other.

Footnote 45:

In the electric process, the whole product is not active, but only the

one factor of the product, which has the relative preponderance over

the other. In the chemical process in which the _whole product_ is

active, it follows that the indifference of the whole product must be

cancelled.

Footnote 46:

We have therefore the following scheme of the dynamical process:

First stage: Unity of the product—magnetism.

Second stage: Duplicity of the products—electricity.

Third stage: Unity of the products—chemical process.

Footnote 47:

The conclusions which may be deduced from this construction of

dynamical phenomena are partly anticipated in what goes before. The

following may serve for further explanation:

The chemical process, for example, in its highest perfection is a

process of combustion. Now I have already shown on another occasion,

that the condition of light in the body undergoing combustion is

nothing else but the maximum of its positive electrical condition. For

it is always the positively electrical condition that is also the

combustible. Might not, then, this coexistence of the phenomenon of

light with the chemical process in its highest perfection give us

information about the ground of every phenomenon of light in Nature?

What happens, then, in the chemical process? Two whole products

gravitate towards each other. The _indifference_ of the _individual_

is therefore _absolutely_ cancelled. This absolute cancelling of

indifference puts the whole body into the condition of light, just as

the partial in the electric process puts it into a partial condition

of light. Therefore, also the light—what seems to stream to us from

the sun—is nothing else but the phenomenon of indifference cancelled

at every step. For as gravity never ceases to act, its

condition—antithesis—must be regarded as springing up again at every

step. We should thus have in light a continual, visible appearing of

gravitation, and it would be explained why, in the system of worlds,

it is exactly those bodies which are the principal seat of gravity

that are also the principal source of light. We should then, also,

have an explanation of the connection in which the action of light

stands to that of gravitation.

The manifold effects of light on the deviations of the magnetic

needle, on atmospheric electricity, and on organic nature, would be

explained by the very fact that light is the phenomenon of

indifference continually cancelled—therefore, the phenomenon of the

dynamical process continually rekindled. It is, therefore, one

antithesis that prevails in all dynamical phenomena—in those of

magnetism, electricity and light; for example, the antithesis, which

is the condition of the electrical phenomena must already enter into

the first construction of matter. For all bodies are certainly

electrical.

Footnote 48:

Or rather, conversely, the more combustible is always also the

positively electric; whence it is manifest that the body which burns

has merely reached the maximum of + electricity.

Footnote 49:

And indeed it is so. What then is the absolute incombustible?

Doubtless, simply that wherewith everything else burns—oxygen. But it

is precisely this absolutely incombustible oxygen that is the

principle of negative electricity, and thus we have a confirmation of

what I have already stated in the Ideas for a Philosophy of Nature,

viz. that oxygen is a principle of a negative kind, and therefore the

representative, as it were, of the power of attraction; whereas

phlogiston, or, what is the same thing, positive electricity, is the

representative of the positive, or of the force of repulsion. There

has long been a theory that the magnetic, electric, chemical, and,

finally, even the organic phenomena, are interwoven into one great

interdependent whole. This must be established. It is certain that the

connection of electricity with the process of combustion may be shown

by numerous experiments. One of the most recent of these that has come

to my knowledge I will cite. It occurs in Scherer’s _Journal of

Chemistry_. If a Leyden jar is filled with iron filings, and

repeatedly charged and discharged, and if, after the lapse of some

time, this iron is taken out and placed upon an isolator—paper, for

example—it begins to get hot, becomes incandescent, and changes into

an oxide of iron. This experiment deserves to be frequently repeated

and more closely examined—it might readily lead to something new.

This great interdependence, which a scientific system of physics must

establish, extends over the whole of Nature. It must, therefore, once

established, spread a new light over the History of the whole of

Nature. Thus, for example, it is certain that all geology must start

from terrestrial magnetism. But terrestrial electricity must again be

determined by magnetism. The connection of North and South with

magnetism is shown even by the irregular movements of the magnetic

needle. But again, with universal electricity, which, no less than

gravity and magnetism, has its indifference point—the universal

process of combustion and all volcanic phenomena stand connected.

Therefore, it is certain that there is one chain going from universal

magnetism down to the volcanic phenomena. Still these are all only

scattered experiments.

In order to make this interdependence _fully_ evident, we need the

central phenomenon, or central experiment, of which Bacon speaks

oracularly—(I mean the experiment wherein all those functions of

matter, magnetism, electricity, &c., so run together in one phenomenon

that the _individual_ function is distinguishable)—proving that the

one does not lose itself immediately in the other, but that each can

be exhibited separately—an experiment which, when it is discovered,

will stand in the same relation to the _whole_ of Nature, as galvanism

does to organic nature. [Compare this with the discourse on Faraday’s

latest discovery, (1832,) p. 15. Complete Works, 1st Div., last vol.]

Footnote 50:

Proof—All dynamical phenomena are phenomena of transition from

difference to indifference. But it is in this very transition that

matter is primarily constructed.

Footnote 51:

In the already mentioned discourse on Faraday’s latest discovery, the

author cites the passage (p. 75, original edition,) as well as § 56

sq. of the _General View of the Dynamical Process_ (likewise written

_before_ the invention of the voltaic pile,) as a proof of his having

_anticipated_ the discoveries which proved the _unity_ of the

electrical and the chemical antithesis, and of the similar connection

subsisting between magnetic and chemical phenomena. (See also Remark

2, p. 216.)

Footnote 52:

Every individual is an expression of the whole of Nature. As the

existence of the _single_ organic individual rests on that scale, so

does the whole of Nature. Organic nature maintains the whole wealth

and variety of her products only by continually changing the relation

of those three functions.—In like manner inorganic Nature brings forth

the whole wealth of her product, only by changing the relation of

those three functions of matter _ad infinitum_; for magnetism,

electricity, and chemical process are the functions of matter

generally, and on that ground alone are they categories for the

construction of all matter. This fact, that those three factors are

not phenomena of special kinds of matter, but _functions of all

matter_ universally, gives its real, and its innermost sense to

dynamical physics, which, by this circumstance alone, rises far above

all other kinds of physics.

Footnote 53:

That is, the organic product can be thought only as subsisting under

the hostile pressure of an external nature.

Footnote 54:

The chemical process, too, has not substrateless or simple factors; it

has products for factors.

Footnote 55:

The same deduction is already given in the Outlines, p. 163.—What the

dynamical action is, which according to the Outlines is also the cause

of irritability, is now surely clear enough. It is the _universal

action_ which is everywhere conditioned by the cancelment of

indifference, and which at last tends towards intussusception

(indifference of products) when it is not continually prevented, as it

is in the process of irritation. (_Remark of the original._)

Footnote 56:

The abyss of forces, into which we here look down, opens with the one

question; In the first construction of our earth, what can have been

the ground of the fact that no genesis of new individuals is possible

upon it, otherwise than under the condition of opposite powers?

Compare an utterance of Kant on this subject, in his Anthropology.

(_Remark of the original._)

Footnote 57:

The two factors can never be _one_, but must be separated into

different products—in order that thus the difference may be permanent.

Footnote 58:

In the product, indifference of the first and second powers is arrived

at (for example, by irritation itself an origin of _mass_ [i. e.

indifference of the first order] and even _chemical products_ [i. e.

indifference of the second order] are reached), but indifference of

the third power can never be reached, because it is a contradictory

idea. (_Remark of the original._)

Footnote 59:

The product is productive only from the fact of its being a product of

the third power. But the idea of a productive product is itself a

contradiction. What is productivity is not product, and what is

product is not productivity. Therefore a product of the third power is

itself a contradictory idea. From this even is manifest what an

extremely artificial condition life is—wrenched, as it were, from

Nature—subsisting against her will.

Footnote 60:

Nothing shows more clearly the contradictions out of which life

arises, and the fact that it is altogether only a heightened condition

of _ordinary_ natural forces, than the contradiction of Nature in what

she tries, but tries in vain, to reach through the _sexes_.—Nature

_hates_ sex, and where it does arise, it arises against her will. The

diremption into sexes is an inevitable fate, with which, after she is

once organic, she must put up, and which she can never overcome.—By

this very hatred of diremption she finds herself involved in a

contradiction, inasmuch as what is odious to her she is compelled to

develop in the most careful manner, and to lead to the summit of

existence, as if she did it on purpose; whereas she is always striving

only for a return into the identity of the genus, which, however, is

chained to the (never to be cancelled) duplicity of the sexes, as to

an inevitable condition. That she develops the individual only from

compulsion, and for the sake of the genus, is manifest from this, that

wherever in a genus she _seems_ desirous of maintaining the individual

longer (though this is never really the case), she finds the genus

becoming more uncertain, because she must hold the sexes farther

asunder, and, as it were, make them flee from each other. In this

region of Nature, the decay of the individual is not so visibly rapid

as it is where the sexes are nearer to each other, as in the case of

the rapidly withering flower, in which, from its very birth, they are

enclosed in a calix as in a bride-bed, but in which, for that very

cause, the _genus_ is better _secured_.

Nature is the _laziest of animals_, and curses diremption, because it

imposes upon her the necessity of activity; she is active only in

order to rid herself of this necessity. The opposites must for ever

shun, in order for ever to seek, each other; and for ever seek, in

order never to find, each other; it is only in _this_ contradiction

that the ground of all the activity of Nature lies. (_Remark of the

original._)

Footnote 61:

Its effect upon the power of reproduction (as well as the reaction of

particular conditions of the latter power upon galvanic phenomena) is

less studied still than might be needful and useful.—Vide Outlines, p.

177.—(_Remark of the original._)

Footnote 62:

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

Footnote 63:

That it is therefore the same nature, which, by the same forces,

produces organic phenomena, and the universal phenomena of Nature, and

that these forces are in a heightened conditioned in organic nature.

ANALYSIS OF HEGEL’S ÆSTHETICS.

[Translated from the French of M. CH. BENARD, by J. A. MARTLING.]

II. SCULPTURE.—Architecture fashions and disposes of the masses of inert

nature according to geometric laws, and it thus succeeds in presenting

only a vague and incomplete symbol of the thought. Its [thought’s]

progress consists in detaching itself from physical existence, and in

expressing spirit in a manner more in conformity with its nature. The

first step which art takes in this career does not yet indicate the

return of spirit upon itself, which would render necessary a wholly

spiritual mode of expression, and signs as immaterial as thought; but

spirit appears under a corporeal, organized living form. What art

represents is the animate, living body, and above all the human body,

with which the soul is completely identified. Such is the _rôle_ and the

place which belong to Sculpture.

It still resembles _architecture_ in this, that it fashions extended and

solid material; but it is distinguished from it in this, that this

material, in its hands, ceases to be foreign to spirit. The corporeal

form blends with it, and becomes its living image. Compared to poetry,

it seems at first to have the advantage over it of representing objects

under their natural and visible form, while speech expresses ideas only

by sounds; but this plastic clearness is more than compensated by the

superiority of language as a means of expression. Speech reveals the

innermost thoughts with a clearness altogether different from the lines

of the figure, the countenance, and the attitudes of the body; further,

it shows man in action—active in virtue of his ideas and his passions;

it retraces the various phases of a complete event. Sculpture represents

neither the inmost sentiments of the soul, nor its definite passions. It

presents the individual character only in general, and to such an extent

as the body can express in a given moment, without movement, without

living action, without development. It yields also, in this respect, to

painting, which, by the employment of color and the effects of light,

acquires more of naturalness and truth, and, above all, a great

superiority of expression. Thus, one might think at first that Sculpture

would do well to add to its own proper means those of painting. This is

a grave error; for that abstract form, deprived of color, which the

statuary employs is not an imperfection in it—it is the limit which this

art places upon itself.

Each art represents a degree, a particular form of the beautiful, a

moment of the development of spirit, and expresses it excellently. To

Sculpture it belongs to represent the perfection of the bodily form,

plastic beauty, life, soul, spirit animating a body. If it should desire

to transcend this limit, it would fail entirely; the use of foreign

means would alter the purity of its works.

It is with art here as with science; each science has its object,

peculiar, limited, abstract; its circle, in which it moves, and where it

is free. Geometry studies extension, and extension only; arithmetic,

number; jurisprudence, the right; &c. Allow any one to encroach upon the

others, and to aim at universality; you introduce into its domain

confusion, obscurity, real imperfection. They develop differently

different objects; clearness, perfection, and even liberty, are to be

purchased only at this price.

Art, too, has many phases; to each a distinct art corresponds. Sculpture

stops at form, which it fashions according to its peculiar laws; to add

color thereto is to alter, to disfigure its object. Thereby it preserves

its character, its functions, its independence; it represents the

material, corporeal side, of which architecture gives only a vague and

imperfect symbol. It is given to painting, to substitute for this real

form, a simple visible appearance, which then admits color, by joining

to it the effects of perspective, of light and shade. But Sculpture

ought to respect its proper limits, to confine itself to representing

the corporeal form as an expression of the individual spirit, of the

soul, divested of passion and definite sentiment. In so doing, it can so

much the better content itself with the human form in itself, in which

the soul is, as it were, spread over all points.

Such is also the reason why Sculpture does not represent spirit in

action, in a succession of movements, having a determined end, nor

engaged in those enterprises and actions which manifest a character. It

prefers to present it in a calm attitude, or when the movement and the

grouping indicate only the commencement of action. Through this very

thing, that it presents to our eyes spirit absorbed in the corporeal

form, designed to manifest it in its entirety, there is lacking the

essential point where the expression of the soul centres itself, the

glance of the eye. Neither has it any need of the magic of colors,

which, by the fineness and variety of their shadings, are fitted to

express all the richness of particular traits of character, and to

manifest the soul, with all the emotions which agitate it. Sculpture

ought not to admit materials of which it has no need at the step where

it stops. The image fashioned by it, is of a single color; it employs

primitive matter, the most simple, uniform, unicolored: marble, ivory,

gold, brass, the metals. It is this which the Greeks had the ability

perfectly to seize and hold.

After these considerations upon the general character of Sculpture, and

its connections with other arts, Hegel approaches the more special study

and the theory of this art. He considers it—1st, in its principle; 2d,

in its ideal; 3d, in the materials which it employs, as well as in its

various modes of representation and the principal epochs of its historic

development.

We are compelled to discard a crowd of interesting details upon each of

these points, and to limit ourselves to general ideas.

1. To seize fully the principle of Sculpture and the essence of this

art, it is necessary to examine, in the first place, what constitutes

the _content_ of its representations, then the corporeal _form_ which

should express it; last, to see how, from the perfect accord of the idea

and the form, results the _ideal_ of Sculpture as it has been realized

in Greek art.

The essential content of the representations of Sculpture is, as has

been said, spirit incarnate in a corporeal form. Now, not every

situation of the soul is fitted to be thus manifested. Action, movement,

determined passion, can not be represented under a material form; that

ought to show to us the soul diffused through the entire body, through

all its members. Thus, what Sculpture represents is the individual

spirit, or, according to the formula of the author, the spiritual

individuality in its essence, with its general, universal, eternal

character; spirit elevated above the inclinations, the caprices, the

transient impressions which flow in upon the soul, without profoundly

penetrating it. This entire phase of the personal principle ought to be

excluded from the representations of Sculpture. The content of its works

is the essence, the substantial, true, invariable part of character, in

opposition to what is accidental and transient.

Now, this state of spirit, not yet particularized, unalterable,

self-centered, calm, is the divine in opposition to finite existence,

which is developed in the midst of accidents and contingencies, the

exhibition of which this world of change and diversity presents us.

According to this, Sculpture should represent the divine in itself, in

its infinite calm, and its eternal, immovable sublimity, without the

discord of action and situation. If, afterward, affecting a more

determinate mode, it represents something human in form and character,

it ought still to thrust back all which is accidental and transient; to

admit only the fixed, invariable side, the ground of character. This

fixed element is what Sculpture should express as alone constituting the

true individuality; it represents its personages as beings complete and

perfect in themselves, in an absolute repose freed from all foreign

influence. The eternal in gods and men is what it is called upon to

offer to our contemplation in perfect and unalterable clearness.

Such is the idea which constitutes the essential content of the works of

Sculpture. What is the _form_ under which this idea should appear? We

have seen, it is the body, the corporeal form. But the only form worthy

to represent the spirit, is the _human form_. This form, in its turn,

ought to be represented, not in that wherein it approximates the animal

form, but in its ideal beauty; that is to say, free, harmonious,

reflecting the spirit in the features which characterize it, in all its

proportions, its purity, the regularity of its lines, by its mien, its

postures, etc. It should express spirit in its calmness, its

serenity—both soul and life, but above all, spirit.

These principles serve to determine the ideal of beauty under the

physical form.

We must take care, in the works of Sculpture, not to confound this

manner of looking at the perfect correspondence of the soul and bodily

forms, with the study of the lineaments of the countenance, etc. The

science of Gall, or of Lavater, which studies the correspondence of

characters with certain lineaments of face or forms of head, has nothing

in common with the artistic studies of the works of the statuary. These

seem, it is true, to invite us to this study; but its point of view is

wholly different; it is that of the harmonious and necessary accord of

forms, from which beauty results. The ground of Sculpture excludes,

moreover, precisely all the peculiarities of individual character to

which the physiognomist attaches himself. The ideal form manifests only

the fixed, regular, invariable, although living and individual type. It

is then forbidden to the artist, as far as regards the physiognomy, to

represent the most expressive and determinate lineaments of the

countenance; for, beside looks, properly so-called, the expression of

the physiognomy includes many things which are reflected transiently

upon the face, in the countenance or the carriage, the smile and the

glance. Sculpture should interdict to itself things so transient, and

confine itself to the permanent traits of the expression of the spirit;

in a word, it should incarnate in the human form the spiritual principle

in its nature, at once general and individual, but not yet

particularized. To maintain these two terms in just harmony, is the

problem which falls to statuary, and which the Greeks have resolved.

The consequences to be deduced from these principles are the following:

In the first place, Sculpture is, more than the other arts, suited to

the ideal, and this because of the perfect adaptation of the form to the

idea; in the second place, it constitutes the centre of classic art,

which represents this perfect accord of the idea and the sensuous form.

It alone, in fact, offers to us those ideal figures, pure from all

admixture—the perfect expression of physical beauty. It realizes, before

our eyes, the union of the human and divine, under the corporeal form.

The sense of plastic beauty was given above all to the Greeks, and this

trait appears everywhere, not only in Greek art and Greek mythology, but

in the real world, in historic personages: Pericles, Phidias, Socrates,

Plato, Xenophon, Sophocles, Thucydides, those artistic natures, artists

of themselves—characters grand and free, supported upon the basis of a

strong individuality, worthy of being placed beside the immortal gods

which Greek Sculpture represents.

2. After having determined the principle of Sculpture, Hegel applies it

to the study of the _beau ideal_, as the master-pieces of Greek art have

realized it. He examines successively and in detail the character and

conditions of the _ideal form_ in the different parts of the human body,

_the face_, _the looks_, _the bearing_, _the dress_. Upon all these

points he faithfully follows Winckelmann, recapitulates him, and

constantly cites him. The philosopher meanwhile preserves his

originality; it consists in the manner in which he systematizes that

which is simply described in the History of Art, and in giving

throughout, the reason of that which the great critic, with his

exquisite and profound sense, has so admirably seized and undeniably

proved, but without being able to unfold the theory of it. The subject

gathers, henceforth, new interest from this explication. We may cite, in

particular, the description of the Greek profile, which, in the hands of

the philosopher, takes the character of a geometric theorem. It is at

the same time an example which demonstrates unanswerably the absolute

character of physical beauty. The beauty of these lines has nothing

arbitrary; they indicate the superiority of spirit, and the pre-eminence

of the forms which express it above those which are suited to the

functions of the animal nature. What he afterwards says of the looks, of

the bearing, of the postures, of the antique dress compared with the

modern dress, and of its ideal character, presents no less interest. But

all these details, where the author shows much of discrimination, of

genius even, and spirit, escape in the analysis. The article where he

describes the particular attributes and the accessories which

distinguish the personages of Greek Sculpture, although in great part

borrowed also from Winckelmann, shows a spirit familiarized with the

knowledge of the works of antiquity.

3. The chapter devoted to the different _modes_ of representation of the

materials of Sculpture, and of its historic development, is equally full

of just and delicate observations. All this is not alone from a

theorist, but from a connoisseur and an enlightened judge. The

appreciation of the _materials of Sculpture_, and the comparison of

their æsthetic value, furnish also to the author some very ingenious

remarks upon a subject which seems scarcely susceptible of interest.

Finally, in a rapid sketch, Hegel retraces the _historic development_ of

Sculpture, Egyptian Statuary, Etruscan art, the school of Ægina, are

characterized in strokes remarkable for precision.

Arrived at _Christian Sculpture_, without disputing the richness and the

ability which it has displayed in its works in wood, in stone, etc., and

its excellence in respect to expression, Hegel maintains with reason,

that the Christian principle is little favorable to Sculpture; and that

in wishing to express the Christian sentiment in its profundity and its

vivacity, it passes its proper limits. “The self-inspection of the soul,

the moral suffering, the torments of body and of spirit, martyrdom and

penitence, death and resurrection, the mystic depth, the love and

out-gushing of the heart, are wholly unsuited to be represented by

Sculpture, which requires calmness, serenity of spirit, and in

expression, harmony of forms.” Thus, Sculpture here remains rather an

ornament of architecture; it sculptures saints, bas reliefs upon the

niches and porches of churches, turrets, etc. From another side, through

arabesques and bas reliefs, it approximates the principle of painting,

by giving too much expression to its figures, or by making portraits in

marble and in stone. Sculpture comes back to its true principle, at the

epoch of the _renaissance_, by taking for models the beautiful forms of

Greek art.

A DIALOGUE ON MUSIC.

By EDWARD SOBOLEWSKI.

Q. Tell me what is good music?

A. Concerning tastes—all fine natures—not the “fair sex” only, possess,

as Bossuet says, an instinct for harmony of forms, colors, style and

tones, especially for the latter, because the nerves of the ear being

more exposed, are consequently more sensitive.

Discords massed together without system, produce a more disagreeable

effect than ill-assorted colors; and on the other hand, the etherial

beauty of tone-poetry excites the soul more powerfully than the splendor

of a Titian or Correggio.

Q. This “instinct” and “taste,” are they one and the same?

A. To a certain degree only—though many amateurs, critics, musicians,

and even composers, have had no other guide than a fine instinct.

Q. You speak as Pistocchi to the celebrated Farinelli: “A singer needs a

hundred things, but a good voice is ninety-nine of them—the hundredth is

the cultivation of the voice.”

A. The instinct of a delicate, sensitive organization, may go far, but I

think the hundredth thing is also necessary; therefore, one possessed of

the finest voice, but uncultivated, will sing sometimes badly, sometimes

pretty well, but never quite perfectly for a real judge.

So it is with taste. Depending on natural gifts alone, without

cultivation—you will be sometimes right—as often wrong. In short, your

taste is good, if you find pleasure in those works only which are

composed according to the principles of art; on the contrary, your taste

is bad, false, corrupt, if you find pleasure in music full of faults and

defects.

Q. Therefore, to be correct in taste, I must know the principles of the

art; I must know the rules of “Harmony, Rhythm and Form,” and perhaps

much more. Why, G. Weber has written three large volumes on “Harmony”

alone. No, it is too difficult and takes too much time.

A. Yet it is not so difficult as it seems. To understand music rightly,

nothing is necessary but the knowledge of two keys—major and minor; two

kinds of time—common and triple—one simple chord and two cadences.

Q. But Rhythm, Form?

A. Form is Rhythm, and Rhythm is time.

Q. Let us begin then with the keys, you speak of two only—major and

minor—but I have heard something of Ambroseanic, Gregoryanic, Glareanic

and Greek keys, wherein are composed the beautiful and sublime

compositions of Palestrina, Allegri, Lotti, that are performed annually

during Passion-week in the church of St. Peter, at Rome.

A. Well, if you like to go so far back, we will speak about Ambrose,

Gregory, Glareanus, but there are no such things as “Greek” keys.

The knowledge we have of the music of the Greeks, is too slight and

imperfect to enable us to assert positively anything concerning it; and

as nothing important or necessary to modern art is involved, we may be

content to let the music of the ancients rest in the obscurity which

surrounds it.

With the first Christians, who hated everything which came from the

temples of the heathens, arose our music.

Their religious songs were a production of the new soul which came into

them with Jesus Christ, and are the foundation of our great edifice of

art, as it now exists. In the year 385, Saint Ambrose introduced four

keys, D, E, F, G; Pope Gregory, in 597, added four others to these, and

named the four of Ambrose, “authentic moods,” and his four, which began

on every fifth of the first four, “plagalic.” In these eight keys,

without sharps or flats, are composed the liturgic songs of the Roman

church, called “Gregorian chants.” They are written in notes of equal

value, without Rhythm or Metre, and are sung in unison with loud voice.

Glareanus added to those eight keys, two more, A and C, with their

plagal moods. To distinguish more clearly, some one called the key

beginning with “D,” Doric, “E,” Phrygic, “F,” Lydic, “G,” Mixolydic,

“A,” Æolic, and “B,” Tonic. These names are all we have borrowed from

Greece.

Palestrina, the preserver of our art, wrote his compositions in these

keys, and for the highest purity of harmony, rhythmical beauty, sublime

simplicity, and deep religious feeling, his works are still unrivalled.

Q. Why don’t you compose in the old keys and in Palestrina’s style?

A. They are used sometimes by Handel in his Oratorios, by Sebastian Bach

in his fugues for organ and piano. Later, Beethoven has written an

Andante in the Lydic mood in his string-quartette (A minor). I myself

have composed the first chorus of Vinvela, in the Mixolydic mood, and in

Comala, the song to the moon, in the Doric mood; but Handel, Bach,

Beethoven, and myself, have written in our own style, and never imitated

Palestrina’s. Men in similar situations, only, have similar ideas. All

older works of music utter a language which we yet understand, but

cannot speak. We feel its deep innermost accents, but we cannot tune the

chords of our soul to that pitch which harmonizes in every respect with

that feeling. Palestrina’s music sounds like that of another world; it

is all quite simple; mostly common chords, here and there only a chord

of the sixth; and always an irresistible charm.

This riddle is partially explained, if we observe how Palestrina

selected the tones for the different parts in his choruses. Let us take

the third, c—e; e. g. let the soprano and the alto sing this third, and

you will have the same harmonic sound that the piano or organ gives. But

let the tenor sing one of these tones, and soprano or alto the other,

and the effect will be very different, although the tones are the same.

Palestrina knew not only the particular sound of every tone in every

voice, but also the effect which such or such combinations would

produce.

This mystery is taught neither by a singing school, nor by a theory of

composition, and few composers of to-day know it. How great and

beautiful is Beethoven’s solemn mass in D! What an effect would it make,

had Beethoven possessed the same knowledge of voices that he had of

instruments? Now, unfortunately, one often overpowers the others, and

the enjoyment of this composition will be always greater for the eye

than the ear.

We will now go back to the old keys. These are taken from the music

produced at that time, as our two keys, major and minor, are taken from

the melodies of later times.

This seems very simple to us, but not to our great theorists. Gottfried

Weber takes two keys, major c, d, e, f, g, a, b, c, and minor a, b, c,

d, e, f, g _sharp_, the same rising and falling equally.

Hauptmann, the first teacher of harmony in the Conservatory of Music at

Leipsic, says in his book, The Nature of Harmony and Metre, page 30—“The

key is formed, when the common chord (c, e, g), after having gone

through the subdominant-chord (f, a, c), and dominant-chord (g, b, d),

has come in opposition with itself; this opposition coupled together,

becomes _unity_ and the _key_.” He finds in our music three keys, and

names them, the major, the minor, and the minor major.

R. Wagner recognizes no key at all; for him exists a chromatic scale

only. He says: “The scale is the most closely united, the most

intimately related family among tones.” He does not like to stay long in

one key, and takes the continuous change of keys for a quality of the

music of the future; therefore, he finds in Beethoven’s last symphony,

in the melody to Schiller’s poem, a going _back_, because it has

scarcely any modulation.

We will not be so lavish with keys as Hauptmann, nor so economical as R.

Wagner, neither are we of Weber’s opinion. We find in C major the old

Glareanic key, called also “Ionic;” in our A minor of this day, a

“_mixtum compositum_” of several old keys; it begins as the “Æolic” a,

b, c, d, e, f, takes then its seventh tone, g _sharp_, from the Lydic,

transposed a third higher; uses sometimes also the sixth of the last,

accepts lastly the character of the Phrygic, transposed a fourth higher,

and brings thus the tone b _flat_ into its scale, which has been already

the subject of much discussion, although that has never succeeded in

throwing this tone out of many melodies in A minor. We have melodies

which are the pure A minor from the beginning to the end, wherein we

find f _sharp_ and f _natural_, g and g _sharp_, b and b _flat_, and the

last oftener than f _sharp_; therefore, we must build the scale of A

minor, and its harmony, according to those different tones; it will

be a, {b, c, d, e, {f, {g _sharp_, a,

{b _flat_, {f _sharp_, {g _natural_.

Let us proceed. The two kinds of time are common and triple. The rhythm

of the first is—__, that of the second—__ __. The accentuation of

subdivisions is governed by the same law. It makes no difference whether

a piece of music is written in 2|3 or 2|4, or even 2|8 time; but good

composers of music, writing in 2|4 time, intend the same to be of

lighter rendition than those composed in 2|2 time, etc.

Concerning harmony, there is one chord only—all other harmonies are

passing notes, inversions, prolongations, suspensions or retardations of

chord-tones, or from sharped and diminished intervals. Harmony is a

connection of different melodies. Before chords were known, they

descanted, that is, they tried to sing to a melody, commonly a sacred

hymn, called _cantus firmus_, different harmonical tones, and named this

part, _Descant_; Italian, _soprano_; French, _Le dessus_. Later there

was added to the tenor (which performed the _cantus firmus_) a higher

part, named _alto_, and lastly, a lower part was added called _bass_.

These four parts, though each melodious and independent in itself,

harmonized closely with each other, all striving for the same aim.

Even to-day we must necessarily call such music good, wherein every

voice acts independently of all others, and still in harmony with the

same, in order to express the reigning feeling, and sustain the various

shades in contrast to non-acting and lifeless trabants, which may be

strikingly seen in many compositions, particularly in four-part songs

for male voices, by Abt, Gumbert, Kücken, etc., wherein three voices

(_Brummstimmen_) accompany the fourth with a growling sound escaping

their closed lips.

The two cadences or musical phrases are the cadence on the tonic and the

cadence on the dominant. The cadence on the tonic, consisting of the

chord in the dominant, followed by that of the tonic, concludes the

sense of the musical phrase, and is called “perfect” when the tonic is

in the highest and lowest part. It corresponds to a period in language.

The cadence on the dominant consists of the tonic, or the chord of the

second or fourth going to the dominant. The cadence of the dominant

suspends the sense of the musical phrase without concluding it. This is

likewise the case with the cadence on the tonic, if the tonic is not in

the highest and lowest part.

Q. You say nothing of the great mistake wherein two fifths or octaves

follow each other?

A. Of course, the true nature of the proper arrangement of parts

excludes all direct fifths.

It is considered by the new school “an exploded idea.” Mozart himself

made use of fifths in the first finale of Don Giovanni.

Q. I have heard something of these fifths, but was told it was “irony,”

being contained in the minuet which Mozart composed for “country

musicians”?

A. You also find octaves in S. Bach’s “Matthew Passion,” p. 25, “On the

cross,” where surely no ironical meaning was intended.

Q. Do you not say anything in regard to form?

A. Form is an “exploded idea” also. The composers of the new school

construct their vocal music so as to let the poem govern the music in

relation to metre and form; in their instrumental compositions, the form

is governed by phantasy.

Q. But what do you understand by a symphony, sonata or overture?

A. I must again go back, in order to explain this properly.

Revolutions often beat the path for new ideas. Palestrina towers great

and unattainable in his compositions of sacred music, which breathe and

express the purest catholicism.

But a Luther, Zwingli, and others came, followed soon by Handel and

Bach, who, about the middle of the eighteenth century, created a music

full of freshness, primitiveness and transporting power, which lived and

died with the reformers.

The three grand-masters, Palestrina, Handel and Bach, equal, but do not

rival each other. We cannot judge them for the different sentiments they

indulged in. The philosophers may settle which is the best religion, for

to the necessity of one they all agree, but music cannot be chained by

dogmas. Heaven is an orb, whose centre is everywhere. Palestrina’s music

is the language of the south, Handel’s and Bach’s that of the north.

Though one sun illumes both lands—though one ether spans both, yet in

the south the sun is milder, the ether purer. Flowers which there grow

in wild abundance, the north must obtain by culture.

We must think at our work.

This necessity of thought is apparent in religion, language and art, and

can be seen most clearly in the greatest works of the German

grand-masters, in Bach’s “Matthew Passion,” and Handel’s “Israel.”

Sebastian Bach’s astonishing dexterity in thematical works is the reason

that even unto this day we do not find a symphony or overture

appropriate for a concert, of which the single motive forming the

principal thought of the movement is not worked up on the basis which he

constructed with such deep knowledge and skill.

To him we must retrace our steps, in order to perceive the true nature

of our instrumental music, for we are as little masters of the course of

our ideas, as of the circulation of the blood in our veins. Centuries

have passed, and although the first great instrumental-piece—the

overture—was a French production, (Lulli was the first master in this

_genre_ of art,) yet Bach and Handel impressed the first decided stamp

upon it.

Later, the overture was supplanted by the symphony, for the reason that

it was of easier composition and execution than the former. The overture

consisted of a _grave_, followed by a _fugue_. The symphony was composed

somewhat in the style of a _fugue_ and that of the lively dances of that

time.

Shortly after this period, the dance-music was thought no longer

fashionable, and was succeeded by two _Allegros_, with an _Andante_ or

_Largo_ placed between them.

Father Hayden felt hurt at the complete abandonment of dance-music, and

again adopted the minuet. Mozart also preferred the grave and majestic

dancing-step of his ancestors, the minuet. But Beethoven’s impetuous and

passionate nature scoffed at the slow and gracious movements of the

minuet, and revelled instead in the wild Scherzo, or in the capricious

demonical leaps of the old _Passepied_. Dark and mighty forms rose

before the gloomy vision of his inner-man, acting powerfully upon the

phantasy, and wherever they met this volcanic fire, always leaving a

deep impression.

Two comets ushered in the existence of our century; the one

revolutionized the exterior—the other, the interior world. Especially

were the young generation touched by the electric sparks of their rays.

Napoleon’s battles were repeated a thousand times in the nurseries with

lead and paper soldiers. Beethoven’s melodies agitated the souls of the

young generation in their working and dreaming hours. When the shoes of

the child became too small they were thrown aside; the lead and paper

soldiers shared the same fate; but the melodious tones grew with the

soul to more and more powerful chords. Beethoven’s star shone brighter,

while Napoleon’s was already fading. Then we heard that Beethoven

intended to destroy his great symphony called “Eroica.” Napoleon, the

consul, to whom Beethoven designed to dedicate this great work, had sunk

to Napoleon the Emperor, and Beethoven felt ashamed.

Majesty of rank is often devoid of the grace and majesty of the soul.

The chord e^b, g, b^b wherewith the bass solemnly introduced the third

symphony (Eroica), and his inversions in the Scherzo b^b, e^b, g, b^b,

and in the last movement e, b, b, e, this echo of the Marseillaise

suited no longer and should perish with it. Only then, when fate, in the

icy deserts of Russia, clasped the grand General in its iron grip, and

never loosened its hold until it had crushed him, did the composer of

the Eroica comprehend that in the _marcia funebre_ contained in this

symphony, he had spoken in prophetic voice. The prophecy contained in

the last movement was destined to be fulfilled in the latter half of

this century.

As Beethoven poured out his soul in a prophetic epopee, so did Mozart

embody his genius in his Don Giovanni. But as the sublime always acts

more powerfully upon youth than knowledge and beauty, so likewise was

the success of Beethoven greater than that of Mozart in this century.

Altogether Mozart is generally appreciated better in riper years. “_La

delicatesse du gout est une première nuance de la satiété._”

Mendelssohn, whose compositions ever flowed smoothly and quietly,

understood well how to tune his harmonica to Mozart’s tuning-fork.

Q. You represent Beethoven as grave and solemn, and yet it appears he

was not a great despiser of dances. Take, for instance, his A major

symphony. Lively to overflowing, almost mad with frantic joy, is the

first movement. Equal to a double quick-step, the last, about as the

peasants of Saxony perform their dances, the Scherzo gay; and in the

Andante, he even calls upon a lot of old bachelors and maiden-ladies,

with their hoop accompaniment, to fall in and execute their _tours_?

A. What opposite views are often taken of the same thing by different

minds! In the andante, in which you find so much humor, Marx observes

the sober view of life, at first the peaceful and untroubled step, but

growing ever more and more painful, and suffering, fighting the battle

of life; yet, be this as it may, such music is ever successful, even in

spite of the biting criticism of Maria v. Weber, and the ferocious

attacks of Oulibischeff.

Q. A good dance is always successful, I believe?

A. Mendelssohn knew this, as he also understood Beethoven and the

public, when he wrote his dance overture, “A Summer-night’s Dream.”

Auber, Herold and others wrote dance overtures _en masse_, and we often

find more piquant themes in them than Beethoven’s A major symphony, or

Mendelssohn’s Summer-night’s Dream can boast of, yet we do not prefer

them for the concert.

All compositions for an orchestra, be they overture or symphony, must

first contain a theme, which expresses the character of the principal

composition. Second, the expansions of compositions in the style of a

symphony, must, according to my opinion, originate from _one theme_,

germinate from _one_ seed, growing larger and stronger all the time,

until the swelling bud bursts into a beautiful blossom; yet there must

not be orange-blossoms on an oak-tree; all must fit harmoniously.

The theme, _sujet_, or _motive_, must be a fixed idea, such as “love;”

it must be ever present—the first at day-break, the last at night—no

other impression must be strong enough to erase it.

If, by the blossom, you understand the creation of a second thought,

often called the second theme, even this second theme ought to be

governed by the first, even this blossom ought to glow in the same

colors. It must be so twined around the heart of the composer, that

nothing foreign could possibly enter it. Merely thematical productions

are exercises for the pupil; compositions which merely contain parts

composed by rule, are merely a musical exercise. Lobe certainly is

wrong, if he thus teaches the art of composing.

True, it is easy to point out how one part belongs here, the other

there, yet the composition must be a free expression of the soul.

Third—The finishing of the same. This must also be governed in its main

parts by the predominating feeling, and only minor thoughts and

impressions must be used by the composer to fill up or cast away.

Let us now turn, for illustration, to the theme of Wagner’s overture to

Faustus. In the introduction we first see it in the eighth measure, very

moderate, in the dominant d minor, commencing with the notes a ā | b^b

b^b. a | g _sharp_, and headed “very expressive,” concerning which Von

Bulow observes, that it truly expresses the feeling and character of the

last lines of the motto which Wagner chose at the heading:

“Thus life to me a dire burden is;

Existence I despise, for death I wish.”

If we designate the above-mentioned theme by figure I. we must name the

figure which already makes its appearance in the second measure, and

which is of the utmost importance, to wit, d _sharp_, e, f, f, e, e, b,

b, figure II., the first theme having been expressed by the violin, the

second figure reappears again in the tenth measure, executed by the

viola, growling like a furiously racked demon, while the wind

instruments, flute, oboe and clarionet, “very expressive,” and yet full

of sympathizing sorrow, intervene at the last quarter of the tenth

measure with the motive, which we will call figure III. Figure II.

continues rumbling in the quartette, relieved by another figure (IV.)

descending from above, which is introduced by the second violin in the

fourteenth measure. Figure IV. now extends itself further above a

chromatic bass, until in the nineteenth measure, in d major, a clear and

distinct new motive, gentle and forgiving in character (V.) makes its

appearance.

These five motives which the composer so exquisitely leads before us, in

his very moderate introduction, now receive the finishing-touch in the

allegro. Thus speaks Von Bulow.

Truly, as Goethe says: “If you perform a piece, be sure to perform the

same in pieces.”

I will pass over the introduction, though I have as little taste for

such “theme pieces” succeeding each other, as for Opera-overtures, such

as that of Tannhäuser, where pilgrim-songs, the love-sick murmurings of

the voluptuous Venus, and the tedious Count’s drawling sorrow for his

only daughter and heir, form a hash, which in the details, and in the

heterogeneous compilation of the same, is unpalatable enough, but which

is made unbearable by the soul-killing figures—no! not figures, but by

the up and down strokes of monotonous bases, which continue for about

sixty measures. Setting aside even all this, we may justly expect in the

allegro the expansion of the principle theme I., yet we have no such

thing; in place of the “idea” he produces after the first five measures

a worthless figure, fit for accompaniment only, which is supported on

its tottering basis by the twenty-seven times repeated downstroke of the

conductor only.

Q. Excuse me; but the tone-picture, which Von Bulow, R. Wagner’s friend

and admirer, calls the forgiving voice (III), reappears twice in

wind-instrument music?

A. According to Lobe’s system. Borrow a measure or two from a theme,

then a motive, which you may construct from this or that or a third

figure, and you have, besides the required unity, the grandest

variation.

Do you know, my young friend, what a composer understands by an exploded

idea? The technical! All who study the art of composing, as Lobe teaches

it, may learn to become _compilers_ but _not composers_; or they must

drink elder-tea, till their visions appear black and blue to them, in

order to evaporate the schooling they enjoyed. After twenty-seven

measures of earthly smoke, there appears a solitary star, theme I.,

continuing for four whole measures, followed by a little more mist.

Q. No; I think Bulow says the mist is parted by a firm and punctuated

motive.

A. If it is not firm, it is at least _fortissimo_. Enough, we again hear

thirteen measures of unimportant music, concluded by d minor, followed

by a new melody for a hautboy, which, as it repeats the two first notes

of the first theme, may claim to be considered as belonging there,

leading to a third in f major, in company with a tremulando, _à la

Samiel_, crescendo and diminuendo. We have now arrived at the point

where we may look for the second theme, “the blossom,” as we before

said, but alas, in vain your tortured soul waits, no blossoms! The

thermometer sinks again! With the cadence we again hear theme I., after

four measures we find ourselves once more in d _flat_ major—no, in a

minor, b _flat_ major or b _flat_ minor, or g minor, it is difficult to

say which, for this part may be said to belong in the “most inseparably

combined, the closest related family of all keys.” Enough, we find

ourselves after twenty-six measures exactly at the very place we started

from, before the performance of twenty-six measures, namely, in f major.

This movement of twenty-six measures might be wholly thrown out, without

one being any wiser—a possibility which, in every good composition, must

be looked upon as a great fault, as all parts must be so closely united

as to enforce the presence and support of each other.

We will now look at the second theme. In it no critic can find a fault.

It unravels itself smoothly, and, after forty-nine measures, conducts us

again to motive V. in the introduction, as likewise to figure II., which

here does not frown quite so much.

Figure V. first appears in f, after twenty-two measures in g _flat_

major, after fourteen more in A minor, after thirty-four in d minor, and

after another thirty-nine measures we at last hear theme I. again, in

the dominant of the bass, a Faustus with lantern jaws, sunken temples,

sparse hair, but with a very, very magnificent bread-basket.

The blossom is larger than the whole tree. If it is not a miracle, it is

a wonderful abortion. Are you now curious as to the second part? Oh! it

almost appears like a fugue, the bass dies away, a fifth higher the

cello commences, another fifth higher the viola in unison with the

second violin; but as the composer has strayed already from d minor to b

minor, he does not think it safe to stray further; the wind instruments

continue by themselves in figure II.

Q. Bulow says the cello and viola united, once more introduce the

principal theme.

A. Just so. After the bassoon has tried twice to begin the same, after

about thirty measures of worldly ether, more devoid of stars than the

South Pole, it is headed “wild!” The leading theme once more begins in

the principal tonic (d minor), etc., afterwards enlarged, the first two

notes converted, caught up by the cello and the trumpet, wherein the

bass-trombone is expected to perform the high A, and after twenty-eight

measures of “hated existence” the second theme in d major, together with

the finale, appears like a short bright ray of the glorious sun on a

misty winter day.

“He, who reigns above my powers,

Cannot shake the outer towers”—

is Wagner’s motto, which he has justly chosen for the heading of his

overture, and I attempt no alteration only at the conclusion, and close

with—

“In such music existence a burden is,

The future I hate, for the End I wish.”

Q. Bulow would also answer as Goethe:

“To understand and write of living things,

Try first to drive away the soul,

The _parts_ will then remain within your hand!”

A. I have never found fault with these parts, excepting, perhaps, that I

said the working out of the second theme is, in proportion to the first

theme, too extensive; in fact, there is nothing of the future contained

in the overture.

Q. No future?

A. I mean to say, no music of the future—not even a chromatic scale for

the fundamental key—it moves entirely in the common form:

Principal theme—d minor;

Second theme—f major;

Return to fundamental key;

Second theme—d major, and conclusion in this key.

The finish and working up is neat and careful, and many pretty and

uncommon effects occur therein; still I do not think the same in its

proper place for a concert.

It inherits nothing of the Bach; the _piece_ is well constructed, yet

the _small pieces_ cannot escape criticism. Even Beethoven, in the first

movements of his _Eroica_ makes us acquainted with all the parts he

intends to work up, and in his c minor symphony he says plainly: Now

observe; the notes g g g e _flat_ compose the whole, nothing more. But

after that it is a rushing flow, an unbroken ring and song, pressing

breathlessly onward, which captivates and carries us along with its

force. To express myself plainly, I may say that we can perceive the

work _was done_ before it began.

It is true, and I will not deny that even he applied the file to

heighten its polish, yet the whole structure stood finished to his

vision before even these first four notes were penned.

No doubt R. Wagner also imagined a picture before he painted it, but

surely no musical one; the poetry was there—the music had to be

manufactured. It is full of genius, and not untrue; but he does not

allow sufficient freedom to the different instruments, and is,

consequently, not sufficiently “obligato.”

The parts succeed, instead of going in company or against each other.

Although now one, then another instrument catches up a thought, yet the

whole appears more like a Quartette of Pleyel than one of

Beethoven’s—the overture is not thought out polyphonically. Many,

however, do not know what Polyphonism is; it has been written about in

many curious ways. The pupil will best learn to write music in a

polyphonic manner, if, at the commencement, he invents at once a

double-voiced movement, but in such a manner that one voice is not the

subordinate of the other; both are equally necessary to represent the

meaning of the thought he wishes to express.

In this manner he may or must continue in regard to the three or

four-voiced movements likewise.

The addition of voices to a melody satisfactory in itself, be they ever

so well flourished, cannot properly be called polyphonism.

Polyphonism, however, should be the ruling principle in all orchestral

concert compositions, although in some points, for instance, in the

second theme, homophony may take its place.

A well composed symphony or overture must not entertain the audience

only, but every performing musician must feel that he is not an

instrument or a machine, but a living and intelligent being.

The overture to Faustus so entirely ignores Polyphony, that it seems a

virtual denial of its effectiveness and importance in orchestral

composition.

Richard Wagner will never become a composer of instrumental music, but

in his operas he has opened a new avenue, and his creations therein are

something grand and sublime.

SCHOPENHAUER’S DOCTRINE OF THE WILL.

Translated from the German, by C. L. BERNAYS.

[We print below a condensed statement of the central doctrine of

Arthur Schopenhauer. It is translated from his work entitled “_Ueber

den Willen in der Natur_,” 2d ed., 1854, Frankfort—pp. 19-23, and

63. To those familiar with the kernel of speculative truth, it is

unnecessary to remark that the basis of the system herewith

presented is thoroughly speculative, and resembles in some respects

that of Leibnitz in the Monadology, printed in our last number. It

is only an attempt to solve all problems through self-determination,

and this in its immediate form as the will. Of course the

immediateness (i. e. lack of development or realization) of the

principle employed here, leads into difficulty, and renders it

impossible for him to see the close relation he stands in to other

great thinkers. Hence he uses very severe language when speaking of

other philosophers. If the Will is taken for the “Radical of the

Soul,” then other forms of self-determination, e. g. the grades of

knowing, will not be recognized as possessing substantiality, and

hence the theoretical mind will be subordinated to the practical;—a

result, again, which is the outcome of the Philosophy of Fichte. But

Leibnitz seizes a more general _aperçu_, and identifies

self-determination with cognition in its various stages; and hence

he rises to the great principle of Recognition as the form under

which all finitude is cancelled—all multiplicity preserved in the

unity of the Absolute.—EDITOR.]

The idea of a soul as a metaphysical being, in whose absolute simplicity

will and intellect were an indissoluble unity, was a great and permanent

impediment to all deeper insight into natural phenomena. The cardinal

merit of my doctrine, and that which puts it in opposition to all the

former philosophies, is the perfect separation of the will from the

intellect. All former philosophers thought will to be inseparable from

the intellect; the will was declared to be conditioned upon the

intellect, or even to be a mere function of it, whilst the intellect was

regarded as the fundamental principle of our spiritual existence. I am

well aware that to the future alone belongs the recognition of this

doctrine, but to the future philosophy the separation, or rather the

decomposition of the soul into two heterogeneous elements, will have the

same significance as the decomposition of water had to chemistry. Not

the soul is the eternal and indestructible or the very principle of life

in men, but what I might call the Radical of the soul, and that is the

_Will_. The so-called soul is already a compound; it is the combination

of will and the νοῦς, intellect. The intellect is the secondary, the

_posterius_ in any organism, and, as a mere function of the brain,

dependent upon the organism. The will, on the contrary, is primary, the

_prius_ of the organism, and the organism consequently is conditioned by

it. For the will is the very “thing in itself,” which in conception

(that is, in the peculiar function of the brain) exhibits itself as an

organic body. Only by virtue of the forms of cognition, that is, by

virtue of that function of the brain—hence only in conception—one’s body

is something extended and organic, not outside of it, or immediately in

self-consciousness. Just as the various single acts of the body are

nothing but the various acts of the will portrayed in the represented

world, just so is the shape of this body as a totality the image of its

will as a whole. In all organic functions of the body, therefore, just

as in its external actions, the will is the “_agens_.” True physiology,

on its height, shows the intellect to be the product of the physical

organization, but true metaphysics show, that physical existence itself

is the product, or rather the appearance, of a spiritual _agens_,

to-wit, the will; nay, that matter itself is conditioned through

conception, in which alone it exists. Perception and thought may well be

explained by the nature of the organism; the will never can be; the

contrary is true, namely, that every organism originates by and from the

will. This I show as follows:

I therefore posit the will as the “thing in itself”—as something

absolutely primitive; secondly, the simple visibility of the will, its

objectivation as our body; and thirdly, the intellect as a mere function

of a certain part of that body. That part (the brain) is the

objectivated desire (or will) to know, which became represented: for the

will, to reach its ends, needs the intellect. This function again

pre-supposes the whole world as representation; it therefore

pre-supposes also the body as an object, and even matter itself, so far

as existing only in representation, for an objective world without a

subject in whose intellect it stands, is, well considered, something

altogether unthinkable. Hence intellect and matter (subject and object)

only relatively exist for each other, and in that way constitute the

apparent world.

Whenever the will acts on external matter, or whenever it is directed

towards a known object, thus passing through the medium of knowledge,

then all recognize that the _agens_, which here is in action, is the

will, and they call it by that name. Yet, that is will not less which

acts in the inner process that precedes those external actions as their

condition, which create and preserve the organic life and its substrate;

and secretion, digestion, and the circulation of the blood, are its work

also. But just because the will was recognized only while leaving the

individual from which it started, and directing itself to the external

world, which precisely for that purpose now appears as perception, the

intellect was regarded as its essential condition, as its sole element,

and as the very substance out of which it was made, and thereby the very

worst _hysteron proteron_ was committed that ever happened.

Before all, one should know how to discriminate between will and

arbitrariness (_Wille und Willkühr_), and one should understand that the

first can exist without the second. Will is called arbitrariness where

it is lighted by intellect, and whenever motives or conceptions are its

moving causes; or, objectively speaking, whenever external causes which

produce an act are mediated by a brain. The motive may be defined as an

external irritation, by whose influence an image is formed in the brain,

and under the mediation of which the will accomplishes its effect, that

is, an external act of the body. With the human species the place of

that image may be occupied by a concept, which being formed from images

of a similar kind, by omitting the differences, is no longer intuitive,

but only marked and fixed by words. Hence as the action of motives is

altogether independent of any contact, they therefore can measure their

respective forces upon the will, on each other, and thereby permit a

certain choice. With the animals, that choice is confined to the narrow

horizon of what is visibly projected before them; among men it has the

wide range of the _thinkable_, or of its concepts, as its sphere. Those

movements, therefore, which result from motives, and not from causes, as

in the inorganic world, nor from mere irritation, as with the plants,

are called arbitrary movements. These motives pre-suppose knowledge, the

medium of the motives, through which in this case causality is effected,

irrespective of their absolute necessity in any other respect.

Physiologically, the difference between irritation and motive may be

described thus: Irritation excites a reaction _immediately_, the

reaction issuing from the same part upon which the irritation had acted;

whilst a motive is an irritation, which must make a circuit through the

brain, where first an image is formed, and that image then originates

the ensuing reaction, which now is called an act of the free will. Hence

the difference between free and unfree movements does not concern the

essential and primary, which in both is the will, but only the

secondary, that is, the way in which the will is aroused; to-wit,

whether it shows itself in consequence of some real cause, or of an

irritation, or of a motive, that is, of a cause that had to pass through

the organ of the intellect.

Free will or arbitrariness is only possible in the consciousness of men.

It differs from the consciousness of animals in this, that it contains

not only present and tangible representations, but abstract concepts,

which, independent of the differences of time, act simultaneously and

side by side, permitting thereby conviction or a conflict of motives;

this, in the strictest sense of the word, is called free will. Yet this

very free will or choice consists only in the victory of the stronger

motive over a weaker in a given individual character, by which the

ensuing action was determined, just as one impulse is overpowered by a

stronger counter impulse, whereby the effect nevertheless appears with

the same necessity as the movement of a stone that has received an

impulse. The great thinkers of all times agree in this decidedly; while,

on the contrary, the vulgar will little understand the great truth, that

the mark of our liberty is not to be found in our single acts, but in

our existence itself, and in its very essence. Whenever one has

succeeded to discriminate will from free will, or the arbitrary, and to

consider the latter as a peculiar species of the former, then there is

no more room for any difficulty in discovering the will also in

occurrences wherein intelligence cannot be traced.

* * * * *

The will is the original. It has created the world, but not through the

medium of an intellect either outside or inside of the world, for we

know of the intellect only through the mediation of the animal world,

the very last in creation. The will itself, the unintentional will which

is discovered in everything, is the creator of the world. The animals,

therefore, are organized in accordance with their mode of living, and

their mode of living is not shaped in conformity with their organs; the

structure of any animal is the result of its will to be what it is.

Nature, which never lies, tells us the same in its _naïve_ way; it lets

any being just kindle the first spark of its life on one of his equals,

and then lets it finish itself before our eyes. The form and the

movement it takes from its own self, the substance from outside. This is

called growth and development. Thus even empirically do all beings stand

before us as their own work; but the language of nature is too simple,

and therefore but few understand it.

Cognition, since all motives are dependent on it, is the essential

characteristic of the animal kingdom. When animal life ceases, cognition

ceases also; and arrived at that point, we can comprehend the medium by

which the influences from the external world on the movements of other

beings are effected only by analogy, whilst the will, which we have

recognized as the basis and as the very kernel of all beings, always and

everywhere remains the same. On the low stage of the vegetable world,

and of the vegetative life in the animal organizations, it is

_irritation_, and in the inorganic world it is the mechanical relation

in general which appears as the substitute or as the analogue of the

intellect. We cannot say that the plants perceive the light and the sun,

but we see that they are differently affected by the presence or absence

of the sun, and that they turn themselves towards it; and though in fact

that movement mostly coincides with their growth, like the rotation of

the moon with its revolution, that movement nevertheless exists, and the

direction of the growth of a plant is just in the same way determined

and systematically modified as an action is by a motive. Inasmuch,

therefore, as a plant has its wants, though not of the kind which

require a sensorium or an intellect, something analogous must take their

place to enable the will to seize at least a supply offered to it, if

not to go in quest of it. This is the susceptibility for irritation,

which differs from the intellect, in that the motive and subsequent act

of volition are clearly separated from each other, and the clearer, the

more perfect the intellect is; whilst at the mere susceptibility for an

irritation, the feeling of the irritation and the resulting volition can

no longer be discriminated. In the inorganic world, finally, even the

susceptibility for irritation, whose analogy with the intellect cannot

be mistaken, ceases, and there remains nothing but the varied reaction

of the bodies against the various influences. This reaction is the

substitute for the intellect. Whenever the reaction of a body differs

from another, the influence also must be different, creating a different

affection, which even in its dullness yet shows a remote analogy with

the intellect. If, for instance, the water in an embankment finds an

issue and eagerly precipitates itself through it, it certainly does not

perceive the break, just as the acid does not perceive the alkali, for

which it leaves the metal; yet we must confess that what in all these

bodies has effected such sudden changes, has a certain resemblance with

that which moves ourselves whenever we act in consequence of an

unexpected motive. We therefore see that the intellect appears as the

medium of our motives, that is, as the medium of causality in regard to

intellectual beings, as that which receives the change from the external

world, and which must be followed by a change in ourselves, as the

mediator between both. On this narrow line, balances the whole world as

representation, i. e. that whole extensive world in space and time,

which as such cannot be anywhere else but in our brain, just as dreams;

for the periods of their duration stand on the very same basis. Whatever

to the animals and to man is given by his intellect as a medium of the

motives, the same is given to the plants by their susceptibility for

irritation, and to inorganic bodies by their reaction on the various

causes, which in fact only differ in respect to the degree of volition;

for, just in consequence of the fact, that in proportion to their wants

the susceptibility for external impressions was raised to such a degree

in the animals that a brain and a system of nerves had to develop

itself, did consciousness, moreover, originate as a function of this

brain, and in this consciousness the whole objective world, whose forms

(time, space and causality) are the rules for the exercise of this

function. We therefore discover that the intellect is calculated only

for the subjective, merely to be a servant of the will, appearing only

“_per accidens_” as a condition of animal life, where motives take the

place of irritation. The picture of the external world, which at this

stage enters into the forms of time and space, is but the background on

which motives represent themselves as ends; it is also the condition of

the connection of the external objects in regard to space and causality,

but yet is nothing else but the mediation and the tie between the motive

and the will. What a leap would it be to take this picture to be the

true, ultimate essence of things,—this image of the world, which

originates accidentally in the intellect as a function of animal brains,

whereby the means to their ends are shown them, and their ways on this

planet cleared up! What a temerity to take this image and the connection

of its parts to be the absolute rule of the world, the relations of the

things in themselves—and to suppose that all that could just as well

exist independently of our brain! And yet this supposition is the very

ground on which all the dogmatical systems previous to Kant were based,

for it is the implicit pre-supposition of their Ontology, Cosmology,

Theology, and of all their Eternal Verities.

By this realistic examination we have gained very unexpectedly the

_objective_ point of view of Kant’s immortal discovery, arriving by our

empirical, physiological way to the same point whence Kant started with

his transcendental criticism. Kant made the subjective his basis,

positing consciousness; but from its _à priori_ nature he comes to the

result, that all that happens in it can be nothing else but

representation. We, on the contrary, starting from the objective, have

discovered what are the ends and the origin of the intellect, and to

what class of phenomena it belongs. We discover in _our_ way, that the

intellect is limited to mere representations, and that what is exhibited

in it is conditioned by the subject, that is, a _mundane phenomenon_,

and that just in the same way the order and the connection of all

external things is conditioned by the subject, and is never a knowledge

of what they are in themselves, and how they may be connected with each

other. We, in our way, like Kant in his, have discovered that the world

as representation, balances on that narrow line between the external

cause (motive) and the produced effect (act of will) of intelligent

(animal) beings, where the clear discrimination of the two commences.

_Ita res accendent lumina rebus._

Our objective stand-point is realistic, and therefore conditioned,

inasmuch as starting from natural beings as posited, we have abstracted

from the circumstance that their objective existence presupposes an

intellect, in which they find themselves as representations; but Kant’s

subjective and idealistic stand-point is equally conditioned, inasmuch

as it starts from the intellect, which itself is conditioned by nature,

in consequence of whose development up to the animal world it only comes

into existence. Holding fast to this, our _realistic-objective_

stand-point, Kant’s doctrine may be characterized thus: after Locke had

abstracted the _rôle_ of the senses, under the name of “secondary

properties,” for the purpose of distinguishing things in themselves from

things as they appear, Kant, with far greater profundity, abstracted the

_rôle_ of the brain functions [conceptions of the understanding]—a less

considerable _rôle_ than that of the senses—and thus abstracted as

belonging to the subjective all that Locke had included under the head

of primary properties. I, on the other hand, have merely shown why all

stands thus in relation, by exhibiting the position which the intellect

assumes in the System of Nature when we start realistically from the

objective as a datum, and take the WILL, of which alone we are

immediately conscious, as the true που στῶ of all metaphysics—as the

essence of which all else is only the phenomenon.

INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY.