a hosanna to cultivated Nature, and appears unable to find words
strong enough to express his horror of Nature in its savage state,
“brute” Nature as he calls it. At the present day, our impression is
precisely the reverse of this. We seek on almost inaccessible summits,
in the region of eternal snow, and in the very heart of hitherto
unexplored continents, a spot where man has not yet penetrated, and
where we may behold Nature in her inviolate virginity. We are stifled
by civilization, wearied out with books, newspapers, reviews, and
periodicals, letters to write and to read; railway travelling, the
post, the telegraph, and the telephone, devour time and completely
mince up one’s life; any solitude for fruitful reflection is quite out
of the question. Shall I find it, at least, among the fir-trees of
the Carpathians, or beneath the shade of the old oaks of the Balkans?
Industry is spoiling and soiling our planet. Chemical produce poisons
the water, the dross from different works and factories covers the
country, quarries split up the picturesque slopes of valleys, black
coal smoke dulls the verdant foliage and the azure of the sky, the
drainage of large cities turns our rivers into sewers, whence emerge
the germs of typhus. The useful destroys the beautiful; and this
is so general as at times to bring tears to the eyes. Have not the
Italians on the lovely Isle of Sta. Heléna, near to the public gardens
in Venice, erected works for the building of engines, and replaced
the ruins of a fourth-century church by chimneys, whose opaque smoke,
produced by the detestable bituminous coal of the Saar, would soon
leave a sooty trace on the pink marble of the Doge’s palace and on
the mosaics of St. Mark, just as we see them on St. Paul’s Cathedral
in London, so ugly covered with sticky streaks. It is true that the
produce of this industrial activity becomes condensed in revenue,
which enriches many families, and adds considerably to the list of the
bourgeois population inhabiting the capital. Here, on the banks of the
Rhine, these revenues are represented by villas and castles, whose
pseudo-Greek or Gothic architecture peeps out from among masses of
exotic trees and plants in the most sought-after positions, near to
Bonn, Godesberg, St. Goar or Bingen. Look! there is an immense feudal
castle, beside which Stolzenfels, the Empress Augusta’s favorite
residence, would be a mere shooting box. This immense assemblage
of turrets, galleries, roofs, and terraces must have cost at least
£80,000. Has it sprung from coal or from Bessemer steel? It is
situated just below the noble ruin of Drachenfels. Will not the dragon
watching over the Niebelungen treasure in Nifelheim’s den, avenge this
impertinent challenge of modern plutocracy?
All that I see on my way up the Rhine leads me to reflect on the
special characteristics of Prussian administration. The works which
have so marvellously “domesticated” the river as to make it a type of
what Pascal calls “un chemin qui marche,” have taken between thirty and
forty years, and have been carried out continuously, systematically and
scientifically. In her public works, as in her military preparations,
Prussia has succeeded in uniting two qualities which are only too often
lacking—a spirit of consistency, and the love of progress. The desire
to be as near as possible to perfection is apparent in the most minute
details. Not unfrequently consistency, and a too close following of
traditions, leads to routine which rejects innovations. Great strength
is attained, and the chances of success are considerably increased if,
while one aim is kept always in view, the best means to attain it are
selected and applied without delay.
I have remarked, when speaking of parliamentary administration, that a
lack of consistency was one reason of the feebleness of democracies.
This should be guarded against as soon as it becomes apparent, or
inferiority will ensue. A few trifling facts will show that the
Prussians are as great lovers of useful novelties and of practical
improvement as the Americans. On the Rhine, at the ferries the old
ferry-boats have been replaced by little steamers, which are constantly
crossing the river from one side to the other. At the railway stations,
I notice that the trucks for luggage are made of steel, and are lighter
and stronger than any I have seen elsewhere. The system for warming
the railway compartments is also more perfected. Heated pipes run
under the seats of the carriages, and the passengers can regulate the
temperature by turning a needle on a disc from _Kalt_ (cold) to _Warm_
or _vice-versâ_. At the summit of the tower of the Town Hall of Berlin
the different flagstaffs for the flags hoisted on the fête days are
ranged in order. Outside the highest gallery iron rings have been
fitted all round in which to fix the staffs, each of which has a number
corresponding to the same number on the ring it is to fit into. In this
manner both rapidity and regularity are insured. Order and foresight
are safe means to an end.
I intended going to see at Stuttgart a former member of the Austrian
Cabinet, Albert Schüffle, who now devotes all his time to the study of
social questions, and has published some very well-known works—among
others, “Capitalismus und Socialismus,” and “Bau und Leben des Socialen
Körpers” (“Construction and Life of the Social Body”), books which
place him at the extreme left of Professorial Socialism. Unfortunately,
he is at the baths in the Black Forest. But I stop at Würzburg to
meet Ludwig Noiré, a philosopher and philologist, who has deigned
to study political economy. The sight of the socialistic pass to
which democratic tendencies are leading modern society, induces many
philosophers to turn their attention to social questions. This is
the case in France with Jules Simon, Paul Janet, Taine, Renouvier;
in England with Herbert Spencer, William Graham, and even with that
æstheticist of pre-Raphaelite art, Ruskin.
I hold that political economy should go hand in hand with philosophy,
religion, and especially with morality; but as I cannot myself rise
to these elevated spheres of thought, I am only too happy when a
philosopher throws me out a bit of cord by which I may pull myself a
little higher, above our workaday world. Ludwig Noiré has written a
book, which is exactly what I needed in this respect, and which I hope
to be able to speak of at greater length a little later. It is entitled
“Das Werkzeug” (“The Tool”). It shows the truth of Franklin’s saying:
_Man is a tool-making creature_. Noiré says that the origin of tools
dates from the origin of Reason and Language. At the commencement,
as far back as one can conceive, man was forced to act on matter to
obtain food. This action on Nature for the purpose of satisfying wants
is labor. As men were living together in families and in tribes, labor
was carried on in common. A person making a muscular effort very
naturally pronounces certain sounds in connection with the effort he
is making. These sounds, repeated and heard by the entire group, were
after a time understood to signify the action of which they were the
spontaneous accompaniment. Thus was language born from natural activity
in view of supplying imperious needs, and the verb representing the
action preceded all their words. The effort to procure the necessary
and useful develops the reasoning powers, and tools soon became
necessary. Wherever traces of prehistoric men are found, there is also
to be found the flint implement. Thus reason, language, labor, and
implements, all manifestations of an intelligence capable of progress,
appeared almost simultaneously.
Noiré has developed this theory fully in another book, entitled,
“Ursprung der Sprache” (“Origin of Speech”). When it was published, Max
Müller stated in the CONTEMPORARY REVIEW, that, although he
considered this system too exclusive, yet it was far superior to either
the onomatopœia or the interjection theory, and that it was certainly
the best and the most probable one brought forward at present. I can
but bow before this appreciation.
Noiré is a fanatical Kantian, and an enthusiastic admirer of
Schopenhauer. He has succeeded in forming a committee for the purpose
of erecting a statue in honor of the modern Heraclites. The committee,
he says, _must_ be international, for if as a writer Schopenhauer be
German, as a philosopher he belongs to the entire world, and he asked
me to join it. “I am exceedingly flattered by the proposal,” said I;
“but I offer two objections.” In the first place, a humble economist has
not the right to place his name side by side with such as are already
on the list. Secondly, being an incurable disciple of Platonism, I fear
that Schopenhauer did not remain in the Cartesian line of spiritualism.
I feel persuaded that two notions, which, it appears, are at the
present day very old-fashioned—I speak of a belief in God and in the
soul’s immortality—should form the basis of all social science. He who
believes in nothing but matter cannot rise to a notion of what ‘ought
to be’—_i. e._, to an ideal of right and justice. This ideal can only
be conceived as a divine order of things imposing itself morally on
mankind. The ‘Revue Philosophique’ of October, 1882, says, ‘Positive
Science, as understood at the present day, considers not what _should_
be, but only what _is_. It searches merely the formula of facts.
All idea of obligation, or of imperative prohibition, is completely
foreign to its code. Such a creed is a death-stroke to all notion of
duty. I believe that faith in a future life is indispensable for the
accomplishment of good works. Materialism weakens the moral sense, and
naturally leads to general decay.’
“Yes,” replied Noiré, “this is just the problem. How, side by side
with the dire necessities of Nature, or with Divine omnipotence, can
there be place for human personality and liberty? Nobody, neither
Christian nor Naturalist, has yet been able satisfactorily to answer
this. Hence has sprung, on the one hand, the predestination of the
Calvinists and Luther’s _De servo arbitrio_, and, on the other,
determinism and materialism. Kant is the first mortal who fearlessly
studied this problem and studied it satisfactorily. He plunged into
the abyss, like the diver of Schiller, and returned, having vanquished
the monsters he found there, and holding in his hand the golden cup
from which henceforward Humanity may drink the Divine beverage of
Truth. As nothing can be of greater interest to us than the solution of
this problem, so our gratitude, be it ever so considerable, can never
possibly equal the service rendered by this really prodigious effort
of the human mind. Kant has provided us with the only arm which can
combat materialism. It is full time we should make use of it, for this
detestable doctrine is everywhere undermining the foundations of human
society. I venerate the memory of Schopenhauer, because he has inspired
the truths revealed by Kant with more real life and penetrating vigor.
Schopenhauer is not well known in either France or England. Some of
his works have been translated, but no one has really understood him
thoroughly, because to understand a philosopher it is necessary not
only to admire but to be passionately attached to him. ‘The folly of
the Cross’ is an admirable expression.
“Schopenhauer maintains that the will is the great source of all; it
means both personality and liberty. We are here at once planted at
the antipodes of naturalistic determinism. Free intelligence creates
matter. _Spiritus in nobis qui viget, ille facit._ God is the great
ideal. He does not make us move, but moves Himself in us. The more we
appropriate to ourselves this Ideal, the freer we become; we are the
reasonable and conscious authors of our actions, and liberty consists
in this. Schopenhauer’s moral law is precisely that of Christianity—a
law of abnegation, of resignation and asceticism. What Christians call
Charity, he designates as ‘Pity.’ He exhorts his followers to struggle
against self-will; not to let their eyes dwell on the passing delusions
of the outside world, but to seek their soul’s peace by sacrificing all
pursuits and interests which should fix their attentions solely on the
changing scenes of this life. Are not these also the Gospel principles?
Must they be rejected because Buddha also preached them? ‘The sovereign
proof of the truth of my doctrines,’ says Schopenhauer, ‘is the number
of Christian persons who have abandoned all their earthly treasure,
position and riches, and have embraced voluntary poverty, devoting
themselves wholly to the service of the poor and the sick and needy,
undaunted in their work of charity by the most frightful wounds, the
most revolting complaints. Their happiness consists in self-abnegation,
in their indifference to the pleasures of this life, in their living
faith, in the immortality of their being, and in a future of endless
bliss.’
“The chief aim of Kant’s metaphysics,” proceeds Noiré, “is to fix
a limit to the circle that can be embraced by man’s reason. ‘We
resemble,’ he says, ‘fish in a pond, who can see, just to the edge of
the water, the banks that imprison them, but are perfectly ignorant of
all that is beyond.’ Schopenhauer goes farther than Kant. ‘True,’ he
says, ‘we can only see the world from outside, and as a phenomenon,
but there is one little loophole left open to us by which we can get
a peep at substantial realities, and this loophole is each individual
“Myself,” revealed to us as “Will,” which gives us the key to the
“Transcendent.” You say, dear colleague, that you are incurably
Platonic; are you not then aware Schopenhauer constantly refers to
the ‘divine’ Plato, and to the incomparable, the prodigious, _der
erstaunliche_ Kant. His great merit is to have defended idealism
against all the wild beasts which Dante met with in the dark forest,
_nella selva oscura’_ into which he had strayed—materialism and
sensualism, and their worthy offspring selfishness and bestiality.
Nothing can be more false or dangerous than physics without
metaphysics, and yet this truth proclaimed at the present day by
great men merely provokes a laugh. The notion of duty is based on
metaphysics. Nothing in Nature teaches it, and physics are silent on
the subject. Nature is pitiless; brute force triumphs there. The better
armed destroys and devours his less favored brother. Where then is
right and justice? Materialists adopt as their motto the words which
Frenchmen falsely accuse our Chancellor of having uttered, ‘Might is
Right.’ Schopenhauer’s ‘Pity,’ Christian ‘Charity,’ the philosopher’s
and jurist’s ‘Justice,’ are diametrically opposed to instinct and
the voice of Nature, which urge us to sacrifice everything to the
satisfaction of animal appetites. Read the eloquent conclusion of the
book of Lange, ‘Geschichte des Materialismus.’ If materialism be not
vanquished while it is yet time, all the law courts, prisons, bayonets
and grape-shot in the world will not suffice to prevent the downfall of
the social edifice. This pernicious doctrine must be banished from the
brains of learned men, where it now reigns supreme. It has started from
thence, and has gradually obtained a hold on the public mind. It is the
duty of true philosophy to save the world.”
“But,” I replied, “Schopenhauer’s philosophy will never be comprehended
but by a small minority; for myself, I humbly confess I have never read
but fragments translated.”
“It is a pity you have never perused the original,” answered Noiré,
“the style is exceedingly clear and simple. He is one of our best
writers. He has exposed the most abstruse problems in the best possible
terms. No one has more thoroughly justified the truth of what our Jean
Paul said of Plato, Bacon and Leibnitz, the most learned reflection
need not exclude a brilliant setting to show it off in relief, any
more than a learned brain excludes a fine forehead and a fine face.
Unfortunately, M. de Hartmann, who popularized Schopenhauer, has too
frequently rendered his ideas unintelligible by his Hegelian Jargon.
Schopenhauer could not endure Hegelianism. Like an Iconoclast, he
smashed to shivers its idols with a heavy club. He approved of violent
expressions, and indulged in very strong terms. So, for instance, he
liked what he calls _die göttliche Grobheit_, ‘divine coarseness.’
At the same time, he praises elegance and good manners, and even,
strange to say, has translated a little manual on ‘The Way to Behave
in Society,’ ‘El Oraculo Manual,’ published in 1658, by the Jesuit,
Baltasar Gracian. ‘There was a time,’ he writes, ‘when Germany’s three
great sophists, Fichte, Schelling, and especially Hegel, that seller
of senselessness, _der freche unsinnige Schmierer_, that impertinent
scribbler, imagined they would appear learned by becoming obscure. This
shameless humbug succeeded in winning the adulations of the multitude.
He reigned at the Universities, where his style was imitated.
Hegelianism became a religion, and a most intolerant one. Whosoever was
not Hegelian was suspected even by the Prussian State. All these good
gentlemen were in quest of the Absolute, and pretended that they had
found it, and brought it home in their carpet-bags.’
“Kant maintainedthat human reason can only grasp the relative. ‘Error,’
cry in chorus Hegel, Schelling, Jacobi and Schleiermacher, and _tutti
quanti_. ‘The Absolute! Why, I know it intimately; it has no secrets
from me,’ and the different universities became the scenes of
revolutions of the Absolute which stirred all Germany. If it were
proposed to attempt to recall these illustrious maniacs to their
right reason, the question was asked, ‘Do you adequately comprehend
the Absolute?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then hold your tongue; you are a bad Christian
and a dangerous subject. Beware of the stronghold.’ The unfortunate
Beneke was so startled by this treatment that he went mad and drowned
himself. Finally these great authorities quarrelled between themselves.
They informed each other that they knew nothing of the Absolute. A
quarrel on this subject was very often deadly. These battles resemble
the discussion at Toledo between the Rabbi and the Monk in Heine’s
‘Romancero.’ After they had both lengthily discussed and quarrelled,
the king said to the queen: ‘Which of the two do you think is
right?’ ‘I think,’ replied the queen, ‘that they both smell equally
unpleasantly.’
“This nebulous system of the Hegelian Absolute-seekers, reminding
one of _Nephclokokkygia_, ‘the town in the clouds,’ in Aristophanes’
‘Birds,’ has become a proverb with our French neighbors, who
very rightly are fond of clearness. When anything seems to them
unintelligible, they dub it as German metaphysics. Cousin did his best
to clarify all this indigestible stuff, and serve it up in a palatable
form. But in so doing he lost, not his Latin, but his German and his
French. I am sure you never understood that ‘pure Being’ was identical
with ‘no Being.’ Do you recollect Grimm’s story, ‘The Emperor’s Robe?’
A tailor condemned to death promised, in order to obtain his pardon, to
make the Emperor the finest robe ever seen. He stitched, and stitched,
and stitched ceaselessly, and finally announced that the robe was
ready, but that it was invisible to all, save to wise people. All the
servants, officers, and chamberlains of the court came to examine
this work of art with the ministers and high dignitaries, and one
and all pronounced it magnificent. On the coronation day the Emperor
is supposed to put on the costume, and rides through the town in
procession. The streets and windows are crowded; no one will admit that
he has less wisdom than his neighbor, and all repeat; ‘How magnificent!
Was ever anything seen so lovely?’ At last a little child calls out,
‘But the Emperor is naked,’ and it was then admitted that the robe had
never existed, and the tailor was hanged.
“Schopenhauer is the child revealing the misery, or rather the
non-existence of Hegelianism, and his writings were consequently
unappreciated for upwards of thirty years. The first edition of his
most important work found its way to the grocer’s shop and thence
to the rubbish heap. It is our duty to-day to make amends for such
injustice, and to render him the honor which is his due; his pessimism
need not stay you. ‘The world,’ he says, ‘is full of evil, and all
suffer here below. Man’s will is by nature perverse.’ Is not this
doctrine the very essence of Christianity? _Ingemui tomnis creatura._
He maintains that our natural will is selfish and bad, but that, by an
effort over itself, it may become purified and rise above its natural
state to a state of grace, of holiness, of which the Church speaks,
δευτἑρος πλὁυς. This is the deliverance, the Redemption, for which
pious souls long, and it is to be attained by an indifference to and
condemnation of the world and of self. _Spernere mundum, spernere se,
spernere se sperni._”[54]
Before leaving Würzburg I visit the Palace, formerly the residence
of the Prince-Bishops, and also several churches. The Palace, _die
Residenz_, is immense, and seems the more so when one reflects that it
was destined to ornament the chief town of a small bishopric. Built
between the years 1720 and 1744, after the plan of the palace of
Versailles, it is very nearly as large. There is not such another
staircase to be found anywhere. This, and the hall which precedes it,
occupy the entire width of the building and a third of its length, and
the effect is really of imperial magnificence. The trains of crowds
of cassocked prelates and fine ladies could sweep here with ease.
The cut stone balustrades are ornamented with statues. There is a
suite of 350 reception-rooms—all for show, none for use. A certain
number of these were decorated at the time of the French Empire. How
mean the paintings on the ceilings, the pseudo-classic walls, and the
mahogany furniture with brass ornaments, appear when compared to the
apartments completed at the beginning of the eighteenth century, where
the “chicorée” ornamentation exhibits all its seductions. I have never
seen, all over Europe, anything in this style so perfect or better
preserved. The curtains are in material of the period, and the chairs,
sofas, and arm-chairs are covered to match. Each room is of a dominant
color. There is a green one with metallic shades, like the wings of a
Brazilian beetle. The _broché_ silk on the furniture is to correspond.
The effect is magical. In another, splendid Gobelin tapestry, after
Lebrun, represents the triumph and the clemency of Alexander. Another,
again, is all mirrors, even to the door-panels, but groups of flowers
in oil-painting on the glass temper the excessive brilliancy. The
stoves are really marvels of inventive genius and good taste, all
in white and gold Saxony china. The blacksmith’s art never produced
anything finer than the immense wrought-iron gates which enclose the
pleasure-grounds, with their terraces, lawns, grass-plots, fountains,
and rustic retreats. This princely residence, which has been almost
invariably vacant since the suppression of episcopal sovereignty, has
remained perfectly intact. It has been deteriorated neither by popular
insurrections nor by changes in taste. What finished models of the
style of the Regency architects and furniture makers could find here to
copy from!
The contemplation of all these grandeurs suggests two questions to
my mind. Where did these Sovereigns of tiny States find the money to
furnish themselves with splendors and luxuries which Louis XIV. might
have envied? My colleague, George Schanz, Professor of Political
Economy at the University of Würzburg, informs me that these bishops
had scarcely any troops to maintain. “Make,” he says, “builders,
joiners, upholsterers, and carpenters of all our soldiers all over the
land at the present day, and Germany might soon be covered with such
palaces.”