THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE AND IDEALISM.
What is meant by a 'philosophy of Nature'? 'To philosophise on Nature,'
says Schelling, 'means to lift it up out of the dead mechanism in
which it appears immersed,--to inspire it, so to speak, with liberty,
and to set it in free process of evolution: it means, in other words,
to tear ourselves away from the vulgar view which sees in Nature only
occurrences, or at the best sees the action _as a fact, not the action
itself_ in the action[1].' There is in short a process in nature
parallel in character to what Fichte had exhibited for consciousness.
The natural world is no longer subordinated, but to appearance
co-ordinate: and evolution or development, exhibited under the logical
title of a 'deduction,' is the common law of both. The real order and
the ideal order of the world are equally the work of an infinite and
unconditioned activity, 'which never quite exhausts itself in any
finite product, and of which everything individual is only as it were a
particular expression.' The nature which we see broken up in groups and
masses, and individual objects, is to be explained as a series of steps
in a process of development: the steps in a single continuous product
which has been arrested at several stages,--which presents distinct
epochs, but nevertheless all approximations, with divergences, to a
single original ideal.
In Nature, as in Mind, the most typical phenomenon is an original
heterogeneity, duplicity, or difference, which, however, points
back to a still more fundamental homogeneity, unity, or identity.
This primary unity or ground of unification does not indeed appear
to sight; the 'soul of Nature,' the _anima mundi,_ nowhere presents
itself as such in its undivided simplicity; but only as the perpetually
recurring re-union of what has been divided. But though unapparent,
the absolute identity is the necessary presupposition of all life
and existence, as of all knowledge and action. It is the link or
'copula' which perpetually reduces the antithesis to unity, and the
heterogeneity to homogeneity, and the different to redintegration. To
this fact of antithesis, presupposing and continually reverting to an
original unity, Schelling gives the name 'Polarity,' 'It is impossible
to construe the main physical phenomena without such a conflict of
opposite principles. But this conflict only exists at the instant
of the phenomenon itself. Each natural force _awakes_ its opposite.
But that force has no independent existence: it only exists in this
contest, and it is only this contest which gives it for the moment a
separate existence. As soon as this contest ceases, the force vanishes,
by retreating into the sphere of homogeneous forces[2].' Polarity,
therefore, is a general law of the cosmos.
A ceaseless, limitless activity, therefore, as the basis or groundwork
of all, for ever crossing, arresting, and limiting itself: an eternal
war, which, however, is always being led back to peace,--a process
of differentiation which rests upon, is the product of, and is for
ever forced back to integration, is the perpetual rhythm of the
natural universe. It is a process in which can be traced three grades,
stages, or 'powers' (first, second, and third, &c.). By its more
generally descriptive name it is called Organisation. 'Organism,'
says Schelling, 'is the principle of things. It is not a property
of single natural objects; but, on the contrary, single natural
objects are so many limitations, or single modes of apprehending the
universal organism[3].' 'The world is an organisation; and a universal
organism itself is the condition (and to that extent the positive)
of mechanism[4].' 'Mechanism is to be explained from organism: not
organism from mechanism.' 'The _essential_ of all things is _life_: the
_accidental_ is only the _kind_ of their life: and even the dead in
Nature is not utterly dead,--it is only extinct life.'
But if the conception of an organism be thus the adequate or
complete idea of Nature as a whole, that idea is only realised as
a third 'power' supervening on, and by means of two subordinate or
inferior ranges or 'powers.' The first stage is that occupied by the
mathematical and mechanical conception of the world,--the bare skeleton
or framework which has to be clothed upon and informed with life and
growth. This first 'power' in the world-process of antithetical forces,
under the control of, and on the basis supplied by, the original
thetic unity which synthetises them, is Matter. In Matter we have the
equilibrium and statical indifference of two opposing forces--one
centrifugal, accelerating, repulsive, the other contripetal, retarding,
attractive--which, working under the synthetising unity supplied by the
force of universal gravitation, build up in their momentary arrests
or epochs the various material forms. In this first 'power' we have
as it were the scheme or machinery through which organisation will
work: the outward and 'abstract, organism. And the essential feature
of this 'construction' or 'deduction' of matter is that it does not
take material atoms and build them into a world, but 'deduces' the
properties of matter as issuing from the play of opposing forces, and
as due to the temporary syntheses resulting from the presence of unity
making itself felt in the opposites.
A second and higher 'power' is seen in the physical universe as it
presents, itself to the sciences of electricity, magnetism, and
chemistry. If the former briefly be denominated the mechanical,
this is the chemical world. The law of polarity is here especially
prominent: the neutrality or indifference of parts is replaced by an
intenser antithesis and affinity: and the return from heterogeneity
to homogeneity takes place with more striking and even sudden effect.
Here, matter, even as inorganised, has a certain _simulacrum_ of life
and sensibility: there is in it the trace of a spirit which emerges
above the mere contiguity and juxtaposition of mechanical atoms. The
atomic theory shows itself less and less adequate as an attempt to
represent the whole phenomena of inanimate matter, and the material
universe is already charged with sympathies and antipathies which are
full of the promise and the potency of the organic world.
The mechanical theory of the universe, in the ordinary sense, which
deals with the mathematical formulation of the laws of planetary
movement, had been the work of the seventeenth century. The eighteenth
century had seen attempts to explain the _status quo_ of the
planetary system as a resultant from the evolution of an elementary
molecular state of the cosmic mass. With the close of the eighteenth
century there appeared a group of new sciences dealing with subtler
energies of matter,--with electricity, galvanism, and above all with
the connexions of chemical, electric, and magnetic science. The
ideas thus suggested--embraced with some generality under the title
Polarity--threw light backward upon the old mechanical conceptions,
and gave them a decidedly dynamic character. Even the tranquil rest
of geometrical figures came to be explained as a meeting point and
transition moment of opposite forces. But these ideas produced an even
greater effect on biology. Here, too, the need of a special 'vital
force' to explain life and organisation disappeared: organism was
but a higher stage, a completer truth of mechanism: and both found
their explanation in the antithesis and synthesis of forces, or in
differentiation and integration of what has recently been termed an
'idée-force.' In this direction, so far as Schelling was concerned,
the obvious stimulus came from the programme sketched by Kielmeyer at
Stuttgart in 1793, in a lecture 'on the proportions of organic forces,'
According to Kielmeyer there are three types of force in the animal
organisation, sensibility, irritability and reproduction[5]. The last
of these is the basic force which builds up and propagates the animal
system. With irritability, or contraction in response to external
stimuli--material adaptation to environment--a higher level of animal
life is reached. But the highest of all forces in the living being is
sensibility. In this same order may we reasonably conceive that the
'plan of nature' proceeds. Her first products show little beyond that
reproductive power which makes broad and high the pyramid of life. But
as the creature acquires increasing heterogeneity and a comparatively
independent position, it plays the part of a re-agent against stimuli,
and a source of movements. Lastly, it not merely responds to, but
assimilates and appropriates the impression into a sensation: it
internalises the external, and carries within itself by means of the
sensibility an ever-increasing picture of the world around it.
The idea of Evolution or Development, thus introduced by Schelling into
philosophy as a governing principle in the study of matter and of mind,
is not to be confused either with the older use of these terms or with
their current applications to-day[6]. By evolution (or development)
and involution (or envelopment) the earlier speculation on biology had
denoted the view that the organic germ contained _in parvo_ all that
the matured organism showed in large. As the mature bulb of the healthy
hyacinth shows, when cut open, to the naked eye, the stem and flowers
that will issue from it next spring; so in general the seed can be
treated as a miniature organism needing only an increase of bulk to
make it fully visible in details. Growth is thus not accretion, but
explication and enlargement of a microscopic organism subsisting in the
germ.
Evolution, in the present time, and especially since Darwin, means
something more than this. It implies a theory of descent of the variety
of existing organisms from other organisms of a previous age, less
individualised in forms and functions. From comparatively simple and
homogeneous creatures there have issued in the course of ages creatures
of more complex, more highly differentiated structure; and this process
of gradual differentiation may be conceived as going on through an all
but infinite period. At one end we may conceive matter, just endowed
with the faculties of life and organisation, but in a minimal degree;
at the other end of the developmental process, creatures which have
organised within themselves powers, maximal both in range and variety.
The result (so far as we at present go) is a genealogy of organism
which, to quote Darwin, pictures before us a 'great tree of life which
fills with its dead and broken branches the crust of the earth and
covers the surface with its ever branching and beautiful ramifications.'
Even Bugon, seeing how naturally he could regard 'the wolf, the fox,
and the jackal' as 'degenerate species of a single family,' concluded
we could not go wrong in supposing that 'nature could have with
time drawn from a single being all other organised beings.' Erasmus
Darwin (1794) had insisted on the power of 'appetency' in the organs
of a living creature to create and acquire new structures which it
handed down to its posterity. G. R. Treviranus[7] in his _Biology_
(1802-5) had noted the influence of environment, and Jean Lamarck in
his _Philosophie Zoologique_ (1809) had--after assuming that 'nature
created none but the lowest organisms'--maintained that need and use
(or disuse) can so effectively modify a creature that it may even
produce new organs, and give rise by imperceptible degrees to a variety
of creatures as widely divergent as they now appear. E. g. 'The giraffe
owes its long neck to its continued habit of browsing upon trees.' And
gradually it had become recognised by speculators on this subject that,
as Mr. H. Spencer wrote in 1852, 'by small increments of modification
any amount of modification may in time be generated.' Finally, in 1859,
Darwin, with an ample resource of illustrative examples, enforced the
doctrine that the existing fauna and flora of the earth represent the
result of a struggle for existence, protracted during vast ages, in
which those creature's have been preserved (selected to live) which,
among all the variously-endowed offspring of any kind, were best fitted
to appropriate the means of subsistence in the circumstances in which
they for the time found themselves placed. The circumstances of life
on the globe are perpetually varying from place to place and time to
time: progeny never exactly reproduce their parents, and diverge widely
from each other: hence each form of life is perpetually sliding on from
phase to phase, and only those survive which are best adapted to the
new conditions of life.
So far as Darwinism is an attempt to show that the classes of plants
and animals are not a mere juxtaposition and aggregation, but are to be
explained by reference to a single genetic principle, it is in harmony
with the Evolution taught by Schelling and Hegel. Both alike overthrow
the hard and fast lines of division which semi-popular science insists
upon, and restore the continuity of existence. Both regard Nature as
an organic realm, developing by action and re-action within itself,
living a common life in thorough sympathy and solidarity, and not a
mere machine in which the several parts retain without change the
features and functions impressed upon them at creation by some supernal
architect. But they differ in other points. Ordinary Darwinism,
at least, talks as if circumstances and organism were independent
originally, and only brought as it were, incidentally, in contact
and correlation. It fails to keep hold of the fact--of which it is
abstractly aware--that the two act upon and modify each other because
they are members of a larger organism. It forgets, in short, what
Schelling so thoroughly realised, that the organic and inorganic,
ordinarily so called, are both in a wider sense organic. It wants the
courage of recognising its own tacit presuppositions.
But the characteristic difference between the evolution theory of
to-day and that meant by the philosophers is different from this,
though connected with it. 'The assertion,' says Schelling, 'that
the various organisms have formed themselves by gradual development
from one another, is a misconception of an Idea which really lies in
reason[8].' And Hegel no less decidedly asserts that 'Metamorphosis'
(as the term was then applied, e. g. by Goethe, to what we now call
Evolution) really _exists_ as a fact only in the case of the living
individual,--not in the supposed or theoretical continuity of the
species. 'It is an awkward way both ancient and modern speculative
biology have had of presenting the development and transition of one
physical form and sphere into a higher one as an outwardly-actual
production,--which, however, in order to make it clearer, has been
thrown back into the darkness of the past.'[9] Yet notwithstanding
these and even later protests, there is a great charm for many minds in
the evolutionist picture, e. g., of the horse of to-day as the literal
descendant through nearly fifty great stages (called species) from
some creature of the eocene age, which gradually transformed itself in
consequence of innate instability or variability of construction and in
obedience to changes in its environment. But whatever value there may
be in these as yet hypothetical aids to the imagination in grasping and
unifying the variety of organic life, they run on another line from the
philosophical evolution. That evolution is in the _Idea_, the _Notion._
It is the 'fluidity' of terms of thought that is here sought, not
of the kinds of things,--except in a secondary way. And above all,
philosophy does not deal with a problem in time, with a mere sequence;
if it deals with a history of nature, the agents of that history are
powers and forces--and powers which are ideal no less than real.
A nearer approach to the philosophic conception is to be found in the
views which modern physiology takes of the nature of organic structure
and function[10]. In the simplest phases of protoplasm, the apparently
homogeneous mass is really undergoing a series of changes, and indeed
only exists as such, because it is the ever-renewed resultant of
two correlated processes,--a movement up (anabolic change) by which
dead matter is assimilated and built into it, and a movement down
(katabolic changes) by which its composing elements are disintegrated
and left behind, with accompanying liberation of energy. Protoplasm or
'living matter' is the incessantly formed and re-formed thin line on
which these two currents for the moment converge,-a temporary crest
of white foam, as it were, raising itself on the Heraclitean wave of
vicissitude, where all things flow on and nothing abides. But wherever
protoplasm arises and maintains itself on this borderline of ascending
and descending states, it exhibits the three well-known properties of
assimilation, contractility, and sensitiveness. Protoplasm, placed
as it were in the mean between these two processes, is or has the
synthetic power which governs them and keeps them in one. It is no
mere chemical substance, undergoing composition and decomposition,
but rather, if looked at from the somewhat speculative standpoint of
molecular physics, a kind of intricate movement or dance of particles,
a shape or 'form' instinct with the power of producing and reproducing
itself, and, ultimately, in some highly differentiated phases
(nerve-system), with a power of producing and reproducing a world of
imagination.
A philosophy of Nature is only half a philosophy. Its purport is
to set free the spirit in nature, to release intelligence from its
imprisonment in material encasements which hide it from the ordinary
view, and to gather together the _disjecta membra_ of the divine into
the outlines of one continuous organisation. It seeks to spiritualise
nature, i. e. to present the inner idea, unity, and genetic
interdependence of all its phenomena: to delineate _natura formaliter
spectata_ not as a logical skeleton of abstract categories, but in its
organisation and continuous life. There remains the problem of what
Schelling calls 'Transcendental Idealism':--called 'transcendental'
to avoid confusion with the vulgar idealism which supposes the world
to be what it calls a mere 'idea' or phantom of the mind. Schelling's
is on the contrary an 'Ideal-Realism': it 'materialises the laws of
intelligence to laws of nature[11].'
We need not in details consider the genesis of Reality from the action
of the Ego. Substantially it is the same as that given by Fichte.
An activity, which is at once self-limiting and superior to all
limit, rises through stage to stage, from sensation and intuition,
to reflection and intelligence, till it becomes the consciousness of
a world of ob; ective reality. 'Give me,' says the transcendental
philosopher, 'a nature with opposing activities, of which the one
goes to infinity, and the other endeavours to behold itself in this
infinity,--and from that I will show you intelligence arising with the
whole system of its ideas[12].' In the first phase the 'ideal-real'
world arises by the synthetic action of the 'productive intuition,'
Ideas, as it were, live and move: they grow and build up: causality
is neither a category nor a schema, but an intelligent 'form' which
is also a force--an 'idée-force,' They are (in the Hegelian sense)
'Ideas,' i.e. neither merely objective nor merely subjective, but both
at once. But such an ideal world is outside and beyond consciousness:
it belongs to the same region as that higher Ego where there is no
distinction between the Ego I am and the Ego I know. To follow the
movement in this region needs a combination of mental vision and visual
intellect, which Schelling has called the 'Intellectual Intuition.'
It is a power which rising above the materialism of sense yet retains
its realism; which, while intellectual, is free from abstractness.
It is synthetic, and widely different from mere logical analysis.
It is, in short, analogous to the artistic genius: it creates a
quasi-objectivity, an ideal-reality, without which the mere words of
the speculator are meaningless. By means of this 'organ,' philosophy
can 'freely imitate and repeat the original series of actions in which
the one "act" of self-consciousness is evolved[13].
But the 'productive intuition' is, as Kant would say, blind: it is
unconscious in its operation: and it is only after an arrest, a Sabbath
when it surveys and judges its work, that it begins to realise itself
through a process of analysis and reflection which elicits and fixes
the categories that have been operative in it. By this abstraction
intelligence rises out of mere production to intelligent and conscious
production, i.e. to volition, where it has an ideal and realises it.
With volition and voluntary action, objectivity is to appearance
further certified and fortified. It is as active, i. e. as free, and
even moral, agents, that we set forward categorically the reality of
the world. So, too, Fichte had declared. But, as Schelling reminds
us, with this intensified assertion of a law and an ideal to which
the real must and shall correspond,--with the declaration that the
realm of absolute consistency and ideal truth of reason is the true
and real for ever and ever--we come across the fundamental antithesis
of the 'Is' and the 'Ought,5 of the objective and subjective, of
unconscious necessity and self-conscious freedom. With an attempt to
get a philosophy of history,--i. e. of man and mind as the culminating
truth of things, we see ourselves confronted with the opposition of
fatalism and chance. On one hand history is only possible for beings
who have an ideal in view,--one persistent aim and principle which
their work and will is the means of realising. And yet it is an ideal
which only the series of generations, only the whole race, can realise.
Man's license to do or to refrain rests upon a larger, latent, divine
necessity which constrains it. What human agents by their free choice
determine and carry out, is carried out, in the long run, by the force
of an everlasting and unchanging order, to which their wills seem but
a mere plaything. But that man's free agency should thus harmonise
with the constrained uniformities of nature is only possible on the
assumption that both are phenomena of a common ground, or basis of
identity, of an 'absolute identity, in which there is no duplication,
and which for that reason, because the condition of all consciousness
is duplication, can never reach consciousness. This ever-Unconscious,
which, as it were the everlasting Sun in the spirit-kingdom, is hidden
in its own undimmed light, and which, though it is never an object,
still impresses its identity on all free objects, is simultaneously
the same for all intelligences, the invisible "root" of which all
intelligences are only the "powers," and the everlasting mediator
between the self-determining subjective in us and the objective or
percipient,--simultaneously the ground of the uniformity in freedom,
and of the freedom in uniformity of the objective[14].' To rise to the
sense of this Absolute Identity, as common basis of harmony between the
'Ought' and the 'Is,' is to recognise Providence: it is Religion.
But this 'Absolute' is never in history completely revealed--we cannot
_see_ free action coincide with predetermination. Thus if History as
a whole be> conceived as a 'continuous and gradual self-revelation;
of the Absolute,' 'God never _is,_ if _is_ means exhibition; in the
objective world: _if God were, we_ should not be[15].' Nor is the
Absolute so revealed in Nature. Yet, even as the apparent contingency
of human action throws us back on an everlasting necessity which is
yet freedom, so the apparent uniformity of natural order shows us in
organic life the traces of a free self-regulating development. To
apprehend the truth at which both seem to point we want an organ of
intelligence which shall unite in itself the conscious activity of
free production with the unconscious instinct of natural creation.
Such an organ is found in they aesthetic power of genius, in the
Artist. The artistic product is the work of two intimately-conjoined
principles:--of the art (in the narrower sense) which can be taught
and learned, and is exercised consciously and with reflection, and of
that 'poesy in Art,' the unconscious grace of genius which can neither
be handed down nor acquired, but can only be inborn by free gift of
nature. In the work thus brought to birth there is something definite,
precise, and capable of exposition in finite formulae: there is also
something which no 'prose' can ever explicate, something which tells us
of the infinite and eternal, which ever reveals and yet conceals the
Absolute and Perfect. Art, thus springing from 'imagination, the one
sole power by which we can think and conjoin even the contradictory,'
gives objectivity and outward shape to that 'intellectual intuition' by
which the philosopher subjectively (in his own consciousness) sought to
realise to himself the unity of thought and existence.
'To the philosopher,' Schelling concludes, 'Art is supreme, because it
as it were opens to him the Holy of Holies, where in everlasting and
original unity there burns, as it were in one flame, what is parted
asunder in nature and history, and what in life and conduct, no less
than in thinking, must for ever flee apart. The view the philosopher
artificially makes for himself of nature is for Art the original and
natural. What we call nature is a poem which is locked up in strange
and secret characters. Yet could the riddle be disclosed, we should
recognise in it the Odyssey of the mind, which, strangely deceived, in
seeking itself, flees from itself: for through the sense-world there
is a glimpse, only as through words of the meaning, only as through
half-transparent mist of the land %of imagination, after which we
yearn. That splendid picture emerges, as it were, by the removal of the
invisible partition-wall which sunders the actual and the ideal world,
and is only the opening by which those figures and regions of the world
of imagination, that but imperfectly glimmer through the actual, come
forward in all their fulness. Nature is to the artist no more than
it is to the philosopher, viz. the ideal world as it appears under
constant limitations, or only the imperfect reflex of a world which
does not exist outside him, but within him.'
'If it is Art alone, then, which can succeed in making objective
and universally accepted what the philosopher can only exhibit
subjectively, it may also be expected that philosophy, as it was in
the infancy of science born and nourished by poetry, and with it
all those sciences which were by it carried on towards perfection,
will after their completion flow back as so many single streams into
the universal ocean of poetry from which they issued. Nor is it in
general hard to say what will be the means for the return of science
to poetry: for such a means has existed in mythology before this, as
it now seems, irrevocable separation took place. But as to how a new
mythology,--which cannot be the invention of the single poet, but of
a new generation, as it were representing only a single poet,--can
itself arise, is a problem, the solution of which is to be expected
only from the future destinies of the world and the further course of
history[16].'
[Footnote 1: Schelling, _Werke_, iii. 13. (References always to the
first series.)]
[Footnote 2: Schelling, _Werke,_ ii. 409.]
[Footnote 3: Schelling, _Werke_, ii. 500.]
[Footnote 4: Ibid. ii. 350.]
[Footnote 5: Compare vol. ii. 360 and 429.]
[Footnote 6: See notes and illustrations in vol. ii. p. 424.]
[Footnote 7: 'Every inquiry into the influence of general nature on
living beings,' says Treviranus, 'must start from the principle that
all living forms are products of physical influences which still go on
at the present time and are altered only in degree and direction.']
[Footnote 8: Schelling, _Werke_, iii. 63.]
[Footnote 9: Hegel, _Encyclopaedie,_ § 249.]
[Footnote 10: See e. g. Professor Michael Fosters article on Physiology
in the _Encyclopaedia Britannica._]
[Footnote 11: Schelling, iii. 352, 386.]
[Footnote 12: Ibid. iii. 427.]
[Footnote 13: Schelling, iii. 397.]
[Footnote 14: Schelling, iii. 600.]
[Footnote 15: Ibid. iii. 603.]
[Footnote 16: Schelling, iii. 628.]