Class. Book Copyiiglit]^^ COPYRIGHT DEPOSrD A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY IN EPITOME UY ALBERT SCHWEGLER. TRANSLATED FROM THE FIRST EDITION OF THE ORIGINAL GERMAN BY JULIUS H. SEP]LYE. REVISED FROM THE NINTH GERMAN EDITION, WITH AN APPENDIX, BY BENJAMIN E. SMITH. NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1908 \ L LIBRARY of CONGRESS fwo CoDles Heceivea AUG 15 1908 CLASSO U» * XXc. i\! C©PY 8. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, By Julius H. Seelte, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Northern District of New York. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, By Julius H. Seelye, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Copyright, 1908, By Benjamin E. Smith. TEAlsrSLATOE^S PEEFAOE. OCHWEGLER'S History of Philosophy originally appeared in the '•'' Neue EncyMopddle fiir Wissen- schaften und Kiinstey Its great value soon awakened a call for its separate issue, in which form it has attained a very wide circulation in Germany. It is found in the hands of almost every student in the philosophical department of a German university, and is highly esteemed for its clearness, conciseness, and comprehensiveness. The present translation was commenced in Ger- many three years ago, and has been carefully fin- ished. It was undertaken with the conviction that the work would not lose its interest or its value in an English dress, and with tlie hope that it might be of wider service in such a form to students of philosophy here. It was thought especially, that a proper translation of this manual would supply a want for a suitable text-book on this branch of study, long felt by both teachers and students in our American colleges. The effort has been made to translate, and not IV PREFACE. to paraphrase the author's meaning. Many of his statements might have been amplified without dif- fuseness, and made more perceptible to the super- ficial reader without losing their interest to the more profound student, but he has so happily seized rpon the germs of the different systems, that they neither need, nor would be improved by any farther devel- opment, and has, moreover, presented them so clearly, that no student need have any difficulty in appre- hending them as they are. The translator has there- fore endeavored to represent faithfully and clearly the original history. As such he offers his work to the American public, indulging no hope, and making- no efforts for its success beyond that which its own merits shall ensure. J. H. S. Schenectady, N.Y., January, 1856. PEEFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. A FTER this translation was first published, the ninth edition of the original work, containing some important revisions, appeared in Germany. These revisions, including some new matter and some modifications of the old, are here incorporated by my friend and former pupil, whose name appears upon the title-page, and who, at my request, has also added an appendix continuing the history in its more prominent lines of development since the time of Hegel. He has done his work thoroughly, and what- ever value belonged to the translation as originally presented, will be found decidedly augmented in its present form. J. H. S. Amherst College, June, 1880. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/historyofphilosoOOschw COI^TEISTTS. PAGR TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE iii PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION v TABLE OF CONTEXTS vii SECTION I. — OBJECT AND METHOD OF THE HISTORY OF PHI- LOSOPHY 15 II.— CLASSIFICATION 21 III. — GENERAL VIEW OF THE PRE-SOCRATIC PHILOSO- PHY 22 1. The louics 23 2. The Pythagoreans 22 3. The Eleatics 22 4. Heraclitus 23 5. The Atomists 23 6. Anaxagoras 24 7. The Sophists 24 IV. — THE EARLIER IONIC PHILOSOPHERS ... 25 1. Thales 25 2. Auaximandcr 26 3. Auaximenes 27 4. Retrospect 27 v. — PYTHAGOREANISM 28 1. Its Relative Position 28 2. Historical aud Chronological 28 3. The Pytliagorean Principle 29 4. Carr3dug out of this Principle 30 VI. — THE ELEATICS 32 1. Relation oi" the Eleatic Principle to the Pythagorean . 32 2. Xenophancs 33 3. Parmenides 34 4. Zeno 36 VIU CONTENTS. PAGE SECT. VII. — IIEUACLITUS 38 1. Relation of the IleracUtic Principle to the Eleatic . 38 2. Historical and Chronological 38 3. The Principle ol' Becoming 39 4. Tlic Principle of Fire iO 5. Transition to the Atomists 41 VIII.— EMPEDOCLES 42 1. General View 43 2. The Four Elements 43 3. The Two Powers 43 4. Relation of the Enipedoclean to the Eleatic and Hera- clitic Philosophy 44 IX. — THE ATOMISTIC PHILOSOPHY 45 1. Its Propounders 45 2. The Atoms 45 3. The Fulness and the Void 45 4. The Atomistic Necessity 46 5. Relative Position of the Atomistic Philosophy . . 47 X. — ANAXAGORAS 48 1. His Personal History 48 2. His Relation to his Predecessors 49 3. The Principle of the vovc 49 4. Anaxagoras as the close of the Pre-Socratic Realism 51 XI. — THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY 53 1. The Relation of the Sophistic Philosophy to the Earlier Philosophies 53 2. Relation of the Sophistic Philosophy to the General Life of that Age 5;{ 3. Tendencies of the Sophistic Philosophy ... 55 4. Significance of the Sojjhistic Philosophy in its relation to the Culture of the Age 57 5. Individual Sophists 58 6. Transition to Socrates, and Character of the following Period 60 XII. — SOCRATES 62 1. His Personal Character 62 2. Socrates and Aristophanes 66 3. The Condemnation of Socrates 67 4. Sources of the Socratic Philosophy .... 71 5. General Character of the Socratic Philosophy . . 72 6. The Socratic Method 74 7. The Socratic Doctrine of Virtue 76 Xm.— THE PARTIAL DISCIPLES OF SOCRATES. . . 79 1. Their Relation to the Socratic Philosophy ... 79 2. Antisthenes and the Cynics 80 3. Aristippus and the Cyrenaics 81 4. Euclid and the Megarians S3 5. Plato as the complete Socratic 84 CONTENTS. IX II. III. IV. VI. Sect. XIV. — PLATO I. Plato's Life 1. His Youth 2. His Years of Discipline 3. His Years of Travel 4. His Years of Instruction The Inner Developjient of the Platonic Phi- losophy AND Writings Classification of the Platonic Svstem . The Platonic Dialectic 1. Conception of Dialectic 2. What is Science? ....... (1) As opposed to Sensation (2) The Relation of Knowledge to Opinion (8) The Relation of Science to Thought 3. The Doctrine of Ideas in its Genesis 4. Positive Exposition of the Doctrine of Ideas. 5. The Relation of Ideas to the Phenomenal World 6. The Idea of the Gooil and the Deity .... The Platonic Physics 1. Nature 2. The Soul The Platonic Ethics 1. The Highest Good 2. Virtue 3. The State VII. Retrospect . XV.— THE OLD ACADEJn' XVI. — ARISTOTLE I. Life and Writings of Aristotle .... General Character and Division of the Aristo- telian Philosophy Logic and Metaphysic 1. Nature and Relation of the Two . . . . 2. Logic 3. Metaphj^sic (1) The Aristotelian Criticism of the Platonic Doctrine of Ideas (2) The Four Aristotelian Principles, or Cau.ses, and the Relation of Form and Matter (3) Potentiality and Actuality . (4) The Absolute Divine Spirit The Aristotelian Physics 1. Motion, Matter, Space, and Time 2. The Collective Universe . 3. Nature 4. Man The Aristotelian Ethics 1. Relation of Ethics to Physics . 2. The Highest Good .... 3. Conception of Virtue 4. The State II. III. 85 86 87 89 'J.T 07 97 98 98 300 100 101 106 107 110 111 111 114 116 117 118 119 124 125 126 126 128 131 131 132 134 IV. 134 139 112 143 146 146 147 148 149 15,1 151 1.52 154 1.55 X CONTENTS. Sect. XVI. — (continued.) PAGk VI. The Peripatetic School ibn VII. Transition TO THE Post-Aristotelian Thilosophy 157 XVII. — STOICISBI liiO 1. Logic lUl 2. Physics 102 3. Ethics 164 (1) Respecting the Relation of Virtue to Pleasure . 16.5 (2) The View of the Stoics concerning External Good IG.! (3) Farther Verification of this View ... 1G6 (4) The Special Doctrine of Ethical Action . „ .107 XVIII. — EPICUREANISM 169 XIX. — SCEPTICISM AND THE NEW ACADEMY . . .173 1. Tlie Old Scepticism 174 2. The New Academy 175 3. The Later Scepticism 177 XX. — THE ROMANS 177 XXL — NEO-PLATONISM 178 1. Ecstasy as a Subjective State 179 2. The Cosmical Principles 180 3. The Emanation Theory of the Neo-Platonists . . .181 XXII. — CHRISTIANITY AND SCHOLASTICISM. ... 184 1. The Christian Idea 184 2. Scholasticism 185 3. Nominalism and Realism . . . . . . .187 XXIIL — TRANSITION TO THE MODERN PHILOSOPHY . . 188 1. Fall of Scholasticism 188 2. The Results of Scholasticism 189 3. The Revival of Letters 190 4. The German Reformation ^90 5. The Advancement of tlie Natural Sciences . . .192 6. Bacon of Verulam 193 7. The Italian Philosophers of the Transition Epoch . . 194 8. Jacob Boehme 190 XXIV. — DESCARTES • .... 199 1. The Beginning of Philosophy with Doubt ... 200 2. Cogito ergo sum 201 3. The Nature of Mind deduced from this Principle . 201 4. The Universal Rule of all Certainty follows from the same 202 5. The Existence of God 202 6. Results of this Fact in Philosophy 204 7. The Two Substances 205 8. The Anthropology of Descartes 206 XX^^ — GEULINCX AND MALEBRANCIIE 209 1. Geulincx 209 2. Malebranche . 211 3. The Defects of the Philosophy of Descartes . . . 212 CONTENTS. XI PAGE Shct. XXVI. — SPIXOZx^. 213 1. The One Intiuite Substance 214 2. The Two Attributes 217 3. The Modes 219 4. His Practical Philosophy 220 XXVir. — IDEALISM AND REALISM 223 XXVIII.— LOCKE 224 XXIX. — HUME 229 XXX. — COXDILL AC 233 XXXI. — HELVETIUS 235 XXXII. — THE FRENCH CLEARING UP AND MATERIALISM 236 1. The Conimou Character of the French Philosophers of this Age 236 2. Voltaire 237 3. Diderot 23S 4. La Mettrie's Materialism 239 5. Systfeme de la Nature 239 XXXIIl.- LEIBNITZ 24.3 1. The Doctrine of Monads 245 1. The Monads more accurately determined . . . 246 3. The Pre-established Harmony 247 4. The Relation of the Deity to the Monads .... 249 5. The Relation of Soul and Body 250 6. The Theory of Knowledge 251 7. Leibnitz's Theodic^e . 252 XXXIV. — BERKELEY ........... 254 XXXV. — WOLFF 256 1. Ontology 258 2. Cosmology 258 3. Rational Psychology 2.59 4. Natural Theology 260 XXXVI.— THE GERMAN CLEARING UP 261 XXXVII. — TRANSITION TO KANT 263 1. Examination of the Faculty of Knowledge . . . 264 2. Three Chief Principles of the Kantian Theory of Knowledge 267 XXXVIII.— KANT 269 I. Critique of Pure Reason 272 1. The Transcendental ^Esthetics 273 (1) The Metaphysical Exposition . . . 274 (2) The Transcendental Exposition . . . 274 2. The Transcendental Analytic .... 276 3. The Transcendental Dialectic 283 (1) The Psychological Idea . . • . . 284 (2) The Antinomies of Cosmology .... 285 Xll CONTENTS. Sect. XXXVIII. — {continurd.) (3) Tli<- Irle;il of the Pure Reason (a) riic Ontological Proof (li) The Cosmological Proof {c) The Physico-Theological Proof II. Ckitique of the Practical Reason . (1) The Analytic (2) The Dialectic: What is this Highest Good? (n> Perfect Virtue or Holiuess (6) Perfect Happiness .... (c) Kant's Views of Religion . III. Critique of the Facultv of Judgment . 1. Critiiiue of tlie .^Esthetic Faculty of Judgment (1) Analytic (2) Dialectic 3. Critique of the Teleological Faculty of Judgment (1) Analytic of the Teleological Faculty of Judg- ment (2) Dialectic XLI. — FICHTE I. The Fichtian Philosophy in its Original Form . 1. The Theoretical Philosophy of Fichte, his Wisscn- schaftslehre, or Theory of Science 2. Fichte's Practical Philosophy II. The Later Form of Fichte's Philosophy , XLII. — HERBART 1. The Basis and Starting-Point of Philosophy 2. The First Act of Philosophy .... 3. Remodelling the Conceptions of Experience 4. Herbart's Reals 5. Psychology connected with Metaphysics . 6. The Importance of Herbart's Philosophy . TAOE 286 286 287 287 290 291 294 296 296 297 300 302 302 304 305 305 306 XXXIX.— TRANSITION TO THE POST-KjVNTIAN PHILOSOPHY 308 XL. — JACOBI . . ... . 310 319 322 322 336 343 345 346 346 347 348 352 354 XLIU. — SCHELLING I. First Period : Schelling's Derivation from Fichte 357 II. Second Period: Standpoint of the Distinction between the Philosophy of Nature and of Mind • .... 361 1. Philosophy of Nature 362 (1) Organic Nature 363 (2) Inorganic Nature 364 (3) The Reciprocal Determination of the Organic and Inorganic World 365 2. Transcendental Philosophy 366 (1) The Theoretical Philosophy .... ,367 (2) The Practical Philosophy .... 368 (3) Philosophy of Art 369 CONTENTS. XIU Sect. XLIII. — {continued.) page III. Third Period : Period of Spinozism, or the In- DIFFEREN'CE OF THE IDEAL AND THE REAL . . 371 Vy. Fourth Period: The Mystical or Neo-Platonic Form of Schelling's Philosophy . . . 378 V. Fifth Period : Atte.mpt at a Theogony and Cos- JIOGONY, after the j\L\NNER OF JACOB BOEHJIE . 380 (1) The Progressive Development of Nature to Man 38'2 (2) The Development of Mind in History . . . 382 ICLIV. — TRANSITION TO HEGEL 391 XL v. — HEGEL 397 I. Science of Logic 400 1. The Doctrine of Being 401 (1) Quality 401 (2) Quantity . . • 402 (3) IMeasure 402 2. The Doctrine of Essence 403 (1) The Essence as such 403 (2) Essence and Phenomenon .... 404 (3) Actuality 405 3. The Doctrine of the Notion 406 (1) The Subjective Notion 407 (2) Objectivity 408 (3) The Idea 408 n. The Science of Nature 409 1. Mechanics 410 2. Physics 410 3. Organics 410 (1) Geological Organism 411 (2) Vegetable Organism 411 (3) Animal Organism 411 in. Philosophy of Mind 412 1. The Subjective Mind 412 2. The Objective Mind 414 3. The Absolute Mind 419 '1) Art 420 (a) Architecture 420 (6) Sculpture 420 (c) Painting 421 {d) Music 421 (e) Poetry 421 (2) Philosophy of Religion 421 (a) The Natural Religion of the Oriental World ....... 421 (6) The Religion of Mental Individuality . 422 (c) Revealed, or the Christian Religion . 422 (3) Absolute Philosophy 422 XIV CONTENTS. APPENDIX PAGE I. REACTION AGAINST HEGEL 423 II. SCHOPENHAUER 427 HI. HARTMANTs" 445 IV. COMTE 449 V. ASSOCIATIONAL PSYCHOLOGY 453 VI. SPENCER 4.5.5 VII. HICKOK 4Gi A HISTOEY or PHILOSOPHY. SECTION I. OBJECT AND METHOD OF THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. TO philosophize is to reflect ; to examine things, in thought. Tliis is not, however, a sufficient!}' exact definition of philosophy. Man also employs thought in those practical activities concerned in the adaptation of means to an end ; the whole bod}' of sciences also, even those which do not belong to philosophy in the stricter sense, are products of reflective thouglit. By what, then, is philosophy distinguished from tliese sciences, e.r/., from that of astronomy, of medicine, or of jurisprudence? Certainly not b}' its material, for this is identical with the material of the different empirical sciences. The constitution and disposition of tlie universe, the sti'uc- ture and functions of the human body, propert}', law, and the state, — all these are as truly the material of philosophy as of their appropriate sciences. That which is given in the world of experience, that which is real, is the content of both. It is not, therefore, in its material, but in its form, in its method, in its mode of knowledge, that philosoph}^ is to be distinguished from the empirical sciences. These latter de- rive their material direct!}' from experience ; they find it at hand and taice it up just as the}^ find it. Philosophy, on the 16 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. other hand, is never satisfied with receiving that which is given simply as it is given, Ixit rather follows it out to its ultimate grounds ; it examines each individual thing in its relations to a final principle, and considers it as one element of a complete s^'stem of knowledge. In this wa}' philosoph}' removes from the particulars of experience their immediate, individual, and accidental character ; from the sea of empi- rical individualities it brings out the universal, and subordi- nates the infinite and orderless mass of contingencies to necessar}' laws. In short, philosophy deals with the totality of experience under the form of an organic system in harmony with the laws of thought. From the above it is seen, that philosophy (in the sense w^e have given it) and the empirical sciences have a reciprocal influence ; the latter conditioning the former, while the}' at the same time are conditioned by it. We shall, therefore, in the history of thought, no more find an absolute and complete philosoph}', than a complete empi- rical science. On the contrary, philosoph}- exists only in the form of different philosophical sj-stems, w'hich have appeared successivel}- in the course of histor}', advancing hand in hand with the progress of the empirical sciences and universal social and civil culture, and showing in their advance the different stages in the development and improvement of human knowledge. The histor}^ of philosophy has, for its object, to exhibit the content, the succession, and the inner t;onnection of these philosophical sj'stems. The relation of these different systems to each other is thus alread}^ intimated. The historical and collective life of the race is bound together b}' the idea of a spiritual and intel- lectual progress, and manifests a regular order of advancing, though not always continuous, stages of development. In this, the fact harmonizes with wdiat we should expect from antecedent probabilities. Since, therefore, ever}' philosophi- cal S3'stem is onl}' the philosophical expression of the collec- tive life of its time, it follows that the different sj^stems which have appeared in histor}' wall disclose one organic movement ITS OBJECT AND METHOD. 17 and form together one rational and internall}' articulated 83-8- tem, one order of development grounded in the constant en- deavor of the human mind to raise itself to a higher point of consciousness and knowledge, and to recognize the whole spiritual and natural universe, more and more, as its out- ward being, as its reality, as the mu-ror of itself. Hegel was the first to utter these thoughts and to consider the histor}' of philosophy as a united process ; but this view, which is, in its principle, true, he has applied in a wa}' which tends to destro}' not onl}' the freedom of human action but even the ver}' conception of contingency, i.e., the possibilit}' of the actual existence of the unreasonable. Hegel's view is, that the succession of the S3'stems of philosophy which have appeared in history', corresponds to the succession of logical categories in a s^'stem of logic. According to him, if, from the fundamental conceptions of these different philosophical systems, we remove that which pertains to their outward form or particular application, etc., there will remain the different steps of the logical notion, being, becoming, existence, being per se, quantit}-, etc. And on the other hand, if we consider the logical process b}' itself, we find also in it all that is essen- tial in the actual historical process. This opinion, however, can be sustained neither in its prin- ciple nor in its historical application. It is defective in its principle, because liistor}- is a combination of contingency and necessit}'. If we consider its general movements and results, a rational (necessary) connection of events is clearly discernible ; but if we look solely' at its individual elements, it exhibits merel}' a pla}' of numberless contingencies, just as nature, taken as a whole, reveals a rational plan in its successions, but viewed onl}^ in its parts, mocks at every at- tempt to reduce them to a preconceived order. In history we have to do with individuals capable of originating actions with free subjectivity, — a factor which does not admit of calcu- tion. For however accuratel}' we ma)^ estimate the controll- ing conditions which may attach to an individual, from the 2 18 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. general circumstances in wliicli lie ma}- be placed, his age, his associations, his nationality', etc., a free will can never be calculated like a matlicmatical problem. Historj' does not admit of strict arithmetical calculation. The histor}' of phi- losophy', therefore, cannot be constructed a iviori ; the actual occurrences should not be joined together to illustrate a pre- conceived plan ; but the facts, so far as they can be admitted, after a critical sifting, should be received as such, and their rational connection be anal3'ticall3' determined. The specu- lative idea can only suppl}' the law for the arrangement and scientific connection of that which ma}' be historically fur- nished. A more comprehensive view, which contradicts the above- given Hegelian theory, is the following. The actual historical development is, very generally, different from the theoretical. Historically, e.g., the State arose as a means of protection against violence and spoliation, while theoretically it is de- rived from the idea of rights. So also in the history of philosophy, while the logical (theoretical) process is an ascent from the abstract to the concrete, the historical devel- opment of philosophy is, quite generally, a descent from the concrete to the abstract, from intuition to thought, a separa- tion of the abstract from the concrete in those general forms of culture and those religious and social circumstances, in which the philosophizing subject is placed. A system of philosophy proceeds synthetically, while the history of phi- losophy, i.e., the history of the actual development of thought, proceeds analytically. We might, therefore, with great pro- priety, adopt directly the reverse of the Hegelian position, and say that what is theoretically the first, is for us, in fact, the last. The Ionic philosophy, for example, began not with being as an abstract conception, but with tlie most concrete, and most apparent, i.e., with the material conception of water, air, etc. Even if we leave the Ionics and advance to the being of the Eleatics, or the becoming of the Heraclitics, we find that these, instead of being determinations of pure ITS OBJECT AND METHOD. 19 thoiiglit, are only unpurified conceptions, and materiallj- col- ored intuitions. Still farther, the attempt to refer evevy philosoph}' that has appeared in history- to some logical cate- gory as its central principle is impracticable because the ma- jorit}' of these philosophies have taken for their object the idea, not as an abstract conception, but in its realization as nature and mind ; and, therefore, for the most part, have to do, not with logical questions, but with those relating to natu- ral philosoph}', psj'chology, and ethics. Hegel should not, therefore, limit his comparison of the historical and systematic process of development to logic, but should extend it to the whole s^'stem of philosophical science. Granting that the Eleatics, the Heraclitics, and the Atomists ma}' have made a particular category' the centre of their s^'stems, we may find thus far the Hegelian logic in harmony with the Hegelian histor}' of philosoph}-. But if we go farther, how is it ? How with Anaxagoras, the Sophists, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle? "We cannot, certainl}', without violence, reduce the s^'stems of these men to one central principle ; but if we should be able to do it, and could reduce, e.g., the philosophy of An- axagoras to the conception of design, that of the Sophists to the conception of appearance, and the Socratic Philosophy to the conception of the good, — 3'et even then we have the new difficulty that the historical does not correspond to the logical succession of these categories. In fact, Hegel him- self has not attempted a complete application of his princi- ple, and indeed gave it up at the ver^' threshold of Greek philosophy. To the Eleatics, the Heraclitics, and the Atom- ists, the logical categories of being, becoming, and being per se ma}' be successively ascribed, and so far, as already re- marked, the parallelism extends, but no farther. Not onl}' does Anaxagoras follow with the conception of reason work ing according to an end, but if we go back before the Eleatics, we find in the very beginning of philosophy a total diversity between the logical and historical order. If Hegel had carried out his principle consistently-, he would have 20 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. thrown awa}' entirel}' the Ionic philosophy, for matter is no logical categor}' ; he would haA-e placed the Pj-thagoreans after the Eleatics and the Atomists, for in logic the catego- ries of quantity follow those of quality ; in short, he would have been obliged to set aside all chronology. If we are unwilling to do this, we must be satisfied with subjecting the course which the thinking spirit has taken in its histor}' to a theoretical interpretation onl3' when we can see in the grand stages of histor3' a rational progress of thought ; only when the philosophical historian, surveying a period of develop- ment, actually' finds in it a philosophical acquisition, — the acquisition of a new idea : but we must guard ourselves against applying to the transition and intermediate steps, as well as to the whole detail of histor}-, the postulate of an immanent conformity to law and logical connection. Historx' often winds its way like a serpent in lines which appear retro- gressive ; and philosoph}', especially, has not seldom with- drawn herself from a wide and already fruitful field, in order to settle down upon a narrow strip of land, if only to culti- vate this latter the more assiduousl}'. At one time we find a thousand years expended in fruitless attempts with onl}' a negative result ; — at another, a fulness of philosophical ideas are crowded together in the experience of a lifetime. There is here no sway of an immutable and regularly I'eturning natural law ; but history, the realm of freedom, wiU com- pletely manifest itself as the work of reason only at the end of time. CLASSIFICATION. 21 SECTION II. CLASSIFICATION. A FEW words will suffice to define our problem and clas- sif3Mts elements. Where and wlien does philosophy begin ? Manfestly, according to the analysis made in Sect. I., Avhere a final philosophical princiiDle, a final ground of being is first sought in a philosophical way, — and hence with Greek phi- losophy'. The so-called Oriental philosophies, — the Chinese and Indian, — which are rather theologies or m3'thologies, and the m3'thic cosmogonies of Greece, in its earliest periods, are, therefore, excluded from our more limited problem. Like Aristotle, we shall begin the history' of philosoph}' with Thales. For similar reasons we exclude also the philosophy of the Christian middle ages, or Scholasticism. This is not so much a philosophj", as a philosophizing or reflecting with- in the already prescribed limits of positive religion. It is, therefore, essentially theolog}', and belongs to the science of the history of Christian doctrines. The material which remains after this exclusion, may be naturall}' divided into two periods; viz., ancient — Grecian and Graeco-Roman — and modern philosophy. Since a pre- liminary comparison of the characteristics of these two epochs could not here be given without a subsequent repetition, we shall defer the discussion of their inner relations until we come to treat of the transition from the one to the other. The first epoch can be still farther divided into three pe- riods : (1) The Pre-Socratic philosoph}', from Thales to the Sophists inclusiA-e ; (2) Socrates, Plato, Aristotle ; (3) The Post- Aristotelian philosophy, including Neo-Platonism. 22 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. SECTION III. GENERAL VIEW OF THE PRE-SOCEATIC PHILOSOPHY. 1. The universal tendenc}' of the Pre-Socratic philosophy is to find some principle for the explanation of natiu'e. Na- ture, the most immediate, that which first met the e^e and was the most palpable, was that which first aroused the spirit of inquir}'. At the basis of its changing forms, beneath its manifold appearances, it was thought, must lie a first principle which abides the same through all change. "What, then, it was asked, is this principle? AYhat is the original ground of things? Or, more accurately', what element of nature is the fundamental element? To answer this inquiry' was the problem of the earlier Ionic natural jihilosophers. One thought it to be w-ater, another, air, and a third, an original chaotic matter. 2. The Pythagoreans attempted a higher solution of this problem. The pi'oportions and dimensions of matter rather than its sensible concretion, seemed to them to furnish the true explanation of being. The}', accordingl}-, adopted as the principle of their philosophy, that which expresses the ex- ternal relations of bodies, i.e., number. "Number is the essence of all things," Avas their thesis. Number is the mean between the immediate sensuous intuition and the pure thought. Number and measure have, to be sure, nothing to do with matter except as it possesses extension, and is capa- ble of division in space and time ; but ^et we should have no numbers or measures if there were no matter, or sensuous intuition. This elcA^ation above matter, which is at the same time a cleaving to matter, constitutes the essence and the position of Pythagoreanism. 3. Next come the Eleatics, who step absolutely be3'ond that which is given in experience, and make a complete PEE-SOCEATIC PTIILOSOPHY. 23 abstraction of every thing material. Tliis abstraction, this negation of all division in space and time, the}^ take as their principle, and call it pure being. Instead of the sensuous principle of the Ionics, or the quantitative principle of the P3'thagoreans, the Eleatics, therefore, adopt an intelligible principle. 4. Herewith, the first, or analytical period, in the devel- opment of Grecian philosophy closes, to make way for the second, or S3'nthetic period. The Eleatics had sacrificed to their principle of pure being the existence of the workl and every finite thing. But this denial of nature and the world could not be maintained. The reality of both forced itself upon the attention, and even the Eleatics themselves admitted it, though in guarded and hypothetical terms. But from their abstract being there was no passage back to the sensuous and concrete ; their principle ought to have ex- plained the actual facts of existence, but it did not. To find a principle for the explanation of these, a principle which would account for the fact of becoming, i.e., of change, vicis- situde, was now the problem. Heraclitus solved it by as- serting that becoming, or the unity of being and not-being, is the absolute principle. He held that it belongs to the very essence of finite being to be in a continual flow, in an endless stream. "Every thing flows." We have here the concep- tion of a primordial energ}', instead of the Ionic original matter, — the first attempt to explain being and its motion from a principle anal3'tically attained. From the time of Heraclitus, this inquiry after the cause of becoming remained the chief interest and the moving spring of philosophical de- velopment. 5. Becoming is the unit}" of being and not-being, and into these two elements is the Heraclitic principle consciousl}^ anal3'zed b}" the Atomists. Heraclitus had enunciated the principle of becoming, but onl}' as a fact of experience. He had simpl}" stated it as a law, but had not explained it. The necessity for this universal law 3'et remained to be proved. 24 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. Why is ever}' thing in a perpetual flow, — in an eternal move- ment? From the dynamical combination of matter and the moving force, the next step was to a consciously determined distinction, to a mechanical division of the two. Thus E^n- pedodes considered matter to be the abiding being, and force the ground of movement. "We have here a combination of Heraclitus and Parmenides. But with Empedocles the mo- tive forces were mythical powers, love and hate ; while with the Atomists they were a pure, unconceiA'Cd, and inconceiva- ble natural necessity. The result of this mechanical method of explaining nature was, therefore, rather the restatement than the explanation of becoming. 6. Despairing of any merely materialistic explanation of the becoming, Anaxagoras placed a world-forming Intelligence b}' the side of matter. He recognized mind as the primal causality, to which the existence of the world, together with its determined arrangement and conformity to design must be referred. In this, philosophy gained an important ideal principle. But Anaxagoras did not know how to fully cany out his principles. Instead of a theoretical comprehension of the universe, instead of deriving being from the idea, he sought again for some mechanical explanation. His "world-forming reason" serves him only as a first impulse, onl}' as a motive force. It is to him a Deus ex machina. Notwithstanding, therefore, his glimpse of something higher than matter, Anaxagoras was only a physical philosopher, like his predecessors. Mind had not manifested itself to him as a true force above nature, as an organizing soul of the universe. 7. The next step in the progress of thought is, therefore, to comprehend accurately' the distinction between mind and nature, and to recognize mind as something higher and con- tra-distinguished from all natural being. This problem fell to the Sojyhists. They entangled the thinking which had been confined to the given object in contradictions, and brought that objectivity- which had before been exalted above THE EARLIER IONIC PHILOSOPHERS. 25 the subject, into direct antagonism with the dawning con- sciousness of the superiorit}- of subjective thought. The So- phists developed their principle of subjectivit}- (Egohood), though at first onl^- negativel}-, into the form of a uni- versal religious and political revolution. The}' stood forth as the destroyers of the whole edifice of thought that had been thus far built, until Socrates appeared, and opposed to this principle of emjnrical subjectivit}-, that of absolute sub- jectivity, — that of mind in the form of a free moral will, — and comprehended thought positively as something higher than existence, as the truth of all reality. With the Sophists closes our first period, for with them the oldest philosophy finds its self-destruction. SECTION IV. THE EARLIER IONIC PHILOSOPHERS. 1. Thales (640-550 b.c.) — At the head of the Ionic natural philosophers, and therefore at the head of philosoph}', the ancients are generally agreed in placing Thales of Mile- tus, a cotemporar}' of Croesus and Solon. The philosophi- cal principle to which he owes his place in the history of phi- losophy is, that, " the principle (the primal, original ground) of all things is water ; from water every thing arises, and into water every thing returns." But the mere assumption that water is the original ground of things was no advance beyond his m3'tli-raaking predecessors and their cosmologies. Aris- totle, himself, when speaking of Thales, refers to the old "theologians," — meaning, doubtless, primarih^ Homer, — who had ascribed to Oceanus and Teth^'s, the origin of all things. Thales, however, merits his place as the beginner of philosoph}', because he made the first attempt to establish his physical principle, without resorting to a m^'thical expo- sition, and, therefore, introduced into philosophy' a scientific 26 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. procedure. He was the first who attempted a logical expla- nation of nature. We cannot now sa}' with certaintj' upon what grounds his theor}- was based, though he might have been led to it by perceiving that moisture is essential to the germination and nourishment of things ; that warmth is de- veloped from it ; and that, generally, it might be the plastic, living, and live-giving principle. From the condensation and expansion of this fundamental matter, he derives, as it seems, the changes of things ; though the wa}' in which this is done, he did not accuratel}' determine. The philosophical significance of Thales does not appear to extend any farther. He was not a speculative philosopher in the modern sense of the word. Philosophical literature was at that time unknown, and he does not seem to have given any of his opinions a written form. On account of his ethico- political wisdom, he is numbered among the so-called " seven wise men," and the anecdotes which the ancients relate of him only testif}' to his practical understanding. He is said, e.g. , to have first calculated an eclipse of the sun, to have super- intended the turning of the course of the Half's for Croesus, etc. When subsequent narrators relate that he had asserted the unity of the world, had conceived the idea of a world-soul, and had taught the immortality of the soul, it is doubtless an unhistorical reference of later ideas to a much less developed standpoint. 2. Anaximander. — Anaximander of Miletus, sometimes represented b}' the ancients as a scholar and sometimes as a companion of Thales, but who was certainl}' a generation younger than the latter, sought to cany out still farther his principles. The original essence which he assumed, and which he is said to have been the first to name principle i^PX'l) 1 liG defined as the "unlimited, eternal, and undeter- mined ground from which every tiling proceeds, and into which all things, in order of time, return," as that which embraces all things and rules all things, and which, since it lies at the basis of all determinateness of the finite and the THE EARLIER IONIC PHILOSOPHERS. 27 changeable, is itself infinite and undo terminate. How we are to regard this original essence of Anaximander is a mat- ter of dispute. Evidentl}' it was not one of the four common elements ; though we must not, therefore, think it was some- thing incorporeal and immaterial. Anaximander probably conceived it as the original matter before it had separated into determined elements, — as that which was first in the order of time, or what is in our da}' called the chemical indifference of elementary opposites. In this respect his original essence is indeed " unlimited" and " undetermined," i.e., has no deter- mination of quality nor limit of quantity ; yet it is not, there- fore, in any wa}', a pure dynamical principle, as perhaps the " friendship" and " enmity" of Empedocles might have been, but it is only a more philosophical expression for the same thought, which the old cosmogonies attempted to express in their representation of chaos. Accordingly, Anaximander suffers the original opposition of cold and heat (i.e., the bases of the elements and of life) , to be separated from his original essence by virtue of an eternal movement immanent in it, — a clear proof that this essence was only the undeveloped, unanal3-zed, potential being of these elemental opposites. 3. Anaximenes. — Anaximenes, who is called by some the pupil, and hy others the companion of Anaximander, returned very nearly to the view of Thales, in that he conceived the principle of all things to be "the unlimited, all-embracing, ever-moving air," from which by expansion (fire) and conden- sation (water, earth, stone) , every thing is formed. The per- ception that air surrounds the whole world, and that breath is the condition of vital action, seems to have led him to this hj'pothesis. 4. Retrospect. — The whole philosopli}' of the three ear- liest Ionic philosophers ma}' be reduced to these three points : viz., (1) they sought for the universal essence of concrete being ; (2) they found this essence in a material substance or substratum ; (3) they gave some intimations respecting the derivation of the fundamental forms of nature from thia orio;inal matter. 28 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. SECTION V. PYTHAGOREANISM. 1. Its Relative Position. — The development of the Ionic philosophy discloses a tendency to abstract from the immedi- ately given, particular quality' of matter. It is this same ab- straction carried to a higher step, when we look away from the sensible concretion of matter in general, and no more regard its qualitative determinateness as water, air, etc., but direct oiu' attention solel}' to its quantitative determinateness, to its quantitative measure and relations ; when attention is directed not merely upon the substance of things, but also upon their spatial aiTangement and form. But the peculiar nature of quantity is expressed by number, and this is the principle and stand-point of Pythagoreanism. 2. Historical and Chronological. — The Pythagorean doctrine of number is referred to Pjthagoras of Samos, who is said to have flourished between 540 and 500 b.c. He dwelt during the latter part of his life at Crotona, in Magna Grecia, where, in order to effect the political and social regen- eration of the lower Italian cities, which were then wasted by the strifes of parties, he founded a society' whose members bound themselves to purit}^ and sanctity of life, to the closest friendship for one another, and to cooperation in maintain- ing the morality, discipline, order, and harmony of the whole community. What is related concerning the life of Pythag- oras, his journeys, his political influence in the lower Ital- ian cities, etc., is so thoroughly interwoven with traditions, legends, and palpable fabrications, that we can be certain at no point that we stand upon a historical basis. Not onl}- the old Pythagoreans, who have spoken of him, delighted in the mysterious and esoteric, but even his Neo-PIatonic biogra- phers, Porphyry and Jamblichus, have treated his life as a PYTHAGOREANISM. 29 historico-philosophical romance. We have the same uncer- taint}' in reference to his doctrines, ?'.e., in reference to his share in the number-theory. Aristotle, e.g. , does not ascril)e this to Pythagoras liimself, but only to the Pythagoreans generall}' ; from which we may suppose that it first received its complete development within the societ}' which he founded. The accounts which are given respecting his school have no certainty till the time of Socrates, a hundred 3'ears after Pythagoras. Among the few sources of light which we have upon this subject, are the mention made in Plato's Phceclo of the Pythagorean Philolaus and his doctrines, and the writ- ings of Archytas, a cotemporar}" of Plato. We possess in fact the P3'thagorean doctrine onl}* in the manner in which it was taken up by Philolaus, Eur3'tus, and Arch3'tas, since its earlier adherents left nothing in a written form. 3. The Pythagorean Principle. — The fundamental thought of the P^'thagorean philosophy- is that of proportion and harmon3^ This thought is, for it, both the principle of practical life, and the supreme law of the universe. The Pythagorean cosmolog3' regards the universe as a S3mmet- ricall3^ ordered whole, uniting harmoniousl3^ in itself all the tiifferences and antitheses of being, — a view which is most clearl3' expressed in the Pythagorean doctrine, that all cos- mical bodies or spheres (including the earth) revolve in fixed orbits about a common middle point, a central fire, from which light, warmth, and life stream forth into the whole universe. The more strictly metaph3'sical confirmation of this idea, that the world is a whole, harmoniousl3' articu- lated in accordance with fixed forms and proportions, is the P3'thagorean doctrine of number. Through number alone, the quantitative relations of things, extension, magnitude, figure (triangular, quadrangular, cubic, etc.), combination, distance, etc., obtain their peculiar character; the forms and proportions of things can all be reduced to number. There- fore, it was concluded, since without form and proportion nothing can exist, number must be the principle of things 30 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. themselves, as well as of the order in which they manifest themselves in the world. The accounts of the ancients are not at one as regards the question, whether the Pythagoreans supposed number to be an actual, material, or a purel}- ideal principle of things, i.e., the archetype in accordance with which every thing is formed and ordered. Even the expres- sions of Aristotle seem to contradict each other. At one time he speaks of Pythagoreanism in the former, and, at an- other, in the latter sense. From this circumstance modern scholars have concluded that the Pythagorean doctrine of numbers had several forms of development ; that some of the Pythagoreans regarded numbers as the substances and others as the archetypes of things. Aristotle, however, hitimates how the two statements ma}' be reconciled with each other. Originally, without doubt, the Pythagoreans regarded number as the material, the inherent essence of things, and therefore Aristotle places them together with the HA'licists (the Ionic natural philosophei's) , and sa3'S of them, that "the}' held things to be numbers" {Metapli. I., 5, 6). But, as even the Hyli- cists did not identify their matter, e.g., water, immediatel}' with the sensuous thing, but onl}' assumed it to be the funda- mental element, the original form of the individual thing, so, on the other side, numbers also might be regarded as similar fundamental types ; and therefore Aristotle might saj' of the Pythagoreans, that "the}' held numbers to be a more ade- quate expression of the original form of being than water, air, etc." But, if there still remains a degree of uncertaint}' in the expressions of Aristotle respecting the sense of the Pytliagorean doctrine of numbers, it can onl}' have its ground in the fact that the P^'thagoreans did not make any distinc- tion between an ideal and material principle, but contented themselves with the undeveloped view, that number is the essence of things, — that every thing is number. 4, The carrying out of this Principle. — From the veiy nature of the "number-principle," it follows that its complete application to the real world could onl}' lead to a fruitless PYTHAGOEEANISM. 31 and empt}' symbolism. By separating number into its two species, even and odd, as well as into the antithesis of limited and unlimited, which is inherent in the principle of all num- ber, unity, and applying it in this form to astronomy, music, psychology, ethics, etc., there arose combinations like the following : one, is the point, two, the line, three, the superfi- cies, four, extension in three dimensions, five, the constitu- tion of a body, etc. Still farther, the soul is a musical harmony, as is also virtue, etc. Not only the philosophical, but even the historical interest here ceases, since the ancients themselves — as was unavoidable from the arbitrar}- nature of such combinations — have given the most contradictor}^ accounts of them, some affirming that the Pjthagoreans re- duced righteousness to the number three, others, that they reduced it to the number four, others again to five, and still others to nine. Naturall}', from such a vague and arbitrarj' philosophizing, there would earl}' arise, in this, more than in other schools, a great diversity of views, one ascribing one signification to a certain mathematical form, and another an- other. In this mysticism of numbers, that which alone has truth and value, is the thought, which lies at the ground of it all, that there prevails in the phenomena of nature a ra- tional order, harmony, and conformity to law, and that these laws of nature can be expressed by measure and number. But the Pythagorean school hid this truth under extravagant fancies, as vapid as they are unbridled. The physics of the Pythagoreans possesses little scientific value, with the exception of their cosmological doctrine re- specting the circular motion of the earth and stars. Their ethic is also defective. What we have remaining of it relates more to the Pythagorean life, i.e., to the practice and disci- pline of their order, than to their philosophy. The whole tendency of Pythagoreanism was, in a practical respect, as- cetic, and directed to a strict culture of the character. As showing this, we need only to cite their conception of the body as the prison of a soul which has descended from a 32 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. higher world ; their doctrine of the transmigi'ation of souls into the bodies of brutes, from which onl^' a pure and pious life afforded exemption ; their representations of the terrible torments of the lower world ; and their prescript that man should regard himself as the property of God, should obey God in all things, and strive to become like Him, — ideas to which Plato refers (particularly in the Plioedo) , and which he carried to a more complete development. SECTION VI. THE ELEATICS. 1. Relation of the Eleatic Principle to the Pythago- rean, — "While the Pythagoreans had made matter, in so far as it is quantitative, manifold, and divisible, the basis of their philosophizing, and had in this only abstracted from the definite elementary constitution of matter, the Eleatics carried this process of abstraction to its ultimate limit, and made, as the principle of their philosophy, a total abstrac- tion from ever}' finite determinateness, from eveiy change and vicissitude which belongs to concrete being. "While the P^'thagoreans had held fast to the form of being as it exists in space and time, the Eleatics reject this, and make the negation of all juxtaposition in space and succession in time their fundamental thought. " Only being is, and there is no not-being, nor becoming." This being is the purel}^ undeter- mined, changeless ground of all things. It is not being in becoming, but it is being as exclusive of all becoming ; in other words, it is pure being which can be apprehended onl}' in thought. Eleaticism is, therefore. Monism, in so far as it strove to refer the manifoldness of all being to a single ultimate princi- THE ELEATICS. 33 pie ; but on the other hand it becomes Dualism, in so far as it could neither carry out its denial of concrete existence, i.e., the phenomenal world, nor yet derive the latter from its presupposed original ground. The phenomenal world, though it might be explained as onl}^ an empt}' appearance, did 3'et exist ; and, since the sensuous perception of it could not be altogether ignored, there must be allowed it, hypotheticall}' at least, the right of existence. Its origin must be explained, even though with reservations. This contradiction of an un- reconciled Dualism between being and existence, is the point where the Eleatic philosophy is at war with itself, — though, in the beginning of the school, with Xenophanes, this does not yet appear. The principle itself, with its results, is only fully apparent in the lapse of time. It has three periods of formation which successively appear in three successive gen- erations. The foundation of the Eleatic philosophj' belongs to Xenophanes ; its S3'stematic development to Parmenides ; its completion, and, in part, its dissolution, to Zeno and Me- lissus, — the latter of whom we can pass by. 2. Xenophanes. — The originator of the Eleatic tendency was Xenophanes. He was born at Colophon in Asia Minor ; emigrated to Elea, a Phoc£ean colony in Lucania, and was a 30unger cotemporarj' of Pythagoras. He appears to have first uttered the proposition, " all is one," without, how- ever, indicating by more exact definitions of this unit}', whether it was intellectual or material. Turning his atten- tion, sa3's Aristotle, upon the world as a whole, he called the unity which he found there, God. God is the One. The Eleatic "One and All" (eV koI -n-av) had, therefore, with Xenophanes, a theological and religious character. The idea of the unity of God, and opposition to the anthropomor- phism of the popular religion, is his starting-point. He de- claimed against the delusion that the gods were born, that they had a human voice or form, and railed at Homer and Hesiod for attributing to the gods robber}', adultery, and deceit. According to him, the Godhead is all e3'e, all eai', 3 54 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. all understanding, unmoved, undivided, calml}' ruling all things by his thought, like men neither in form nor in under- standing. In this way, tliinking mainl^' of removing from the Godhead all finite determinations and predicates, and holding fast to its unit}' and unehangeableness, he declared this doctrine of its nature to be the highest philosophical principle, without, however, dii'ecting this principle polemi- cally against finite being, or carrying it out in its negative application. 3. Parmenides. — The proper head of the Eleatic school is Parmenides of Elea, a pupil, or at least an adherent, of Xenophanes. Though we possess but little reliable informa- tion respecting the circumstances of his life, 3'et we have, in inverse proportion, the harmonious voice of all antiquity in an expression of reverence for the Eleatic sage, and of admi- ration for the depth of his mind, as well as for the earnest- ness and elevation of his character. The sa3-ing — "a life like that of Parmenides," became afterwards a proverb among the Greeks, Parmenides, like Xenophanes, embodied his philosoph}' in an epic poem, of which we have still important fragments. It is divided into two parts. In the first he discusses the conception of being. Rising far above the jet unmediated view of Xenophanes, he attains a conception of pui-e, simple being, which he posits as absolutely opposed to the manifold and changeable, inasmuch as this latter has no existence, and consequently cannot be thought. From this conception of being he not only excludes all becoming and departing, but also all relation to space and time, all divisibilitj', diver- sit}', and movement. Being he explains as something which has not become and which does not depart, as complete and of its own kind, as unalterable and without limit, as indivisi- ble and present though not in time, as completel}' and uni- versall}' self-identical ; and, since all these are onl}' negative, he ascribes to it, also, as a positive determination — thought. " Being and thought " are, therefore, with Parmenides, " one THE ELEATICS. 35 and the same." This pure thought, chrected upon pure be- ing, he declares to be the onlj' true and undeceptive Icnowl- edge, in opposition to the deceptive notions whicli are based upon tlie manifoldness and mutabiUtj of the phenomenal. Nor does he hesitate to assert that to be non-existent and an illusion which mortals regard as truth, viz., becoming and departing, being and not-being, change of place and vicissi- tude of circumstance. We must, therefore, be careful not to mistake " the One " of Parmenides, for the collective unit}' of all concrete being. So much for the first part of Parmenides' poem. After the principle that being alone is has been developed according to its negative and positive aspects, the s^'stem would seem to be completed. But there follows a second part, which is occupied solel}' with a h3'pothetical attempt to explain the phenomenal world, the " non-existent," and give it a ph3'sieal derivation. Though firmly convinced that according to rea- son and conception " the One " alone exists, Parmenides was 3et unable to avoid recognizing the manifoldness and muta- bility of the phenomenal. Forced, therefore, by sensuous perception to enter upon a discussion of the phenomenal world, he prefaces this second part of his poem with the remark, that he had now concluded what he had to sa}' re- specting the truth, and was thereafter to deal only with the opinion of a mortal. Unfortunately, this second part has been ver^' imperfectl}' transmitted to us. Enough, however, remains to show, that he explained the phenomena of nature from the mingling of two unchangeable elements, which Aris- totle designates as heat and cold, fire and earth. Concern- ing these two elements, Aristotle remarks still farther that Parmenides associated warmth with being, and the other ele- ment with not-being. All things are composed of these two opposites : the more fire, so much the more being, life, con- sciousness ; the more cold and immobilit}', so much the more lifelessness. The principle of the unity of all being is re- tained onl}' in the Parmenidean doctrine, that, in man, the 36 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. sensitive and rational principles, bod}- and soul, are one and the same. It is scarcely necessary- to remark that between the two parts of the Parmenidean philosophy — between the doctrine of being and the doctrine of appearance — there can exist no inner scientific connection. What Parmenides absolutely denies in the first part, and indeed declares to be unutterable, viz., the non-existent, the man}' and the changeable, he yet in the second part admits to have an existence at least in the conceptions of men. But it is clear that the non-existent cannot exist even in conception, if it does not exist general!}' and everywhere, and that the attempt to explain a non- existent of conception is in complete contradiction with his exclusive recognition of being. This contradiction, this un- explained juxtaposition of being and not-being, of the one and the many, Zetio, a disciple of Parmenides, sought to remove, by dialectically annihilating sensuous conception, and with it the world of the non-existent, by means of the con- ception of being. 4. Zeno. — The Eleatic Zeno was born about 500 b.c, and was a disciple of Parmenides. He perfected, dialectically, the doctrine of his master, and carried out to its limit the ab- straction of the Eleatic One, in opposition to the manifold- ness and determinateness of the finite. He justified the doctrine of a single, simple, and unchangeable being indi- rectly, by showing up the contradictions in which the ordi- nary conceptions of the phenomenal world become involved. While Parmenides affirms that there is only the One, Zeno shows polemically that there can be neither (1) multiplicity, nor (2) movement, since these conceptions lead to contra- dictory results. (1) The many is the sum of the units of which it is composed ; an actual unit (an absolute simple, which can never involve multiplicity) . however, Is indivisible ; but that which is indivisible has no magnitude (magnitude being the condition of divisibility) ; therefore the many can have no magnitude and must be infinitely little. If this con- THE ELEATICS. 37 elusion is rejected (on the ground that what has no magni- tude is equal to zero — nothing) the component units of the man}' must be posited as independent quanta. But that alone is an independent quantum., which both itself possesses magnitude, and is separated from other quanta hy something which also possesses magnitude (for otherwise it would coa- lesce with them) . Moreover, these separating magnitudes must, for the same reason, be separated from those which the}' separate, and so on. Ever}' thing, therefore, is sepa- rated from ever}' thing else b}' infinitely numerous quanta ; all limited and definite magnitude disappears ; infinite magni- tude alone is left. Further, if the many exists, it must be limited in number ; for there must be in it just as many units as are in it, no more and no less. But the many must be just as truly unlimited in number ; for between any two particular quanta (units) there must exist a third (the separating quantum, or unit) and so on. (2) A moving body, in order to traverse a given space, must first pass through one -half of the distance, then through one-half of what is left, and so on ; i.e., it must pass through an infinite number of spaces — which is impossible. Therefore there can be no transition from one point in space to another, no move- ment. In fact, motion cannot even be begun, for every por- tion (including the first unit) of the space which is to be traversed is separable into an infinite number of parts. Again, rest signifies continued existence in one and the same place. Now, if we divide the time occupied by the flight of an arrow into instants {nows) , during each of these instants the arrow will be in one place only ; therefore it is continually at rest [transition from one position to another, in time, is impos- sible] , and its motion must be merely apparent. On account of these arguments, which first pointed out, with at least approximate correctness, the difficulties and antinomies which lie in the thought of the infinite divisibility of matter, space, and time, Aristotle called Zeno the discoverer of dialectic. Zeno also exerted a strong influence upon Plato. 38 A HISTORY or PHILOSOPHY. Although the philosophizing of Zeno is the completion of the Eleatic principle, it is at the same time the beginning of its dissolution. Zeno apprehended the opposition of being and existence, of the one and the many, so abstractly', and carried it so far, that Avith him the inner contradiction of the Eleatic principle comes forth still more boldlj- than with Parmenidcs : for the more logical he is in the denial of the phenomenal world, so much the more striking must be the contradiction, of applying, on the one hand, his whole philosophical activit}' to the refutation of the sensuous representation, while, on the other, he sets over against it a doctrine which destroys the very possibility of a false representation. SECTION VII. HERACLITUS. 1. Relation of the Heraclitic Prixciple to the Ele- atic. — Being and existence, the one and the mam*, could not be united b}' the principle of the Eleatics ; the Monism which the}' had striven for had resulted in an ill-concealed Dualism. Heraclitus reconciled this contradiction b}' affirming the truth of being and not-being, of the one and the many, to be the coexistence of both, — becoming. While the Eleatics could not extricate themselves from the dilemma that the world is either being or not-being, Heraclitus removes the difficult}' by answering — it is neither being nor not-being, because it is both. 2. Historical and Chronological. — Heraclitus, surnamed by later writers the obscure, was born at P^phesus, and flour- ished about 4G0 B.C., somewhat later than Xenophanes, and nearly cotemporaneously with Panuenides. He was the pro- foundest of the Pre-Socratic philosophers. He embodied his HEEACLITUS. 89 philosophical thoughts in a work "Concerning Nature," of which we possess only small fragments. Its rapid transi- tions, its expressions concise and full of meaning, the general philosophical originality of Ileraclitus, and the antique char- acter of the earliest prose writings, all combine to make this work so hard to understand that its difficulty A'erj' early be- came proverbial. Socrates said concerning it, that " what he understood of it was excellent, and he had no doubt that what he did not understand was equally good ; but the book re- quired an expert swimmer." Later writers, particular!}' the Stoics, have written commentaries upon it. 3. The Principle of Becoming. — The ancients unite in ascribing to Heraclitus the principle that the totality of things should be conceived to be in an eternal flow, in an uninter- rupted movement and transition, and that all permanence is illusory. " Into the same stream," so runs a saving of Hera- clitus, "we descend, and at the same time we do not de- scend. For into the same stream we cannot possibly descend twice, since it is alwa3's scattering and collecting itself again, or rather it at the ^ame time flows to us and from us." Noth- ing, he said, remains the same ; every thing comes and goes, vanishes and reappears under different forms ; out of all comes all, from life death, from death life. There is eternally and everywhere onlj' this one process of change, of origination and destruction. There is, therefore, ground for the asser- tion that Heraclitus had banished all rest and continuance from the totality- of things ; and it is doubtless in this very respect that he accuses the eye and the ear of deception, be- cause the}' deceive men with an appearance of permanence where there is in reality only an uninterrupted change. Heraclitus exhibits more clearly the nature of his princi- ple, becoming, when he intimates that all becoming is to be thought of as the product (synthesis) of conflicting antitheses, as the harmonious union of opposing characteristics. If being did not continuall}^ separate itself into opposites which are distinct from one another and mutually antithetical, which 40 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. partly repel and destro}', partly attract and supplement one another, every thing would be destroyed, all reality and all life would cease. Hence the two well-known propositions : "strife is the father of things," and, "the one, separating itself from itself, reunites with itself like the harmon}- of the bow and the lyre," i.e., unit}' exists in the world onl}- so far as the world-life separates into antitheses in whose reunion and adjustment this very unity consists. Unity pre-supposes duality, harmony discord, attraction repulsion, and only through the latter can the former be realized. "Unite," — so runs another of his sayings, — "whole and part, centripe- tence and centrifugence, harmon}^ and discord, then will the one become all and the all one." 4. The Principle of Fire. — In what relation does the principle of fire, which is also ascribed to Heraclitus, stand to the principle of the becoming? Aristotle says that he adopted fire as the principle of things in the same way that Thales adopted water, and Anaximenes air. But it is clear we must not interpret this to mean that Heraclitus regarded fire as the original material or fundamental element of things, after the manner of the H^'licists. If he ascribed reality only to becoming, it is impossible that he should have added to this becoming an elemental matter as fundamental substance. "When, therefore, Heraclitus calls the world an ever-living fire, which in definite stages and degrees extinguishes and again enkindles itself, when he sa3'S that ever}' thing can be exchanged for fire, and fire for every thing, just as we barter things for gold and gold for things, he can only mean thereby that fire, that restless, all-consuming, all-transforming, and yet, through heat, all-vivif^'ing element, represents the abid- ing power of this eternal transformation and transposition, in other words, the conception of life, in the most obvious and effective way. AVe might call fire, in the Heraclitic sense, the s}Tnbol or the manifestation of becoming, if it were not also with him the substratum of movement, i.e., the means of which the power of movement, which is antecedent to all HERACLITUS. 41 matter, avails itself in order to bring out the living process of things. In the same way Heraclitus goes on to explain the manifoldness of things, b}' affirming that they arise from certain hindrances and a partial extinction of this fire, in consequence of which it becomes condensed into material ele- ments, first air, then water, then earth. But on the other hand the fire just as truly obtains the preponderance over these obstructions and enkindles itself anew. These two pro- cesses of the extinction and re-ignition of this fire-force, according to Heraclitus, interchange perpetually in an eternal alternation ; and from this he concluded that at certain defi- nite periods the world resolves itself into this primal fire, in order therefrom to reconstruct itself anew, and so on. More- over he asserts fire to be also the principle of movement in individual things, of ph3'sical as well as of spiritual vitality. The soul itself is a fiery vapor ; its power and perfection de- pend upon its freedom from all coarser and duller materials. Heraclitus, in his practical philosoph}-, bids us follow reason instead of the deceitful illusions of sensuous intuition and concei^tion which fetter us to the transitory and perishable ; he teaches us to perceive the true, the abiding, in the change- able, and leads us to 3'ield quietly to the necessary order of the universe, and to recognize in that which appears to be evil an element cooperating for the harmony of the whole. 5. Transition to the Atomists. — The Eleatic and Hera- clitic principles are diametrically opposed to one another. While Heraclitus destroys all abiding being in an absolutely flowing becoming, so, on the other hand, Parmenides destroys all becoming in an absolutely abiding being ; and while the former charges the eye and the ear with deception, in that they transform the flowing becoming into a quiescent being, the latter also accuses these same senses of an untrue repre- sentation, in that they draw the abiding being into the move- ment of the becoming. We can therefore say that the being and the becoming are equally valid antitheses, which demand a further synthesis and reconciliation. Heraclitus regarded 42 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. the phenomenal world as an existing contradiction, and cUmg to this contradiction as to an ultimate fact. But the mere assertion that this becoming, which the Eleatics had thought themselves obliged to den^- entirely-, is the only true principle, was no explanation of it. The question continually returned — why is all being a becoming ? Why does the one contin- ually differentiate itself into the man}'? To give an ansAver to this question, i.e., to explain becoming from the pre-sup- posed principle of being, forms the standpoint and problem of the Empedoclean and Atomistic philosophy. SECTION VIII. EMPEDOCLES. 1. General View. — Empedocles of Agrigentum is ex- tolled by the ancients as a statesman, orator, natural phi- losopher, physician, and poet, and also as a seer and worker of miracles. He flourished about 440 B.C., and was conse- quently' 3'ounger than Parmenides and Heraclitus. He wrote a didactic poem concerning nature, which has been preserved to us in quite extensive fragments. His philosophical system may be characterized in brief, as an attempt to combine the Eleatic being and the Heraclitic becoming. Starting with the Eleatic thought, that neither can an}' thing which has previously existed become, nor any thing which now is de- part, he assumed as unchangeable being, four eternal original materials, which, though divisible, are independent, and un- derived from each other. In this we have what in our day are called the four elements. With this Eleatic thought he united also the Heraclitic view of nature, and conceived these four elements to become mingled together, and molded by the operation of two motive forces, — a unifying force, which EMPEDOCLES. 43 he names friendship, and a diremptive force, whicli he names strife. Originall}-, these four elements were absolutely alike and immovable, dwelling together in the sphairos, that is, in the pure and perfect, spherical divine primordial universe, where friendship united them, until gradually strife pressing from the circumference to the centre of the sphere (i.e., attaining a separating activitj), broke this union, whereupon the formation of the world of contrarieties immediately began as the result. 2. The Four Elements. — With his doctrine of the four elements, Empedocles, on the one side, may be joined to the series of Ionic ph3sicists ; but, on the other hand, he is ex- cluded from this b}' his assumption that the original elements are four in number. He is distinctly said b}' the ancients to have originated the theory of the four elements. He is more definitely distinguished from the Hylicists, from the fact that he ascribed to his four "root-elements" a changeless being, by virtue of which they neither arise from each other nor are transformed into each other, and are capable of no alteration in themselves, but only of a change in their mutual relations. Every thing which is called arising and departing, eA'er^' change, rests therefore onl}- upon the commingling and sep- aration of these eternal original elements ; the inexhavistible manifoldness of being rests upon the different proportions in which these elements are combined. All becoming is thus conceived to be only change of place. In this we have a mechanical in opposition to a di/na^nical explanation of nature. 3. The Two Powers. — Whence now can becoming arise, if in matter itself there is found no principle which can afford an explanation of change? Since Empedocles did not, like the Eleatics, deny that there was change, nor yet, like Hera- clitus, introduce it as an indwelling principle in matter, there was no other course left him but to place, by the side of matter, a moving power. The opposition of the one and the many which had been set up by his predecessors, and which demanded an explanation, led him to ascribe to this mov- 44 A HISTORY or PHILOSOPHY. ing power two originally diverse directions, one separation, diremption (repulsion), the other attraction. The separation of the one into the man}, and the union again of the man}' into the one, had indicated an opposition of powers which Heraclitus had already recognized. While now Parmenides starting from the one had made love his principle, and Hera- clitus starting from the many had made strife his, Empedo- cles makes the combination of the two the principle of his philosophy. He did not, however, sufficientl}' define the spheres of action of these two forces in their mutual limi- tation. Although to friendship belongs peculiarly the attrac- tive, and to strife the repelling function, yet Empedocles, on the other hand, suflTers strife to have in the formation of the world a unifying, and friendship a dividing effect. In fact, the complete separation of a dividing and unifying power in the movement of the becoming, is an unmaintainable abstrac- tion. 4. Relation of the Empedoclean to the Eleatic and Heraclitic Philosophy. — Empedocles, by placing, as the principle of the becoming, a moving power by the side of matter, makes his philosoph}' a mediation, or more properly a collocation, of the Eleatic and Heraclitic principles. He has interwoven these two principles in equal proportions in his system. With the Eleatics he denied all arising and de- parting, i.e., the transition of being into not-being, and of not-being into being ; and with Heraclitus he endeavored to find an explanation for change. From the former he derived the abiding, unchangeable being of his fundamental matter, and from the latter the principle of the moving power. With the Eleatics, in fine, he conceived true being in an original and undistinguishable unity as a sphere, and with Heraclitus, he regarded the present world as a continuous product of con- tending forces and antitheses. He has, therefore, been prop- erl}^ called an Eclectic, who united the fundamental thoughts of his two predecessors, though not always in a logical wa}'. THE ATOMISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 45 SECTION IX. THE ATOMISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 1. Its Propounders. — Empeclocles had sought to effect a combination of the Eleatic and Heraclitic principles, — the same was attempted, though in a different wa}', hy tlie Atom- ists, Leucippus and Democritus. Democritus, the 3'ounger and better known of the two, was the son of rich parents, and was born about 460 b.c. in Abdera, ar Ionian colon}'. He travelled extensivel}', and no Greek before the time of Aristotle possessed such varied attainments. He embodied the wealth of his collected knowledge in a series of writings, of which, however, onl^' a few fragments have come down to us. For rhythm and elegance of language, Cicero compared him with Plato. He died in a good old age. 2. The Atoms. — The Atomists did not, like Empedocles, derive all specific phenomenal quality from a certain num- ber, of qualitatively' determined and distinguishable original materials, but they derived it from an originally unlimited number of constituent elements, or atoms, which were homo- geneous in qualit}', but diverse in quantit}'. These atoms are unchangeable material particles, possessing indeed extension, but yet indivisible, and differing from one another onl}' in size, form, and weight. As being, and without quality, they are entirely incapable of an}' transformation or qualitative change ; and, therefore, all becoming is, as with Empedocles, onl}' a change of place. The manifoldness of the phenomenal world is onl}' to be explained from the different form, dispo- sition, and arrangement of the atoms as they become, in various waj's, united. 3. The FuL>fESS and the Void. — The atoms, in order to be atoms, — i.e., undivided and impenetrable unities, — must be mutually limited and separated. There must be some- 46 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. thing set over against them wliieli preserves them as atoms, and which is tlie original cause of tlieir separateness and mutual independence. Tliis is the void space, or more strictly' the intervals which are found between the atoms, and which prevent their mutual contact. The atoms, as being and absolute fulness, and the interval between them, as tlie void and not-being, are two determinations which only repre- sent in a real and objective wa}', what ai'e in thought, as logical conceptions, the two elements in the Heraclitic becom- ing, viz., being and not-being. But since the void space is one determination of being, it must possess objective realit}' no less than the atoms ; and Democritus even went so far as to expressly affirm, in opposition to the Eleatics, that " being is no more real than nothing." 4. The Atomistic Necessity. — Democritus, like Empe- docles, though far more extensively than he, attempted to answer the question — Whence arise change and movement ? "VVh}' do the atoms enter into these manifold combinations, and bring forth such a wealth of inorganic and organic forms? Democritus attempted to solve this problem b}' affirming that the ground of movement lies in the natui'c of the atoms them- selves, which the void space permits alternately to unite and separate. Atoms of different weight, floating about in the void, impinge on one another. In this wa}' there arises an ever-widening movement throughout the entire mass, b}' vir- tue of which, since atoms of similar form tend to group them- selves together, different combinations of the atoms come into existence. These combinations again, b}- their veiy na- ture, tend to dissolution ; hence the transitoriness of indi- vidual things. But this explanation of the formation of the world really explains nothing. It is merelj' a ver}' abstract conception of an infinite causal series, but not a final ground of all the manifestations of becoming and of change. Such a final ground was still to be sought, and as Democritus ex- pressly declared that it could not lie in reason (vovs) , where Anaxagoras placed it, he could only find it in an absolute THE ATOMISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 47 necessit}', or a necessaiy pre-determinatencss (avdyKq). This he adopted as his " final groimd," and is said to have named it chance (ru'x*/) > i'^ opposition to the inquiiy after final causes, or the Anaxagorean teleolog}'. Polemical attacks upon the popular deities, — the common belief in whose exist- ence Democritus explained to be the result of fear occasioned by atmospheric and celestial phenomena, — and a more and more openl}' declared atheism and naturalism were the promi- nent characteristics of the later Atomistic school, which, with Diagoras of Melos, the so-called atheist, culminated in a complete sophistic. 5. Relative Position of the Atomistic Philosophy. — Hegel characterizes the relative position of the Atomistic Philosoph}' as follows : "In the Eleatic Philosoph}' being and not-being stand as antitheses, — being alone is, and not-being is not ; in the Heraclitic idea, being and not-being are the same, and the unit}' of the two, i.e. the becoming, is the predicate of concrete being ; but being and not-being, as ob- jectivel}' determined, or in other words, as appearing to the sensuous intuition, constitute the antithesis of the fulness and the void. Parmenides, Heraclitus, and the Atomists all sought for the abstract universal ; Parmenides found it in being, Hera- clitus in p?'ocess, and the Atomists in being pe?^ se." So much of this as ascribes to the Atomists the characteristic predicate of being per se is doubtless correct, — but the real thought of the Atomistic system is rather analogous with the Empedoc- lean, namel}', to explain b}' the pre-supposition of these inde- pendent unqualified substances (atoms) the possibilit}' of the becoming. To this end the not-being or the void, i.e., the side which is opposed to the Eleatic principle, is elaborated with no less care than the side which harmonizes with it, i.e., the ^■iew that the atoms are without quality and unchangeable. The Atomistic Philosoph}^ is, therefore, a mediation between the Eleatic and the Heraclitic principles. It is Eleatic in affirming the indestructible individuality of the atoms ; Hera- clitic, in declaring their multeit}' and manifoldness. It is 48 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. Eleatic in its assumption of an absolute fulness in the atoms, and Heraclitic in maintaining the rcalit}- of not-being, i.e., the void space. It is Eleatic in its denial of becoming, i.e., of arising and departing, — and Heraclitic in its affirmation that to the atoms belong movement and a capacity for un- limited combinations. Democritus carried out his leading thought more logicalh' than Empedocles, and we might even sa}' that his S3'stem is the perfection of a pm-elj* mechanical explanation of nature, since all subsequent Atomists, even to our own da}', have onl}' repeated his fundamental conceptions. But the great defect which cleaves to every Atomistic sj-stem Aristotle has justl}' recognized, when he shows that it is a contradiction to set up that which is corporeal or space-filling as indivisible, and thus to derive the extended from that which has no extension ; and that, finall}', the unconscious and un- intelligible necessit}' of Democritus is especially defective, in that it totally banishes from nature all conception of design. It is this latter fault, common to all previous sj'stems, which Anaxagoras attempted to remove b}' his doctrine of an in- telligence acting in accordance with design. SECTION X. ANAXAGORAS. 1. His Personal History. — Anaxagoras was born at Clazomense, about 500 B.C., of a rich and influential famih'. Soon after the Persian war he removed to Athens and lived there until, having been accused of impiet}', he fled to Lamp- sacus, where he died at the age of seventy-two. He was an- other of those thinkers who recognized in the investigation of nature and its laws their life-problem. He it was who first planted philosophy at Athens, which from that time on ANAXAGORAS. 49 became the centre of intellectual life in Greece. Through his personal relations to Pericles, Euripides, and other important men, he exerted a marked influence upon the culture of the age. It was on account of this that the charge of defaming the gods was brought against him, doubtless b}' the political opponents of Pericles. Anaxagoras wrote a work " Concern- ing Nature " which in the time of Socrates was widel}' circu- lated. 2. His Relation to his Predecessors. — The sj'stem of Anaxagoras rests wholl}' upon the presuppositions of his predecessors, and is simply another attempt at the solution of the same problem. Like Empedocles and the Atomists, Anaxagoras denied becoming, in the stricter sense. "The Greeks" — so runs one of his sa^'ings — "maintain the reality of becoming and departing erroneously' ; for nothing can ever be said to become or depart, but each thing arises through the combination and perishes through the disintegration of pre-existent things ; hence it is more correct to call becoming combination, and departing separation." From this view, that eveiy thing arises through the mingling of different ele- ments, and perishes through the separation of these elements, Anaxagoras, like his predecessors, was obliged to separate matter from the moving power. But it is just here that Anaxagoras adopts that line of thought which is peculiar to himself. It was evident that hitherto the moving power had been unsatisfactoril}' defined. The mythical powers love and hate, and the unconscious necessit}' of the purely mechanical comprehension of nature explained nothing, least of all the existence of design in the movements of nature. The con- ception of an activit}' which could thus work designedl}-, must, therefore, be brought into the conception of the moving power, and this Anaxagoras accomplished by setting up the idea of a world-forming intelligence (roSs) , absolutel}' separated from all matter and working with design. 3. The Principle of the vot)?. — Anaxagoras described this intelligence as spontaneously active, unmingled with any 4 50 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. thing, the ground of movement, but itself unmoved, ever}' where active, and the most refined and pure of all things. Although these predicates rest parti}' upon a physical analogy, and do not exhibit purely the conception of immaterialit}', 3et on the other hand the attributes of thought and of conscious action from design, which he ascribes to the vov<;, admit no doubt to remain of the decided idealistic character of the Anaxagorean principle. Nevertheless, Anaxagoras went no farther than to enunciate his fundamental thought without attempting its complete application. The explanation of this is obvious from the reasons which first led him to adopt his principle. It was onl}' the need of an original cause of motion, to which also might be attributed the capacity to work designedl}', which had led him to the idea of an imma- terial principle. His vovs, therefore, is primarily nothing but a mover of matter, and in this function nearly all its activity is expended. Hence the universal complaint of the ancients, especially of Plato and Aristotle, respecting the mechanical character of his doctrine. In Plato's Phcedo Socrates relates that, in the hope of being directed beyond a simple occasion- ing, or mediate cause to a final cause, he had turned to the book of Anaxagoras, but had found there only a mechanical instead of a truly teleological explanation of being. Aris- totle also finds fault with Anaxagoras for admitting mind to be the ultimate ground of things, and 3'et resorting to it for the explanation of phenomena only as to a Deus ex machina, i.e., only when he cannot show that the}^ are the necessar}' results of natural causes. Anaxagoras, therefore, rather pos- tulated than proved mind to be an energy above nature, and the truth and actuality of material being. B}^ the side of the vov^, according to Anaxagoras, and equally original with it, stands the mass of the primitive con- stituents of things. "All things were together, infinite in number and infinitesimal in size ; then came the voi)? and set them in order." These primitive constituents are not general elements, like those of Empedocles, fire, aii-, water, earth ANAXAGOEAS. 51 (which, according to Anaxagoras, are composite and not simple materials) ; but the}' are the similar and infinitel}' numerous materials of which individual things are composed (stone, gold, bone, etc., and hence by later writers called ofjiOLofiepaaL, i.e., parts which are similar to the wholes which they compose) ; they are the infinitely minute and simple " germs of all things," which exist prior to things themselves, though in a thoroughl}' chaotic intermixture. The vovs sets this in itself inert mass in a vortical, eternall}' perduring movement. Through this movement the homogeneous par- ticles are differentiated from the general mass and aggregated together, not, however, to the exclusion of all dissimilar ele- ments. "In ever}' thing there is something of all;" each thing consists primarily of the homogeneous, but it contains also together with these something of all the remaining primi- tive elements of the universe. The matter-moving voS? is especially conspicuous in organization ; it is immanent in all living beings (plants, animals, men), in different degrees of quantity and power, as their vital principle or soul. The vox)?, therefore, arranges all things, — each in accordance with its peculiar nature, — into a universe which comprehends with- in itself the most diverse forms of existence, and also mani- fests itself in this universe as the vitalit}' of individual organ- isms. 4. Anaxagoras as the close of the pre-Socratic Real- ism. — With the Anaxagorean principle of the vou?, i.e., with the acquisition of an immaterial principle, closes the realistic period of the old Grecian Philosoph}'. Anaxagoras combined together the principles of all his predecessors. The infinite matter of the H3dicists is represented in his chaotic original mingling of things ; the Eleatic pure being appears in the idea of the vov?; the Heraclitic power of becoming and the Empedoclean moving energies are both seen in the creating and arranging power of the eternal mind, while the Democritic atoms come to view in the homoiomeria. Anaxagoras is the conclusion of the old and the beo;innins: of a new course of 52 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. development, — the latter through the enunciation of his ideal principle, and the former througli the defective and completely ph^'sical manner in which this principle was yet again applied. SECTION XI. THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 1. Relation of the Sophistic Philosophy to the ear- lier Philosophies. — The preceding philosophers had tacitly assumed that subjective consciousness is dependent upon objective reality, that the objective world is the source of all our knowledge. But with the Sophists a new principle ap- peared, that, namely, of subjectivity, — the thought that things are only as the}" a2)2)ear to the individual Ego, and that there- fore universally valid truth has no existence. This standpoint was, however, the direct result of the preceding philosophy. The Heraclitic doctrine of the flux of all things, and Zeno's dialectic against the phenomenal world furnished weapons enough for a sceptical attack upon all fixed and objective truth ; and even in the Anaxagorean doctrine of the vovq, thought was virtually declared to be a higher principle than objectivit}'. On this newl}' opened field the Sophists now bustled about, enjo3ing with childish delight the exercise of this new power of subjectivit}", and destrojing by means of a subjective dialectic all that had previousl}' been objectively established. The subject recognized himself as superior to the objective world, — especially as higher than the laws of the state, customs, religious traditions, and popular creeds. He sought to apply his own laws to the objective world ; and instead of seeing in the given objectivity the historical real- ization of reason, he recognized in it only a dead, unspiritual matter upon which his arbitrary will might be exercised. THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 53 The Sophistic philosophy should be characterized as the clearing up reflection. It is, therefore, no philosophical sys- tem, for its doctrines and affirmations exhibit often so popular and even trivial a character that for their own sake the}' would merit no place at all in the history of philosophy. It is also no philosophical school in the ordinary sense of the term, — for Plato cites a vast number of persons under the common name of " Sophists," — but it is a widely spread in- tellectual movement of the age, which had struck its roots into the whole moral, political, and religious character of the Hellenic life of that time, and which may be called the Greek clearing-up period. 2. Relation of the Sophistic Philosophy to the gene- ral Life of that Age. — The Sophistic philosoph}' is theo- retically, what the whole political life of Greece during the Peloponnesian war was practically. Plato justly remarks in his Republic that the doctrines of the Sophists only gave formal expression to the principles which guided the course of the great mass of men of that time in their civil and social relations, and the hatred with which they were pursued by the practical statesmen, clearly indicates the jealous}* with which the latter saw in them their rivals and the destro3'ers of their polic}'. If the absoluteness of the empirical subject — I.e., the theory that the individual Ego can arbitrarily deter- mine what is true, right, and good — is in fact the theoretical principle of the Sophistic philosoph}', the unlimited egoism which meets us eveiywhere in the public and private life of that age is merely its practical application. Public life had become an arena of passion and selfishness ; those party struggles which racked Athens during the Peloponnesian war had blunted and stifled the moral feeling ; every individual accustomed himself to set his own private interest above that of the state and the common weal, and to seek in his own arbitrary desires and advantage the standard for all his actions and the guide of his practical conduct. The Protago- rean dictum^ " man is the measure of all things," was only too 54 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. faithfully acted upon, and the influence of the orator in the assemblies of the people and the courts, the corruptibilit}- of the great masses and their leaders, and the weak points which showed to the adroit student of human nature the covetous- ness, vanity, and factiousness of others around him, offered only too many opportunities for the practical application of this rule. Custom had lost its weight ; civil ordinances were regarded as arbitrary restrictions, the moral feeling as the effect of shrewd political training, the faith in the gods as a human invention to intimidate free action, while piety was looked upon as a statute of human origin which every one is justified in using all his eloquence to change. This degradation of a necessity, which is conformable to nature and reason and of universal validity, to an accidental human ordinance, is the main point in which the Sophistic philosophy allied itself with the general consciousness of the more edu- cated classes ; and we cannot witli certainty determine what share science and what share practical life ma^^ have had in producing this connection, — whether the Sophistic philosophy found onl}- the theoretical formula for the practical life and tendencies of the age, or whether the moral corruption was rather a consequence of that destructive influence which the principles of the Sophists exerted upon the whole course of cotemporary thought. It would be, however, to mistake the spirit of history to condemn the epoch of the Sophists without admitting for it a relative justification. These phenomena were in part the necessary product of the general historical development of the age. Faith in the popular religion was quickl}- destroyed simply because it possessed in itself no inner, moral support. The gi'ossest vices and acts of baseness could all be justified and excused from the examples of mytholog}'. Even Plato himself, though otherwise an advocate of a devout faith in the traditional religion, accuses the poets of his nation with leading the moral feeling itself astray, through the unworthy representations which they had given of the gods and the THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 55 hero world. It was moreover unavoidable that advancing science should clash with tradition. The physical philoso- phers had already long lived in open hostility to the popular religion, and the more convincingly they demonstrated by analogies and laws that many things which had hitherto been regarded as the immediate effect of Divine omnipotence were only the results of natural causes, so much the more easily would it happen that the educated classes would become per- plexed in reference to all their previous convictions. It was no wonder then that the transformed consciousness of the time permeated all the provinces of art and poesy ; that in sculpture, in close analogy to the rhetorical arts of the So- phists, the emotive should supplant the elevated style ; that Euripides, the sophist among tragedians, should bring the whole philosophy of the time and its manner of moral reflec- tion upon the stage ; and that, instead of, like the earlier poets, bringing forward his actors to represent an idea, he should use them only as means of exciting a momentary emotion or some other stage effect. 3. Tendencies op the Sophistic Philosophy. — To give a definite classification of the Sophistic philosophy, which should be derived from the conception of the general phe- nomena of the age, is exceedingl}^ difficult, since, like the French "clearing up" of the last century, it entered into every department of knowledge. The Sophists rendered general culture universal. Protagoras was known as a teacher of virtue, Gorgias as a rhetorician and politician, Prodicus as a grammarian and teacher of synonyms, Hippias as a man of various attainments, who besides astronomical and mathematical studies busied himself with a theory of mnemonics ; others took for their problem the art of educa- tion, and others still the explanation of the old poets ; the brothers Euth^'demus and Dionysidorus gave instruction in the bearing of arms and military tactics ; many among them, as Gorgias, Prodicus, and Hippias, were intrusted with em- bassies : in short, the Sophists, each one according to his 56 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. individual tendency', took upon tliemselves eveiy variet}- of calling and entered into every sphere of science ; their method is the onl}' thing common to all. Moreover, the relation of the Sophists to the educated public, their striving after popu- larit}', fame, and mone}, disclose the fact that their studies and occupations were for the most part controlled, not by an objective scientific interest, but by some external motive. With that roving spirit wliich was an essential peculiarit}- of the later and more characteristic Sophists, travelling from city to city, and announcing themselves as thinkers by pro- fession, and giving their instructions with prominent refer- ence to a good recompense and the favor of the rich private classes, it was very natural that they should discourse upon the prominent questions of universal interest and of public culture, with occasional reference also to the favorite occu- pation of this or that rich man with whom they might be brought in contact. Hence their peculiar strength la}' far more in a formal dexterity, in an acuteness of thought and a capacit}' of bringing it readily into exercise, in the art of dis- course than in any positive knowledge ; their instruction in virtue was either disputatious quibbling or empty bombast, and even where the Sophistic philosoph}' became realh' pol}- mathic, the art of speech still remained as the great thing. So we find in Xenophon, Hippias boasting that he can speak repeatedly upon every subject and sa}' something new each time, while we hear it expressly affirmed of others, that they did not consider it necessar}- to have positive knowledge in order to discourse satisfactorily upon ever}* thing, and to answer every question extemporaneousl}' ; and when man}' Sophists made it a great point to hold a well-arranged dis- course about something of the least possible significance {e.g., salt) , we see that with them the thing was only a means while the word was the end, and we ought not to be surprised that in this respect the Sophistic philosoph}- sunk to that empty technicality which Plato, in his Phcedrus, on account of its want of character, subjects to so rigid a criticism. THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 57 4. The Significance of the Sophistic Philosophy in its Relation to the Culture of the Age. — The scientific and moral defect of the Sophistic philosopliy is self-evident ; and, since certain modern writers of history with over-officious zeal have painted its darli side in black, and complained loudly of its frivolity, immorality, and greediness for pleasure, its conceitedness and selfishness, its false show of wisdom and disputatiousness, — it needs here no farther elucidation. But the point most apt to be overlooked is the merit of the Sophists as regards their effect upon the culture of the age. To say, as is done, that they had only the negative merit of calling out the opposition of Socrates and Plato, is to leave the immense influence and the high fame of so many among them, as well as the revolution which they eflected in the thought of a whole nation, an inexplicable phenomenon. It were inexplicable that, e.g.^ Socrates should attend the lec- tures of Prodicus, and direct to him other students, if he did not acknowledge the value of his grammatical acquirements, or recognize his services in the promotion of a sound logic. Moreover, it cannot be denied that Protagoras also hit upon man}- correct principles of rhetoric, and satisfactorily estab- hshed certain grammatical categories. It ma}' in general be said of the Sophists that the}' gave the people a great profu- sion of general knowledge ; that they strewed about them a vast number of fruitful germs of development ; that they called out investigations in the theory of knowledge, in logic and in language ; that they laid the basis for the methodical treatment of many branches of human knowledge, and that they partly originated and partly assisted the wonderful in- tellectual activity which characterized Athens at that time. Theu- greatest merit is their service in the department of lan- guage. They may even be said to have created and formed Attic prose. They are the first who made style as such a separate object of attention and study, and who instituted rigid investigations respecting rhythm and the art of rhetorical expression. With them Athenian eloquence, which they first 58 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. incited, begins. Antiphon as well as Isocrates — the latter the founder of the most flourishing school of Greek rhetoric — are offshoots of the Sophistic philosophy. In all this there is ground enough for regarding this whole phenomenon as something more than a symptom of deca^'. 5. Individual Sophists. — The first, who is said to have been called, in the received sense. Sophist, is Protagoras of Abdera, who flourished about 440 B.C. He taught — and was the first who demanded payment for his services — in Sicil}' and in Athens, but was driven out of the latter place as a reviler of the gods, and his book concerning the gods was burnt by the herald in the public market-place. It began with these words : "I can knoAv nothing concerning the gods, whether they exist or not ; for we are prevented from gaining such knowedge not onl}' by the obscurity of the thing itself, but by the brevity of human life." In another writing he develops his doctrine of knowledge or nescience. Starting from the Heraclitic position that ever}^ thing is in a constant flow, and applying this preeminently to the thinking subject, he taught that man is the measure of all things, of being that it may be, and of not-being that it may not be, i.e., that is true for the perceiving subject which he, in the constant move- ment of things and of himself, at each moment perceives and is sensible of — and that hence he has theoretically no other relation to the external world than sensuous intuition, and practically no other than sensuous desire. But, since per- ceptions and sensations are as diverse as the subjects them- selves which experience them, and are in the highest degi-ee variable at different times in the very same subject, there fol- lows the farther result that nothing has objective validity and determination, that contradictory affirmations in reference to the same object must be received as alike true, and that error and contradiction cannot exist. This principle, that nothing exists per se, but that every thing is mere subjective concep- tion, opinion, and arbitrariness, was applied, b}- the Sophists, ©specially to law and ethics. Nothing, they said, is by THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 59 nature ((^wtt) good or bad, but merely through positive statute and agreement (vdyu.u»). Hence we can decree to be law, and recognize as law whatever we please — whatever the interest of the moment induces, and we have the skill and power to maintain. Protagoras does not seem to have made any efforts to give these propositions a practical and logical application, since, according to the testimony of the ancients, a personal character worthy of esteem cannot be denied him ; and even Plato, in the dialogue which bears his name, goes no farther than to object to his complete obscurity respecting the nature of moralit}', while, in his Gorgias and Philebus, he charges the later Sophists with affirming the principles of immoralit}' and moral baseness. Next to Protagoras, the most famous Sophist was Gorgias. During the Peloponnesian war (427 B.C.), he came from Leontini to Athens in order to gain assistance for his native cit}' against the encroachments of Syracuse. After the suc- cessful accomplishment of his errand he still abode for some time in Athens, but resided the latter part of his life in Thes- saly, where he died about the same time with Socrates. The pompous ostentation of his external appearance is often ridi- culed b}' Plato, and his discourses display the same character, attempting, through poetical ornament, and florid metaphors, and uncommon forms of expression, and a mass of hitherto unheard-of figures of speech, to dazzle and delude the mind. As a philosopher he adhered to the Eleatics, especially to Zeno, and attempted to prove, upon the basis of their dialetic schematism, that, in general, nothing exists, or if something does exist, it is incognizable, or if cognizable, it is not com- municable. Hence his writing bore characteristically enough the title, " Concerning the Non-Existent or Nature." The proof of the first proposition — namely, that nothing exists, because that which is supposed to exist can, in realit}^ be neither an existent nor a non-existent, since existence pre- supposes one of two equally unthinkable alternatives, origi- nation and non-origination — rests primarily upon the as- 60 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. sumption that all existence is spatial (local and corporeal), and is therefore the ultimate self-contradictorj- result, the self-destruction of the preceding ph3-sical philosophy. The later Sophists with reckless daring carried their con- clusions far be3'ond Gorgias and Protagoras. The}' were for the most part free thinkers, who pulled to the ground the national religion, laws, and customs. Among these should be named, prominently', the t^'rant Critias, Polas, and Thras}'^ machus. The two latter openly taught the right of the stronger as the law of nature, the unbridled satisfaction of desire as the natural right of the stronger, and the institution of restraining laws as a crafty' invention of the weaker ; and Critias, the most talented but the most abandoned of the thirty t3'rants, wrote a poem, in which he represented the faith in the gods as an invention of craft}' statesmen. Hippias of Elis, a man of great knowledge, bore an honorable char- acter, although he did not fall behind the rest in bombast and boasting ; but before all was Prodicus, in reference to whom it became a proverb to sa}', " wiser than Prodicus," and of whom Plato himself and even Aristophanes never spoke without veneration. Especially' famous among the ancients were his parenetical (hortatory') lectures concerning the choice of a mode of life (Hercules at the parting of the ways, adopted b}' Socrates in Xenophon's 3fe7norabilia, II. 1 ) , con- cerning external good and its use, concerning life and death, etc., discourses in which he manifests a refined moral feeling, and acute observation of life, although through the want of a higher ethical and scientific principle, he must be placed below Socrates, whose forerunner he has been called. The later generations of Sophists, as they are shown in the Euthydemus of Plato, sink to a common level of buffooner}' and disgi'ace- ful strife for gain, and comprise their whole dialectic art in certain formulae for constructing sophistical arguments. 6. Transition to Socrates and Character of the fol- lowing Period. — That which is true in the Sophistic phi- losophy is the truth of subjectivity, of self-consciousness, i.e., THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 61 the demand that ever}' thing which I am to admit must be shown as rational before my own consciousness ; that which is false in it is its apprehension of this subjectivity as mere finite, empirical, egoistic subjectivity, ?.e., the demand that my accidental will and opinion should determine what is rational ; its truth is that it established the pi'inciple of free- dom, of subjective conviction ; its untruth is that it made the accidental will and opinion of the individual supreme. To carr}' out now the principle of freedom and self-consciousness to its truth, to gain a true world of objective thought with a real and distinct content, b}' the same means of reflection which the Sophists had only used to destroy it, to establish objective will, rational thought, the absolute or ideal in the place of empirical subjectivitj', was the problem which Socrates took up and solved. To substitute for empirical subjeetivitj- absolute or ideal subjectivit}- as the first principle, is to affirm that the true measure of all things is not my {i.e., the indi- vidual person's) opinion, fanc}', and will; that what is true, right, and good, does not depend upon m}' caprice and arbi- trary^ determination, or upon that of any other empirical sub- ject ; but that although it is my thinking, it is 3'et ni}' thinking, the rational within me, which has to decide upon all these points. But m}' thought, m}' reason, is not something spe- ciall}' belonging to me, but something common to every rational being, something universal, and in so far as I am a rational and thinking being, is m}' subjectivit}' a universal one. But ever}- thinking individual has the consciousness that what he holds as right, as dut}', as good or evil, does not appear as such to him alone but to everj' rational being, and that consequently his thought has the character of univer- salit}^ of universal validity, in a word — of objectivit}'. This then in opposition to the Sophistic philosoph}' is the stand- point of Socrates, and therefore with him the philosophy of objective thought begins. What Socrates could do in oppo- sition to the Sophists was to attain b}- reflection the very same results which had previously rested upon mere unreflecting 62 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. faith or obedience, and to show that the philosopher guided b}' his free consciousness and his own convictions, would learn to form the same judgments and take the same course as that to which life and custom had alread}' and unconsciousl}' in- duced the ordinary man. The position, that while the indi- vidual is the measure of all things, he is so only by virtue of his universalit}', his capacit}' for thought, his reason, is the fundamental thought of the Socratic philosoph}-, which is, by A'irtue of this thought, the positive complement of the So- phistic principle. With Socrates begins the second period of Greek philoso- ph}'. This period contains three philosophical sj'stems, whose authors, standing to each other in the personal relation of teacher and pupil, represent three successive generations, — Socrates, Plato, Aristotle. SECTION XII. SOCRATES. 1 . His Personal Character. — The new philosophical principle which Socrates introduced is to be found in his per- sonal character. His philosophy is his mode of action as an individual ; his life and doctrine cannot be separated. His biograph}^ therefore, forms the onl}' complete representation of his philosophy' ; and what the narrative of Xenophon pre- sents us as the definite doctrine of Socrates, is consequentlj' nothing but an abstract of his inward character, as it found expression from time to time in his conversation. Plato j^et more regarded his master as such an archetjpal personalit}', and a luminous exhibition of the historical Socrates is the special object of his later and maturer dialogues, and of these again, the Symposmm is a most brilliant apotheosis of the SOCEATES. 63 Eros incarnated in the person of Socrates, of the philosophi- cal impulse transformed into character. Socrates was born in the year 469 B.C., the son of Sophro- niscus, a sculptor, and Phi^narete, a midwife. In his youth he was trained by his father to follow his own profession, and in this he is said not to have been without skill. Three draped figures of the Graces, called the work of Socrates, were seen b}" Pausanias, upon the Akropolis, Little farther is known of his education. He ma}' have profited by the instruction of Prodicus and the musician, Damon, but he stood in no personal connection with the philosophers proper, who flourished before, or cotemporaneously with him. He became what he was b}' himself alone, and just for this reason does he form an era in ancient philosoph}'. Though the ancients call him a scholar of Anaxagoras, or of the natural philosopher, Archelaus, the first is demonstrably false, and the second, to say the least, is altogether improbable. He never sought other means of culture than those affoi'ded by his native city. With the exception of one journey to a public festival, and the militaiy campaigns which led him as far as Potidaea, Delion, and Amphipolis, he never left Athens. The period when Socrates first began to devote himself to the education of youth, can be determined only approximate!}' from the time of the first representation of the Clouds of Aristophanes, which was in the j'ear 423. The date of the Delphic oracle, which pronounced him the wisest of men, is not known. But in the traditions of his followers, he is almost uniformly represented as an old, or as a graj'-headed man. His mode of instruction, wholl}' diflTerent from the pedantry and boastful ostentation of the Sophists, was alto- gether unconstrained, conversational, popular, starting from objects l3'ing nearest at hand and most insignificant, and deriving the necessary illustrations and proofs from the most common matters of every-day life ; in fact, he was reproached b}' his cotemporaries for speaking ever only of drudges, smiths, cobblers, and tanners. So we find him at the market; 64 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. in the g3'mnasia, in the workshops, bus}' earl}' and late, talk- ing with 30uth, with 3'oung men, and with old men, on the proper aim and business of life, convincing thern of their ignorance, and awakening in them the slumbering desires after knowledge. In ever}' human effort, whether directed to the interests of the commonwealth, or to the private indi- vidual and the gains of trade, to science or to art, this raastej of helps to spiritual births could find fit points of contact for the awakening of a true self-knowledge, and a moral and religious consciousness. However often his attempts failed, or were rejected with bitter scorn, or requited with hatred and unthankfulness, yet, led on by the clear conviction that a real improvement in the condition of the state could come only from a proper education of its youth, he remained to the last true to his chosen vocation. Purely Greek in these relations to the rising generation, he designated himself, by preference, as the most ardent lover ; Greek too in this, that with him, in comparison with these free relations of friendship, his own domestic life fell quite into the background. He nowhere shows much regard for his wife and children ; the notorious, though altogether too much exaggerated ill-nature of Xan- tippe, leads us to suspect, however, that his domestic rela- tions were not the most happy. As a man, as a practical sage, Socrates is pictured in the brightest colors by all narrators. "He was," says Xeno- phon, " so pious, that he did nothing without the advice of the gods ; so just, that he never injured any one even in the least ; so completely master of himself, that he never chose the agreeable instead of the good ; so discerning, that he never failed in distinguishing the better from the worse ; " in short, he was "just the best and happiest man possible." (Xen. Jfe?7i. I. 1, 11 ; IV. 8, 11.) Still that which lends to his person such a peculiar charm, is the happy blending and harmonious connection of all its characteristic traits, the perfection of a universal and thoroughly original nature. In all this universality of his genius, in this force of character, SOCRATES. 65 b}' which he combined the most contradictory and incongruous elements into a liarmonious whole, in this loft}' elevation above every human weakness, — in a word, as a perfect model, he is most strikingly depicted in the brilliant eulogy of Alcibiades, in the Symposium of Plato. In the scantier representation of Xenophon, also, we find everywhere a classic form, a man possessed of the finest social culture, full of Athenian politeness, infinitely removed from ever}- thing- like gloomy asceticism, a man as valiant upon the field of battle as in the festive hall, conducting himself with the most unconstrained freedom, and yet with entire sobriet}- and self- control, a perfect picture of the happiest Athenian time, with- out the acerbit}', the one-sidedness, and contracted reserve of the later moralists, an ideal representation of the genuinel}^ human virtues. A very characteristic peeuliarit}- is the " demonism" which he professed. He believed that an inner divine voice was constantl}- forewarning him of the fortunes and results of human actions, and guiding and directing his practical conduct. It was the fine, profound, presaging tact and instinct of a pure soul, which looked clearl}' into life and perceived involuntaril}' what was right and judicious even in the most peculiar emergencies, which expressed itself in these admonitions ; and nothing could be more perverse than the attempts of his accusers to construe this "demonism" as a denial of the popular gods, and an attempt to introduce new deities. It was indeed true that with Socrates this oracle of inward foreboding supplanted the traditional methods of divination and augur}' ; it was an advance toward an inward self-direction which was altogether foreign to the older Greek civilization. This advance was, however, involuntary. Soc- rates himself retained the ancient form of belief in a tran- scendent revelation ; he never opposed the prevalent popular conceptions, but was for the most part in complete accord with the popular religion, although, indeed, this latter as- sumed with him the philosophical form of a faith in the existence, in the universe, of a supreme, all-directing intelli- gence. 5 66 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 2. Socrates and Aristophanes. — Socrates seems eark to have attained universal celebrity' through the peculiarities attaching to his person and character. Nature had furnished him with a remarkable exterior. His crooked, turned-up nose, his projecting eye, his bald pate, his corpulent bod}', gave his form a striking similarit}' to the Silenic, a compari- son which is carried out in Xenophon's Feast, in sprightly jest, and in Plato's Symposium, with as much ingenuit}' as profoundness. To this was added his miserable dress, his going barefoot, his posture, his habit of standing still and rolling his e3'es. After all this, one will hardl}- be surprised ■ that the Athenian comedy took advantage of such a remark- able character. But there was another and peculiar motive which influenced Aristophanes. He was a most ardent ad- mirer of the good old times, an enthusiastic eulogist of the manners and the constitution, under Avhich the fathers had been reared. As it was his great object to awaken anew in his people and to stimulate a longing after those good old times, his passionate hatred broke out against all modern eflforts in politics, art, and philosoph}-, of that increasing sham- wisdom, which went hand in hand with a degenerating democrac}'. Hence comes his bitter railing at Cleon, the Demagogue (in the Knights), at Euripides, the sentimental pla3^-writer (in the Frogs) and at Socrates, the Sophist (in the Clouds) . The latter, as the representative of a subtle, destructive philosoph}', must have appeared to him just as corrupt and pernicious, as the part}' of progi-ess in politics, who trampled without conscience upon every thing which had come down from the past. It is, therefore, the main object of the Clouds to expose Socrates to public contempt, as the representative of the Sophistic philosoph}', a mere semblance of wisdom, at once vain, profitless, corrupting in its influence upon the j'outh, and undermining all true discipline and mo- rahty. Seen in this light, and from a moral standpoint, the motives of Aristophanes maj" find some excuse, but they can- not be justified ; and his representation of Socrates, into SOCKATES. 67 whose character all the characteristic features of the Sophistic philosophy are intei'woven, even the most contemptible and hateful, yet so that the most unmistakable likeness is still apparent, cannot be admitted on the ground that Socrates did reall}' have the greatest formal resemblance to the So- phists. The Clouds can only be designated as a culpable misunderstanding, and as an act of gross injustice brought about b}' blinded passion ; and Hegel, when he attempts to defend the conduct of Aristophanes, forgets, that, while the comic writer ma}' caricature, he must do it without having recourse to public calumniation. In fact all the political and social tendencies of Aristophanes rest on a gross misunder- standing of historical development. The good old times, as he fancies them, are a fiction. It lies just as little in the realm of possibilit}', that a moralit}- without reflection, and a homely ingenuousness, such as mark a nation's childhood, should be forced upon a time in which reflection has utterly' eaten out all immediateness and unconscious moral sim- plicit}', as that a grown up man should become a child again in the natural way, Aristophanes himself attests the impos- sibilit}' of such a return, when in a fit of humor, with cynic railler}', he gives up all divine and human authorit}' to ridi- cule, and thereb}', however commendable may have been the patriotic motive prompting him to this comic extravagance, demonstrates, that he himself no longer stands upon the basis of the old moralit}', that he too is the son of his time. 3. The Condemnation of Socrates. — To this same con- founding of his efforts with those of the Sophists, and the same tendenc}' to restore b}' violent means the old discipline and morality, Socrates, twentj'-four years later, fell a victim. After he had lived and labored at Athens for man}- j-ears in his usual manner, after the storms of the Peloponnesian war and the despotism of the thirt}- t^Tants had passed away, and democracy had been restored, in his seventieth year he was brought to trial and accused of denying the gods of the state, of introducing new deities, and also of corrupting the 3'outh. 68 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. His accusers were Melitus, a young poet, An3'tus, a dema- gogue, and Ljcon, an orator, men in every respect insignifi- cant, and acting, as it seems, •vvitliout motives of personal enmity. Tlie trial resulted in his condemnation. After a fortunate accident had enabled him to spend thirt}' days more with his disciples in his confinement, scorning to escape from his prison, he drank the poisoned cup in the j'ear 399 b.c. The first motive to his accusation, as alreadj- remarked, was his identification with the Sophists, the actual belief that his doctrines and activit}' were marked with the same char- acter of hostility to the interests of the state, as those of the Sophists, which had alread}' occasioned so much mischief. The three points in the accusation, though evidenth' resting on a misunderstanding, alike indicate this ; the}' are precisely those by which Aristophanes had sought to characterize the Sophist in the person of Socrates. This " corruption of the youth," this bringing in of new customs, and a new mode of culture and education generallj', was precisely the charge which was brought against the Sophists ; moreover, in Plato's Meno, An3'tus, one of the three accusers, is introduced as the bitter enemy of the Sophists and of their manner of instruc- tion. So too in respect to the denial of the national gods : be- fore this, Protagoras, accused of den^'ing the gods, had been obliged to flee from Athens. Even five 3'ears after the death of Socrates, Xenophon, who was not present at the trial, felt himself called upon to write his Memorabilia in defence of his teacher, so wide-spread and deep-rooted was the prejudice against him. Beside this there was also a second, probabl}'' a more de- cisive reason, — a political one. Socrates was no aristocrat, but his character was too firm to permit him to accommodate himself to the caprices of the sovereign mob, and he was too deeply convinced of the necessit}- of a lawful and intelUgent management of state affairs to be on friendl}- terms with the Athenian democrac}', as it was then constituted. Moreover his whole mode of life must have appeared to them to be that SOCEATES. 69 of a bad citizen. He had never concerned himself in the affairs of the state, had never but once sustained an official character, and then, as chief of the Pr^-tanes, had disagreed with the will of the people and the rulers. (Plat. Aj^ol. Sect. 32 ; Xen. Mem. I. 1, 18.) In his seventieth year, he mounted the orator's stand for the first time in his life, on the occasion of his own accusation. We must also take into account the fact that he would have allowed only men of wisdom and penetration to possess power in the state, and found fault with the Athenian democracy upon every occasion, especially with the democratic institution of choice by lot ; that he de- cidedly preferred the Spartan state to the Athenian ; and that he excited the distrust of the democrats by his confidential relations with the former leaders of the oligarchic party. (Xen. Mem. I. 2, 9, sq.) Among others who were of the oligarchic interest, and friendly to the Spartans, Critias in particular, one of the thirty tyrants, had been his pupil, as also Alcibiades — two men who had been the cause of much evil to the Athenian people. If now we accept the uniform tradition, that two of his accusers were men of fair standing in the democratic part}', and farther, that his judges were men who had fled before the thirt}' tyrants, and later had over- thrown the power of the oligarch}^, we find it much more eas}^ to understand how the}', in the case before them, should have supposed they were acting wholl}' in the interest of the demo- cratic party, when they pronounced condemnation upon the accused, especially as enough to all ai)pGarance could be brought against him. The hurried trial presents nothing ver}' remarkable, in a generation which had grown up during the Peloponnesian war, and in a people that adopted and repented of their passionate resolves with equal haste. Yea, more, if we consider that Socrates scorned to have recourse to the usual means and forms adopted b}' those accused of capital crime, and to gain the s^'mpathy of the people b}' lamentations, or their favor b}' flatterv, that he in proud con- sciousness of his innocence defied his judges, it becomes 70 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. rather a matter of wonder, that his condemnation was carried by a majority of only three to six votes. And even now he might have escaped the sentence to death, had he been wiUing to bow to the will of the sovereign people for the sake of a commutation of his punishment. But as he scorned to set a value upon himself, by proposing another punishment, a fine, for example, instead of the one moved by his accuser, because this would be the same as to acknowledge himself guilt^', his disdain could not fail to exasperate the easily excited Athe- nians, and no farther explanation is needed to show wh}- eighty of his judges who had before voted for his acquittal, now voted for his death. Such was the most lamentable re- sult — a result, afterwards most deeply regretted by the Athe- nians themselves — of an accusation, which at the outset was probably only intended to humble the aristocratic philosopher, and to force him to an acknowledgment of the power and the majesty of the people. Hegel's view of the fate of Socrates, that it was the result of the collision of equally just powers — the Traged}' of Athens as he calls it — and that guilt and innocence were shared alike on both sides, cannot be maintained on historical grounds, since Socrates can neither be regarded exclusivel}' as the representative of the modern spirit, the principle of freedom, subjectivity, internalit}' ; nor his judges, as the representa- tives of the old Athenian unreflecting morality. The first is impossible, since Socrates, even though his principle was at variance with the old Greek moralit}', rested nevertheless so far on the basis of tradition, that the accusations brought against him in this respect were false and groundless ; and the last is equally impossible, since at that time, after the close of the Peloponnesian war, the old morality and piety had long been wanting to the mass of the people, and given place to the modern culture ; and the whole process against Socrates must be regarded rather as an attempt to restoi'e by violence, in connection with the old constitution, the old de- funct morality and modes of thought. The fault is not there- SOCRATES. 71 fore the same on both sides, and it must be held, that Socra- tes fell a victim to a misunderstanding, and to an unjustifiable reaction of public sentiment. 4. The Sources of the Socratic Philosophy. — Well known is the old controvers}', whether the picture of Socrates drawn by Xenophon or that drawn b}^ Plato, is the more com- plete and true to history, and which of the two is to be consid- ered the more reliable source for obtaining a knowledge of his philosophy. This question is being decided more and more in favor of Xenophon. Great pains have been taken in former as in later times, to bring Xenophon's Memorabilia into disrepute, as a shallow and insufficient source, because their plain, and any thing but speculative contents, seemed to furnish no satisfactory ground for such a revolution in the world of mind as is attributed to Socrates, or for the splendor which invests his name in history', or for the character which Plato assigns him ; because again the Memorabilia of Xeno- phon have especialh' an apologetic aim, and their defence does not relate so much to the philosopher as to the man ; and finall}^, because the}^ have been supposed to have the appearance of carrying the philosophical over into the un- philosophical style of the common understanding. A dis- tinction has therefore been made between an exoteric and an esoteric Socrates, obtaining the first from Xenophon, the latter from Plato. But the preference of Plato to Xenophon has in the first place no historical justification, since Xeno- phon appears as a proper historian and claims historical credibility, while Plato on the other hand never professes to be an historical narrator, save in a few passages, and b}- no means intends to have all the rest which he puts in the mouth of Socrates understood as his authentic expressions and dis- course. There is, therefore, no historical reason for prefer- ring the representation of Socrates which is given by Plato. In the second place, the under-valuation of Xenophon rests, for the most part, on the false notion, that Socrates had a proper philosophy, i.e., a speculative system, aii4 on an un- 72 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. historical mistaking of the hmits by which the philosophical character of Socrates was conditioned and restricted. There w-as no proper Socratic doctrine, but a Socratic life ; and, just on this ground, are the different philosophical tendencies of his disciples to be explained. 5. General Character of the Socratic Philosophy. — The philosophizing of Socrates was limited and defined by his opposition, partly to the preceding, and partly to the Sophis- tic philosophy'. Philosophy before the time of Socrates had been essentially an investigation of nature. But in Socrates, the human mind, for the first time, turned itself in upon itself, upon its own being, and that too in the most immediate manner, by con- ceiving itself as active, moral spirit. The positive philoso- phizing of Socrates is exclusively of an ethical character, exclusively an inquiry into the nature of virtue, so exclu- sively, and so one-sidedl^', that, as is wont to be the case upon the appearance of a new principle, it even expressed a contempt for the strivings of the entire previous period, with its natural philosophy, and its mathematics. Subordinating every thing to the standpoint of direct moral advancement, Socrates was so far from finding any object in " irrational " nature worthy of study, that he rather, in a kind of general teleological manner, conceived it simply in the light of an external means for the attainment of external ends ; he would not even go out to walk, as he sa^'s in the Phcedrus of Plato, since one can learn nothing from trees and districts of coun- try. Self-knowledge, the Delphic yvwBi a-avrov appeared to him the only object worth}' of man, the starting-point of all philosophy. Knowledge of every other kind, he pronounced so insignificant and worthless, that he was wont to boast of his ignorance, and to declare that he excelled other men in wisdom onl}' in this, that he was conscious of his own igno- rance. (Plat. Ap. -^. 21, 23.) The other side of the Socratic philosophizing, is its oppo- sition to the philosophy' of the time. His object, as is well SOCRATES. 73 understood, could have been only this, to place himself upon the same position as that occupied by the philosophy of the Sophists, and overcome it on its own ground, and by its own principles. That Socrates shared the general position of the So})liists has been remarked abo^■e. Man}' of his assertions, particularly these propositions, that no man knowingly does wrong, and that if a man were knowinglj' to lie, or to do some other wrong act, still he would be better than he who should do the same unconsciously, at first sight bear a purely Sophistic stamp. The great fundamental thought of the So- phistic philosophy, that every moral act must be a conscious act, was also his. But while the Sophists made it their ob- ject, through subjective reflection to confuse and to break up all stable convictions, to make all objective standards impos- sible, Socrates had recognized thinking as the activity of the universal, and free objective thought as the measure of all things ; and, therefore, instead of referring moral duties, and all moral action to the fanc}' and caprice of the individual, had rather reduced all morality to accurate knowledge, to the essence of spirit. It was this idea of knowledge that led him to seek, by the process of thought, to gain an intelligible objective ground, something real, abiding, absolute, inde- pendent of the arbitrary volitions of the subject, and to hold fast to unconditioned moral laws. Hegel expresses the same opinion, when he says that Socrates put morality from ethical grounds, in the place of the morality of custom and habit. Hegel distinguishes morality, as conscious right conduct, resting on reflection and moral principles, from the morality of unsophisticated, half-unconscious virtue, which rests on compliance with prevailing custom. The logical presupposi- tion of this ethical striving of Socrates, was the establishment of conceptions, the method of their formation. To search out the " what" of every thing saj^s Xenophon (Mem. IV. 6, 1 ) was the uninterrupted labor of Socrates ; and Aristotle sa^'s expressl}' that a twofold merit must be ascribed to him, viz., the method of induction and strictly logical definitions, 74 A HISTORY OF PHELOSOPHT. — the two elements ■which constitute the basis of science. How these two elements stand connected with the principle of Socrates we shall at once see. 6. The Socratic Method. — "We must not regard the So- cratic method in the light of modern conceptions of method, I.e., as something of which in its abstract clearness he was distinctly conscious ; but it rather owed its origin immediatel}' to the manner of his philosophizing, which was not designed for the communication of a S3'stem but for the education of the subject in philosophical thinking and life. It is only the subjective technique of his educational procedure, the pecu- liar manner of his actual philosophical life. The Socratic method has two sides, a negatiA^e and a pos- itive. The negative side is the well-known Socratic irony. The philosopher takes the attitude of ignorance, and would apparently let himself be instructed by those with whom he converses, but through the questions which he puts, the un- expected consequences which he deduces, and the contradic- tions in which he involves the opposite part}^, he soon leads them to see that their supposed knowledge is only a source of confusion and contradiction. In the embarrassment in which they now find themselves placed, and seeing that they do not know what they supposed, this supposed knowledge completes its own destruction, and the individual who had pretended to wisdom learns to distrust his previous opinions and firml}' held notions. " What we knew, has contradicted itself," is the refrain of the most of these conversations. The result of this side of the Socratic method was onlj" to lead the subject to know that he knew nothing, and a great part of the dialogues of Xenophon and Plato go no farther than to represent ostensibly this negative result. But there is 3'et another element in his method in which this iron}' loses its negative character. The positive side of the Socratic method is the so-called obstetrics or art of intellectual midwifer}-. Socrates com- pares himself with his njother Plii^narete, a midwife, because SOCRATES. 75 his office was rather to help others bring forth thoughts than to produce them himself, and because he took upon himself to distinguish the birth of an empty thought from one rich in content. (Plato Theafcetus, p. 149.) Through this art of midwifer}- the philosopher, b}' his assiduous question- ing, by his interrogatory dissection of the notions of him with whom he might be conversing, knew how to elicit from him a thought of which he had previously been unconscious, and how to help him to the birth of a new thought. A chief means in this operation was the method of induction^ or the reduction of particulars to general conceptions. The phi- losopher, thus, starting from some individual, concrete case, and seizing hold of the most common notions concerning it, and finding illustrations in the most ordinary and trivial occurrences, knew how to remove by his comparisons that which was individual, and by thus separating the accidental and contingent from the essential, could bring to conscious- ness a universal truth and a universal characteristic, — in other words, could form conceptions. In order, e.g., to find the conception of justice or A'alor, he would start from indi- vidual examples of them, and from these deduce the general natnre or conception of these virtues. From this we see that the aim of the Socratic induction was to gain logical defini- tions. I define a conception when I develop what it is, its essence, its content. I define the conception of justice when I detei'mine the common propert}' and logical unity of all its different modes of manifestation. Socrates sought to go no farther than this. "To inquire into the essence of virtue," sa^'s an Aristotelian writing (End. Etli. I. 5), " Socrates re- garded as the problem of philosophy, and hence, since with him all virtue is knowledge, he sought to determine in respect of justice or valor what the}' might really be, ^.e., he inves- tigated their essence or conception." From this it is ver}' easy to see how his method of definitions or of forming con- ceptions was connected with his practical strivings. He went back to the conceptjoii pf each individual \irtue, e.g., justice, 76 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. only because he was convinced that the knowledge of this conception, the knowledge of it for eveiy individual case, was the surest guide for every moral relation. Ever}- moral act, he believed, should be a conscious, intelligent act. On this account we might characterize the Socratic method as the art by which from a certain sum of given homogeneous and individual phenomena, their logical unit}', the universal principle which lies at their base, ma}' be inductively found. This method presupposes the recognition of the fact that the essence of the objects can be comprehended in thought, that the conception of a thing is its true being. Hence we see that the Platonic doctrine of ideas is only the objectifying of this method which in Socrates appears to be only a subjective dexterity. The Platonic ideas are the universal conceptions of Socrates posited as real individual existences. Hence Aristotle {Metaph. XIII. 4) most fittingly characterizes the relation between the Socratic method and the Platonic doc- trine of ideas with the words, " Socrates did not posit uni- versal conceptions as separate, individual substances, while Plato does this, and names them ideas." 7. The Socrattc Doctrine of Virtue. — The only posi- tive doctrinal statement which has been transmitted to us from Socrates is, that virtue is knowledge, wisdom, insight ; ?".(?., virtue is no mere inborn or mechanically acquired power or ability, but a virtuous act is one which proceeds from a clearly conscious perception of those things to which it re- lates, that is, of the end, means, and limitations by which it is conditioned. Action without perception and judgment is contradictory and self-destructive ; action with pei'ception and judgment is sure to realize its aim. Good and evil are therefore determined by the presence or absence of insight ; men act wrongly only because they form erroneous judgments. Hence no one is willingly wicked ; the wicked are what they ai'e in direct opposition to their own inclinations. Moreover he who does wrong knowingly is better than he who does so unconsciously, because in the latter case, in the absence of SOCEATES. 77 true kDOwledge, virtue must be altogether wanting, while in the former case (if indeed such a case were possible) virtue would suffer only temporary injury. Socrates would not admit that any one can know the good and not do it. He regarded the good, not, like the Sophists, as an arbitrar}' law, but as that upon which the welfare of indiAiduals as well as of the human race unconditionall}' depends, since virtuous action is the onl}' intelligent action ; hence it seemed to him a logical contradiction that mankind, who seek above all things their own advantage, should at the same time know- ingly reject it. Virtuous action seemed to him to follow from the cognition of the good as necessarily as a logical conclu- sion from its premises. The proposition that virtue is knowledge, has for its logical consequence the unit}' and identit}' of all vu'tues, in so far as the intellectual insight which determines the rightness of an act is in all cases one and the same, without reference to the particular objects upon which it may be directed ; and for its practical consequence the teachableness of virtue, wherebj' it becomes something universally human, something which every- one can acquire through instruction and practice. With these three propositions, in which ever^- thing is embraced which we can properl}' term the Socratic philosoph}', Socrates has laid the first foundation stone for a scientific treatment of ethics, a treatment which must be dated from him. But he laid onl}- the foundation, for on the one hand he neither attempted a detailed development of his principles, nor the establishment of a concrete doctrine of ethics, but onl}-, after the ancient manner, referred to the laws of states and the unwritten laws of general usage ; and on the other, he not seldom availed himself of utilitarian motives to establish his ethical propositions, in other words he referred to the external advantages and useful consequences of virtue, — a method in which the absence of a strict scientific treatment is strongl}^ felt. Although in his opinion virtue is obligatory from the fact that man as a rational, intellio-ent beins; must 78 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. in all cases act designedl}-, that is, with rational insight, if he wishes to avoid self-degradation, still he stood completely on the level of his age in that he conceived virtue to be at the same time the way toward the realization of well-being, happiness, contentment, power, and honor, as definite aims. These he took just as the}' are given in experience, without reducing them to a higher collective aim. He demanded one and the same virtue in all spheres of action, jet he allowed these spheres themselves to retain that empirical contingency' which characterizes them in the consciousness and thoughts of those who are immersed in the common, practical interests of life. In his own character, no doubt, he exhibited that elevation above sensuous appetites and affections, that free- dom from desire, which brings man nearest to God, a spirit- ual peace which could never be disturbed, a free consciousness of imimpaired strength, and manifold intellectual capacities, as constituting the highest felicit}^, and thus directly identified the conceptions of virtue and happiness. But he expressed this not as a universal but as an individual principle. He himself retained too much of the old view of things to be willing to deny the validit}' of concrete aims, and sacrifice them to his personal ideal of happiness. THE PAETIAL DISCIPLES OP SOCRATES. 79 SECTION XIII. THE PARTIAL DISCIPLES OF SOCRATES. 1. Their relation to the Socratic Philosophy. — Soc- rates' death was the means of transfoi'ming his life into a universal or ideal t3-pe, which in various directions became the inspiring principle of philosophic progress. It is just this recognition of Socrates as an ideal type which constitutes the common characteristic of the immediatel}^ succeeding Socratic schools. That man ought to be guided b}' a uni- versal, absolutel}' true aim is a necessaiy deduction from the Socratic principle that it is a man's duty to regulate and unify his action by means of conscious thought. But since for the solution of the problem, Wherein does this aim con- sist? there existed no completely developed Socratic doctrine, but onh' the tragically ended, man3'-sided Socratic life, every thing would necessarily be reduced to an individual estimate of Socrates' personal character, which would of course be judged differently b}' different persons. Socrates had many disciples but no school. Of these idealizations or reflections of the Socratic character, three have obtained a conspicuous place In histor}', — that of Antisthenes or the Cj'nic, that of Aristipjnis or the C3'renaic, and that of Euclid or the Mega- rian. These three estimates of Socrates, each of which indeed embodied a real element of the Socratic character, agree in positing as the true essence of this character disjoined and isolated elements, which in the master himself were combined in harmonious unity. The}" are, therefore, each of them one- sided and give a false picture of Socrates. For this, how- ever, the}' are not wholly responsible. The fact that Aris- tippus was obliged to turn back to Protagoras for a theory of cognition, and Euclid to the Eleatics for a metaph3-sic, shows clearly the undeveloped, unmethodical, subjective chai'- acter of Socrates' philosoph}'. The errors and one-sidedness 80 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. of these philosophers exliibit, in fact, onl^' the defects and weaknesses which adhered to the doctrines of their master. 2. Antistiienes and the Cynics. — As a strictly literal adherent of the doctrine of Socrates, and zealously though grossly, and often with caricature imitating his method, An- tisthenes stands nearest his master. In earl}' life a disciple of Gorgias, and himself a teacher of the Sophistic philosophy, he subsequently became an inseparable attendant of Socrates, after whose death he founded a school in the Cj'nosarges, whence his scholars and adherents took the name of C3'nics, though according to others this name was derived from their mode of life. The doctrine of Antisthenes is onl}' an abstract expression of the Socratic ideal of virtue. Like Socrates he considered a virtuous life to be the chief aim of man, to be necessary to and alone sufficient for happiness : like Socrates also he assei-ted virtue to be insight or accurate knowledge, and therefore to be teachable and one ; but the ideal of virtue as he had beheld it in the person of Socrates was realized, in his estimation, onl}' in the absence of ever}' desire (in his appearance he imitated a beggar with staff and scrip), and hence in the disregarding of all other intellectual interests ; virtue with him is onh' the avoidance of evil, i.e., of those desires and lusts which fetter us to wants and enjoj'ments, — and therefore has no need of dialectical demonstrations, but only of Socratic vigor ; the wise man, according to him, is self-sufficient, independent of ever}' thing, indifferent to mar- riage, famil}', societ}', and politics (a feature not at all charac- teristic of antiquit}') as also to wealth, honor, and enjo3'ment. In this ideal of Antisthenes, which is more negative than posi- tive, we miss entirel}' the genial humanit}' and the universal susceptibility of his master, and still more a cultivation of those fruitful dialectic elements which the Socratic philoso- phizing contained. With a more decided contempt for all knowledge, and a still greater scorn of all the customs of societ}', the later Cynicism became frequently a repulsive and shameful caricature of the Socratic spirit. This was espe- THE PARTIAL DISCIPLES OF SOCRATES. 81 ciall}' the case with Diogenes of Sinope, the onh* one of his disciples whom Antisthenes suffered to remain with him. In their high estimation of virtue and philosophy' these Cj'nics, who have been suital)ly stjled the Capuchins of the Grecian world, preserved a trace of the original Socratic philosophy, but they sought virtue "in the shortest wa\'," in a life ac- cording to nature as they themselves expressed it, that is, in shutting out the outer world, in attaining a complete inde- pendence, and absence of ever}' need, and in renouncing art and science as well as ever}- definite aim. The wise man, the}' said, should be master of all his wants and desires, with- out weakness, free from the restraints of civil law and cus- tom, — co-equal with the gods. An easy life, said Diogenes, is assigned by the gods to that man who limits himself to his necessities, and this true philosophy may be attained by every one, through perseverance and the power of self-denial. Phi- losophy and philosophical interest there is none in this school of beggars. All that is related of Diogenes are anecdotes and sarcasms. We see here how the ethics of the Cynic school lost itself in entirely negative statements, a consequence naturally re- sulting from the fact that the original Socratic conception of virtue lacked a concrete positive content, and was not syste- matically carried out. Cynicism is the negative side of the Soci'atic doctrine. 3. Aristippus and the Cyrenaics. — Aristippus of Cyrene, numbered till the death of Socrates among his adherents, is represented by Aristotle as a Sophist, and with propriety, since he received money for his instructions. He appears in Xenophon as a man devoted to pleasure. The adroitness with which he adapted himself to every circumstance, and the knowledge of human nature by which in every condition he knew how to provide means to satisfy his desire for good living and luxury, were notorious among the ancients. He kept himself aloof from the cares of government that he might not become dependent ; he spent most of his time abroad in 6 82 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. order to free himself from every restraint ; he made it his rule that circumstances should be dependent upon him, while he should be independent of them. Though such a man seems little worth}' of the name of a Socratic, yet has he two points of contact with his master which should not be overlooked. Socrates had called virtue and happiness coordinatel}" the highest end of man, i.e., he had maintained most strenuousl}' the idea of moral action ; but because he stated this in an undeveloped and abstract form, he was only able in concrete cases to establish the obligation of the moral law in a utili- tarian way, b\' appealing to the benefit resulting from the practice of virtue. This side of the Socratic principle Aris- tippus adopted for his own, affirming that pleasure is the ultimate end of life, and the highest good. Moreover, this pleasure, as Aristippus regards it, is not happiness as a con- dition embracing the whole life, but onh' immediate, particu- lar sensations of physical pleasure ; moreover to him all moral restrictions and duties are, in comparison with this pleas- ure, of no account ; nothing which gives pleasure is wicked, shameful, or godless ; what opposes it is mere opinion and prejudice (as with the Sophists) . But in that Aristippus recommends knowledge, self-government, temperance, the power of subjugating individual desires, and general intellec- tuaJ culture as means for acquiring and preserving enjoj'ment, he shows that the Socratic spirit was not 3'et wholly extin- guished within him, and that the name of pseudo-Socratic which Schleiermacher gives him, hardl}- belongs to him. The remaining philosophers of the Cyrenaic school, Theo- clorus, Hegesias, Anniceris, can be onl}' briefl}^ mentioned. The further development of this school consists in the more accurate definition of the pleasure to be aimed at, i.e., in answers to the questions whether it is a momentarj' state (a momentary sensation) or a permanent condition, and whether it is spiritual or plwsical, positive or negative (i.e., the mere absence of pain). Tlieodorus declared that enjoj'ment to be the highest which the mind receives from its insight, from its THE PARTIAL DISCIPLES OF SOCRATES. 83 capacity for rational, unprejudiced self-direction in all the relations of life. Hegesias found a pure life of pleasure unat- tainable, and therefore not to be sought after. Prevention of pain, and the exertion of every facult}', is, according to him, the aim of the sage, the onl^' aim, indeed, which is left to man, life being so full of evils. And, lastly', Anniceris taught, that a complete withdrawal from family and social relations is impossible, but that the true aim is rather to draw from action as much pleasure as possible, and to take the occasional pain which accompanies our efforts for our friends and our countr}', as a part of the bargain ; i.e., he sought to adjust the doctrine of pleasure to those requirements and relations of life to which it stood in such irreconcilable oppo- sition. 4. Euclid and the Megarians. — The union of the dia- lectical and the ethical is a common characteristic of all the partial Socratic schools ; the difference consists only in this, that in one the ethical is made to do service to the dialectical, while, in another, the dialectical stands in subjection to the ethical. The former is especiall}' true of the Megarian school, whose essential peculiaritj^ was stated by the ancients them- selves to be a combination of the Socratic and Eleatic prin- ciples. The idea of the good is for ethics what the idea of being is for ph^'sics ; it was, therefore, onl}' a Socratic trans- formation of the Eleatic doctrine when Euclid of Megara asserted that only that which exists, which is self-identical and one with itself is good (absolutel}' true), and that this good alone is ; while whatever is opposed to the good, what- ever is changeable, manifold, and divisible is merely appar- ent. This self-identical good, however, is not sensuous but intellectual good, truth, reason ; it is, moreover, for man the only good. Later the Megarian Stilpo taught that the only true aim is rationality, knowledge, and a complete, apathetic indifference to ever}' thing which has nothing in common with the knowledge of the good. This again was an exaggeration of the Socratic tendenc}' to reflection, with the accompanying 84 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. peace of mind, and is onl}^ a more refined, more spiritual Cynicism. What is farther related of Euclid is meagre and ma}^ here l^e omitted. The Megarian school was kept up under different leaders after his death, but without vital power, and without an independent principle of organic de- velopment. As hedonism (the philosophical doctrine of the Cyrenaics that pleasure is the chief good) led the wa}' to the doctrine of Epicurus, and cynicism was the bridge toward the Stoic, so the later Megaric eristic formed the transition to scepticism. Its sophistries and paralogisms, which were, for the most part, its polemic, in the st3'le of Zeno, against sensuous conception and experience, were widely known and noted among the ancients. 5. Plato, as the complete Socratic. — The attempts thus far to build upon the foundation of the Socratic doctrine, started without a vigorous germinating principle, and ended fruitless^. Plato was the only one of his scholars who has approached and represented the whole Socrates. Starting from the Socratic idea of knowledge he brought into one focus the scattered elements and raj's of truth which could be collected from his master or from the philosophers preced- ing him, and gave to philosoph}' a systematic completeness. The doctrine that thought is the true being, the only actual, had been apprehended by the Megarians onl}' abstractl}^ and had been enounced by Socrates himself onl}- as a principle ; cognition b}^ means of conceptions remained with him merel}' an undeveloped postulate. His philosophy is not a system, but onl}' the first impulse towaixl a philosophical development and method. Plato is the first who has approached a syste- matic representation and development of absolutel}'^ true con- ceptions, of the ideal world. The Platonic S3stem is Socrates objectified, the blending and reconciling of preceding philosophy. PLATO. 85 SECTION XIV. PLATO. 1. Plato's Life. 1. His Youth. — Plato, the son of Ariston, of a noble Attic family, was born in the year 429 B.C. It was the j'ear of the death of Pericles, the second year of the Peloponnesian war, so fatal to Athens. Born in the centre of Grecian culture and industry, and descended from an old and noble famil}^ he received a corresponding education, although no information in regard to this has been transmitted to us, except the insignificant names of his teach- ers. That the 30uth growing up under such circumstances should choose the seclusion of a philosophic life rather than a political career may seem strange, since many and favor- able opportunities for the latter course lay open before him. Critias, one of the thirty t3rants, was the cousin of his mother, and Charmides, who subsequently, under the oli- garchic rule at Athens, met his death at the hands of Thrasy- bulus on the same da}' with Critias, was his uncle. Notwith- standing this, he is never known to have appeared a single time as a public speaker in the assembly of the people. In view of the rising degeneracy and increasing political corrup- tion of his native land, he was too proud to court for himself the favor of the man3--headed Demos ; and more attached to Doricism than to the democracy and practice of the Attic public life, he chose to make science his chief pursuit, rather than as a patriot to struggle in vain against unavoidable dis- aster, and become a mart^T to his political opinions. He regarded the Athenian state as lost, and to hinder its inevi- table ruin he would not bring a useless offering. 2. His Years of Discipline. — A youth of twent}', Plato came to Socrates, in whose intercourse he spent eight j'ears. Besides a few doubtful anecdotes, nothing is known of this portion of his history. In Xenophon's Memorabilia (III. 6) 86 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. Plato is onlj' once cursoril}- mentioned, but tliis in a wa}' that indicates an intimate relation between the scholar and his master. Plato himself in his dialogues has transmitted noth- ing concerning his personal relations to Socrates ; only once (Phced., p. 59) he names himself among the intimate friends of Socrates. But the influence which Socrates exerted upon him, how he recognized in him the complete representation of a wise man, how he found not onl^' in his doctrine but also in his life and action the most fruitful philosophic germs, the significance which the personal character of his master as an ideal t3pe had for him — all this we learn with sufficient accu- racy from his writings, where he places his own incomparably more dcA^eloped philosophical system in the mouth of his master, whom he makes the centre of his dialogues and the leader of his discourses. 3. His Years of Travel. — After the death of Socrates, 399 B.C., in the thirtieth year of his age, Plato, fearing lest he also should be met by the incoming reaction against phi- losophy, left, in company' with other Socratics, his native city, and betook himself to Euclid, his former fellow-scholar, the founder of the Megaric school (cf. Sect. XIII. 4) at Megara. Up to this time a pure Socratic, he became greatly animated and energized by his intercourse with the Megarians, among whom a peculiar philosophical direction, a modification of Socraticism, was alread}' asserted. We shall see farther on the influence of this residence at Megara upon the foundation of his philosophy, and especiall}' upon the elaboration and dialectical confirmation of his doctrine of Ideas. One whole period of his literary activity' and an entire group of his dia- logues, can onl}' be satisfactorily explained by the intellectual stimulus gained at this place. From Megara, Plato visited Cj'rene, Egypt, Magna-Grecia, and Sicily-. In Magna-Grecia he became acquainted with the Pythagorean philosoph}', which was then in its highest bloom. His al)ode among the P3thago- reans had a marked effect upon him ; as a man it made hiin more practical, and increased his zest for life and his interest PLATO. 87 in public life and social intercourse ; as a philosopher it fur- nished him with a new incitement to science, and new motives to literary labor. The traces of the Pythagorean philosophy may be seen through all the last period of his literary life ; especiall}- his aversion to public and political life was greatly softened by his intercourse Avith the Pythagoreans. AVhile in the Theatcetus, he affirmed most positively the incompatibility of philosophy with public life, we find in his later dialogues, especially in the Republic and also in the Statesman — upon which P3'thagoreanism seems already' to have had an influ- ence — a returning favor for the actual world, and the well- known statement that the ruler must be a philosopher is an expression very characteristic of this change. His visit to Sicily gave him the acquaintance of the elder Dionysius and Dion his brother-in-law, but the philosopher and the t^'rant had little in common. Plato is said to have incurred his displeasure to so high a degree, that his life was in danger. After about ten ^ears spent in travel, he returned to Athens in the fortieth year of his age (389 or 388 b.c.) 4. Plato as Head of the Academy ; His Years of In- struction.— On his return, Plato surrounded himself with a circle of pupils. The place where he taught was known as the Academy, a g3'mnasium outside of Athens where Plato had inherited a garden from his father. Of his school and of his later life, we have only the most meagre accounts. His life passed evenly along, interrupted onl}- by a second and third visit to Sicily, where meanwhile the jounger Diony- sius had come to the throne. This second and third resi- dence of Plato at the court of Syracuse abounds in vicissi- tudes, and shows us the philosopher in a great variet}- of circumstances (c/. Plutarch's Life of Dion) ; but to us, in estimating his philosophical character, it is of interest only for the attempt, which, as seems probable from all accounts, he there made to realize his ideal of a state, and, b}' the phik)- sophical education of the new ruler, to unite philosoph}' and the reins of government in one and the same hand, or at least 88 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. in some way b}- means of philosoph}- to achieve a health^' change in the Sicilian state constitution, in an aristocratic direction. His efforts were howcA'er fruitless ; the circum- stances were not propitious, and the character of the }oung Dion3'sius, who was one of those mediocre natures who strive after renown and distinction, but are capable of nothing pro- found and earnest, deceived the expectations concerning him which Plato, from Dion's account, thought he had reason to entertain. When we look at Plato's philosophical labors in the Acad- emy, we are struck with the different relations to jDublic life which philosophy had alread}' assumed. Instead of canying philosophy', like Socrates, into the streets and public places, and making it there a subject of social conversation with an}- one who desired it, he hved and labored entirely withdrawn from the movements of the public, satisfied to influence the disciples who surrounded him. In proportion as philosoph}' becomes a system, and systematic form is seen to be essen- tial, it loses its popular character and begins to demand pre- paratory scientific training, and to become a topic for the school, an esoteric affair. Yet such was the respect for the name of philosopher, and especiall}' for the name of Plato, that requests were made to him by different states to compose for them a code of laws, a work which in some instances it was said he actually performed. Attended by a retinue of de- voted disciples, among whom were even women disguised as men, and receiving reiterated demonstrations of respect, he reached the age of eighty-one years, with his powers of mind unweakened to the latest moment. The close of his life seems to have been clouded b}' dis- turbances and divisions which arose in his school, and for which Aristotle was mainl}' responsible. While engaged in writing, or as others state, at a marriage feast, death came upon him as a gentle sleep, 348 B.C. His remains were buried in the Ceramicus, not far from the Academy. PLATO. ' 89 II, The Inner Development of the Platonic Philoso- phy AND Writings. — That the Platonic philosophy is essen- tially a development ; in other words, that it should not be apprehended as a perfectly finished system to which the dif- ferent writings stand related as constituent elements, but that these are rather stages of its inner development, stages as it were passed over in the philosophical journeyings of the philosopher — is a view of the highest importance for the true estimate of Plato's literary labors. Plato's philosophical and literary labors may be divided into three periods, which we can characterize in various wa3'S. Looking at them chronologically or biographically, we might call them respectively the periods of his years of discipline, of travel, of instruction ; or, if we view them in reference to the prevailing external influence under which they were formed, they might be termed the Socratic, Heraclitic-Eleatic, and the Pythagorean ; or, if we looked at the content alone, we might term them the antisophistic-ethic, the dialectic or mediating, and the sjstematic or constructive periods. The First Period — the Socratic — is marked externally by the predominance of the dramatic element, and in refer- ence to its philosophical standpoint, bj' an adherence to the method and the fundamental principles of the Socratic doc- trine. Not yet accurately informed of the results of former inquiries, and rather repelled from the study of the history of philosophy than attracted to it by the character of the So- cratic philosophizing, Plato confined himself to an analytical treatment of conceptions, particularly of the conception of virtue, and to a reproducing of his master, which, though something more than a mere recital of verbal recollections, had yet no jDhilosophical independence. His Socrates ex- hibits the same view of life and the same scientific standpoint which the historical Socrates of Xenophon had had. His efforts were thus, like those of his contemporary fellow dis- ciples, directed prominently toward practical wisdom. His struggles, like those of Socrates, were rather with the pre- 90 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. vailing want of science and the shallow sophisms of the day than with the antagonistic tendencies of science. The whole period bears an eclectic and hortatory character. The high- est point in which the dialogues of this group culminate is the attempt, which at the same time is found in the Socratic doctrine, to determine the certainty of an absolute content the absolute existence (objective reality) of the good. The history of the development of the Platonic philosophj- would assume a very different form if the view of some mod- ern scholars respecting the date of the Phcedrus were correct. If, as they claim, the Phcedrus were Plato's earliest work, this circumstance would betray from the outset an entirely different course of culture for him than we could suppose in a mere scholar of Socrates, The doctrine in this dialogue of the pre-existence of souls, and their periodical transmigra- tions, of the relation of earthly beauty with heavenl}^ truth, of divine inspiration in contrast to human wisdom, the con- ception of love, the Pythagorean ingredients, are all so dis- tinct from the original Socratic doctrine that we must transfer the most of that which Plato creatively' produced during his whole philosophical career, to the beginning of his philosophi- cal development. The improbability of this, and numerous other grounds of objection, claim a far later composition for this dialogue. Setting aside for the present the Phcedrus, tlie Platonic development assumes the following form : The earliest of his works (if they are genuine) are the small dialogues which treat of Socratic questions and themes in a Socratic way. Of these, e.g., the Charmides discusses tem- perance, the Lysis friendship, the Laches valor, the lesser Hippias knowing and wilful wrong-doing, the first Alcibiades the moral and intellectual qualifications of a statesman, etc. The immaturity and the crudeness of these dialogues, the use of scenic means which have only an external relation to the content, the scantiness and want of independence in the con- tent, the manner of investigation which is indirect and lacks a satisfactory and positive result, the formal and analytical PLATO. 91 treatment of the conceptions discussed — all these features indicate the earl}' character of these minor dialogues. The Protagoras maj^ be taken as a proper t3"pe of the Socratic period. Since this dialogue, though directing its whole polemic against the Sophistic philosophy, confined it- self almost exclusivel}' to the outward manifestation of this s^'stem, to its influence on its age and its method of instruc- tion in opposition to that of Socrates, without entering into the ground and philosophical character of the doctrine itself; and, still farther, since, when it comes in a strict sense to philosophize, it confines itself to an indirect investigation of the Socratic conception of virtue according to its different aspects (virtue as knowledge, its unit}' and its teachableness, cf. Sect. XII. 8), — it represents in the clearest manner the tendency, character, and defects of the first period of Plato's literary life. The Gorgias written soon after the death of Socrates, rep- resents the third and highest stage of this period. Directed against the Sophistical identification of pleasure and virtue, of the good and of the agreeable, i.e., against the affirmation of an absolute moral relativity, this dialogue attempts to prove that the good, far from owing its origin only to the right of the stronger, and thus to the arbitrariness of the sub- ject, has in itself an independent realit}' and objective valid- it}', and, consequently, alone is truly useful, and that, there- fore, the standard of pleasure must be subordinate to the higher standard of the good. In this direct and positive polemic against the Sophistic doctrine of pleasure, in its ten- dency to view the good as something firm and abiding, and secure against all subjective arbitrariness, consists primarily the advance which the Gorgias makes bej'ond the Protagoras. In the first Socratic period the Platonic philosophizing be- came ripe and ready for the reception of Eleatic and Pythago- rean categories. To grapple b}' means of these categories with the higher questions of philosoph}', and so to free the Socratic philosophy' from its close connection with practical life, was the problem of the second period. 92 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. The Second Period — the dialectic or the Megaric — is marked externall}-, by a less prominence of form and poetic coloring, and not unfrequently indeed, b}^ obscurit}' and diffi- culties of style, and internally, by the attempted mediation with the Eleatics through the complete exposition and dialec- tical establishment of the doctrine of ideas. By his exile at Megara, and his journeys to Ital}-, Plato became acquainted with other and opposing philosophical tendencies, with which he was obliged to come to an under- standing in order to elcA^ate the Socratic doctrine to its true significance. It was now that he first learned to know the philosophic theories of the earlier sages, for the study of which the necessary means could not at that period, so want- ing in literary publicity-, be found at Athens. Through his comprehension of these varying standpoints, as his older follow pupils had already striven to do, he attempted, over- stepping the naiTow limits of ethical philosophizing, to reach the final ground of knowledge, and to perfect the art of gene- ralization as brought forward by Socrates to a science of conceptions, i.e., to the doctrine of ideas. That all human action rests upon knowledge, and all thinking upon concep- tions, were results to which Plato might alread}' have attained through the scientific generalization of the Socratic doctrine itself; but now to bring this Socratic wisdom within the circle of speculative thought, to establish dialectically that the con- ception in its simple unity is that which abides in the change of phenomena, to disclose the fundamental principles of knowledge which had been evaded by Socrates, to grasp the scientific theories of opponents immediately' in their scientific grounds, and follow them out in all their ramifications, — this is the problem which the Megaric group of dialogues attempts to solve. The Theatcetus stands at the head of this group. It is chiefly directed against the Protagorean theory' of knowledge, against the identification of thought and sensuous perception, or against the claim of an absolute relativity of all knowl- PLATO. 93 edge. As the Gorgias before it had sought to estabhsh the independent being of the ethical, so does the Theatcetus, ascending from the ethical to the theoretical, endeavor to pi'ove an independent being and objective reality for the logi- cal conceptions which lie at the ground of all representation and thinking, in a word, to prove the objectivity of truth, the fact that there lies a sphere of knowledge immanent in thought and independent of the perceptions of the senses. These conceptions, whose objective realit}' is thus affirmed, are those of a species, likeness and unlikeness, identit}' and difference, etc. The Theatcetus is followed by the trilogy of the Sophist, the Statesman, and the Philosopher, which completes the Megaric group of dialogues. The first of these dialogues examines the conception of appearance, that is of the not-being, the last (represented b}^ the Parmenides) the conception of being. Both dialogues are attempts at a reconciliation with the Eleatic doctrine. After Plato had recognized the unit}' of thought and the logical categories as that which is permanent amid the alterations of phenomena, his attention was natu- rally' turned towards the Eleatics, who in an opposite wa}' had attained the similar result that in unity consists all true substantiality, and to multiplicit}^ as such no true being belongs. In order more easily on the one side to carry out this fundamental thought of the Eleatics to its legitimate re- sult, in which the Megarians had already preceded him, he was obliged to elevate his abstract conceptions of species, i.e., ideas to the position of metaphysical substances. But on the other side, he could not agree with the inflexibilit}' and exclusiveness of the Eleatic unity without wholl}^ sacrificing the multiplicitj' of things ; he was rather obliged to attempt to show b}^ a dialectic development of the Eleatic principle that the one must be at the same time a totalit}^ organically connected, and embracing multiplicity in itself. This double relation to the Eleatic principle is carried out b}" the Sophist and the Parmenides; by the former polemically against the 94 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. Eleatic doctrine, in tliat it proves the being of the appearance or the not-being, ^■.e., demonstrates the multiphcity of ideas and their antitlietical cliaracter (which arises from the mutual negation of opposites) ; and by the latter ironicall}', in that it reduces the Eleatic one b}' its own logical consequences to a manifold. The inner progress of the doctrine of Ideas in the Megaric group of dialogues is therefore this, viz., that the Theatoetus, in opposition to the Heraclitico-Protagorean theor}' of the absolute becoming, affirms the objective and indepen- dent realit}' of ideas, and the So2)hist shows their reciprocal relation and power of combination, while the Parmenides in fine exhibits their whole dialectic complex, their relation to the phenomenal world, and their self-mediation with the latter. The Third Period begins with the return of the philoso- pher to his native cit}'. It unites the completeness of form belonging to the first with the profounder philosophical con- tent of the second. The memories of his 3'outhfal 3ears seem at this time to have risen anew before the soul of Plato, and to have imparted again to his literaiy activitj- the long lost freshness and fulness of that period, while at the same time his abode in foreign lands, and especially his acquaintance with the Pj-thagorean philosoph}', had greatlj' enriched his mind with a store of images and ideals. This reviving of old memories is seen in the fact that the writings of this group return with fondness to the pei'sonality of Socrates, and rep- resent in a certain degi^ee the whole philosoph}- of Plato as the exaltation of the doctrine and the ideal embodiment of the historical character of his earl}' master. In opposition to both of the first two periods, the third is marked exter- nally b}' an excess of the m3'thical form together with the growing influence of P^thagoreanism in this period, and iu- ternall}' by the application of the doctrine of ideas to the concrete spheres of ps3'chology, ethics, and natural science. That ideas possess objective reality, and are the foundation of all essentialit}' and truth, while the phenomena of the sen- PLATO. 95 sible "world are onl}' copies of these, was a tlieoiy whose vin- dication was no longer attempted, but which was presupposed as already proved, and as forming a dialectical basis for the pursuit of the different branches of science. With this was connected a tendency to unite the hitherto separate branches of science into a S3'stematic whole, as well as to fuse together the previous philosophical developments, i.e., the Socratic ethics, the Eleatic dialectic, and the Pythagorean physics. Upon this standpoint, the Phcednis, Plato's inaugui'al to his labors in the Academ}', together with the Symposium, which is closel}' connected with it (both proceeding from the conception of love as the true originating impulse to philoso- ph}') attempts to subject the rhetorical theory and practice of that time to a thorough criticism, in order to show in opposition to this theor}' and practice that onl}' in an exclu- sive reference to the idea, the true Eros, is found that con- scious certaint}' and distinctness of a scientific principle which is the only means of escaping arbitrariness, absence of principle, and crudeness. On the same standpoint the Phcedo attempts to prove the immortality of the soul from the doctrine of ideas ; the Philebus to examine the concep- tions of pleasure and the highest good in the light of the highest categories of the system ; and finall}' the Repuhlic and Timceus, which are his latest works, to unfold the essence of the state and of nature, of the ph^'sical and spiritual uni- verse. Having thus sketched the inner development of the Pla- tonic philosoph}', we now turn to a sj'stematic statement of its principles. III. Classification of the Platonic System. — The phi- losophy of Plato, as left by himself, is without a systematic statement, and has no comprehensive principle of classifi- cation. He has given us onh' the histor}' of his thought, the statement of his philosophical development ; we are there- fore limited in this regard to simple intimations. Accord- ingly, some have divided the Platonic S3'stem into theoretical 96 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. and practical science, and others into a philosoph}' of the good, the beautiful, and the true. Another classification, which has some support in old records, is more correct. Some of the ancients sa^' that Plato was the first to unite in one whole the scattered philosophical elements of the earlier sages, and so to obtain for philosophy the three parts, logic, physics, and ethics. The more accurate statement is given by Sextus Empiricus, that Plato laid the foundation for this threefold division of philosoph}', but that it was first expressl}' recognized and affirmed by his scholars, Xenocrates and Aris- totle. The Platonic S3'stem ma}', however, without difficulty, be divided into these three parts. True, there are many dia- logues which combine in different proportions the logical, the ethical, and the physical element, and though even where Plato treats of some special discipline, the three are suffered constantl}' to interpenetrate each other, still there are some dialogues in which this fundamental scheme can be clearl}' recognized. It cannot be mistaken that the Timceus is pre- dominantly physical, and the Republic as decidedl}' ethical, and if dialectic is expi-essly represented in no separate dia- logue, 3'et the whole Megaric group which closes with the Par7nenicles, and which was expressly declared by Plato to be a connected tetralogy' , pursues the common end of bringing out the conception of science and its true object, being, and is, therefore, in its content decidedly dialectical. Plato must have been led to this threefold division b}' even the earlier de- velopment of philosoph}', and since Xenocrates would scarcely have invented it, and Aristotle presupposes it as universally admitted, we need not scruple to make it the basis on which to present the Platonic system. The order which these different parts should take, Plato himself has not declared. Manifestly, however, dialectic should have the first place as the ground of all philosoph}', since Plato uniformly directs that every philosophical inves- tigation should begin with accurately determining the idea (Phced., p. 99 ; Phcedi'., p. 237), while he subsequently exam- PLATO. 97 ines all the concrete spheres of science from the standpoint of the doctrine of ideas. The relative position of the other two parts is not so clear. ' Since, however, ph^'sics culminates in ethi-cs, and ethics, on the other hand, has for its basis physical investigations into the animating principle of nature, we may assign the precedence to physics. The mathematical sciences Plato has expressl}- excluded from philosophy. He considers them as helps to philosophi- cal thinking {Rep. VII. 526) , as necessar}' steps of knowledge, without which no one can come to philosophy (76. VI. 510) ; but mathematics with him is not itself philosoph}', for it assumes its principles or axioms, without at all accounting for them, as though they were manifest to all, a procedure which is not permitted to pure science ; it also for its demon- strations avails itself of illustrative figures, although it does not treat of these, but of that which the^^ represent to the understanding (lb.). Plato thus places mathematics mid- way between a correct opinion and science, clearer than the one, but moi-e obscure than the other. (lb. VII. 533.) IV. The Platonic Dialectic. 1. Conception op Dia- lectic. — The conception of dialectic or logic, is used by the ancients for the most part in a veiy wide sense, while Plato employs it in repeated instances interchangeabl}^ with phi- losoph}', though at other times he treats it also as a separate branch of philosophy. He distinguishes it from physics as the science of the eternal and unchangeable from the science of the changeable, which never is, but is only ever becoming ; he distinguishes also between it and ethics, so far as the latter treats of the good not absolutely, but in its concrete exhibi- tion in . morals and in the state ; so that dialectic ma}^ be termed philosoph}' in a higher sense, while physics and ethics follow it as two less exact sciences, or as a not yet perfected philosoph}'. Plato himself defines dialectic, according to the ordinary signification of the woixl, as the art of evolving knowledge conversationall}' by questions and answers (Rep. VII. 534) . But since the art of communicating correctly in 7 98 A HTSTOr.Y OF PHILOSOPHY. dialogue is, according to Plato, at the same time the art of thinking correctly, for thinking and speaking could not be separated by the ancients, but every process of thought was a living dialogue, Plato would more accuratel}' define dialectic as the science which brings speech to a correct issue, and which combines or separates the species, i.e., the conceptions of things correetl}' (iS'op/i., p. 253; Phcedr., p. 2G6). Dia- lectic with him has two divisions, to know what can and what cannot be connected, and to know how division or combina- tion can be accomplished. But as with Plato these concep- tions of species or ideas are the onl}' actual and true exist- ence, so have we, in entire conformity with this, a third definition of dialectic which is quite frequentl}' employed by him (Philebus, p. 57), namel}-, the science of being, the science of that which is true and unchangeable, the science of all other sciences. We ma}' therefore briefl}' characterize it as the science of absolute being or of ideas. 2. What is Science? (1) As opposed to senscdion and sensuous conception. — The Theatcetus is devoted to the dis- cussion of this question in opposition to the Protagorean sensualism. That all knowledge consists in perception, and that the two are one and the same thing, was the Protago- rean proposition. From this it followed, as Protagoras him- self had inferred, that things are as they appear to me, that perception or sensation is infallible. But since perception and sensation are infinitel}^ diversified with diflTerent indi- viduals, and even vary greatl}- at different times in the same individual, it follows farther, that no determinations and predicates are objective, that we can never affirm wdiat a thing is in itself, that all conceptions, great, small, light, heavy, to increase, to diminish, etc., have onl}' a relative sig- nificance, and consequently that general conceptions, since they are combinations of the changeful man}-, are wholly wanting in constancy and stability. In opposition to this Protagorean thesis, Plato urges the following objections and contradictions. First, The Protagorean doctrine leads to PLATO. 99 the most startling consequences. If being and appearance, knowledge and perception are one and the same thing, then is the irrational brute, which is capable of perception, as fully entitled to be called the measure of all tilings, as man, and if representation, as the expression of my subjective state at a given time is infallible, then need there be no more instruc- tion, no more scientific conclusion, no more strife, and no more refutation. Second, Tlie Protagorean doctrine is a logical contradiction ; for according to it Protagoras must ^ield the question to ever}* one who disputes with him, since, as he himself affirms, no one is incorrect, but all perceptions and conceptions are equally true ; the pretended truth of Protagoras is therefore true for no man, not even for him- self. Third, Protagoras destro3's the knowledge of future events. That which is regarded as profitable b}- me does not because I so regard it necessaril}' prove itself such in the result. To determine that which is reall}' profitable im- plies a calculation of the future, but since the abilit}' of men to form such a calculation is very diverse, it follows from this that not man as such, but only the wise man can be the measure of things. Fourth, The theory of Protagoras de- stro3's perception itself. Perception, according to hhn, rests upon a distinction of the perceived object and the perceiving subject, and is the common product of the two. But in his view the objects are in such an uninterrupted flow, that the}' can neither become fixed in seeing nor in hearing. This condition of constant change renders all knowledge from sense, and hence (the identity of the two being assumed), all knowledge in general impossible. Fifth, Protagoras over- looks the a priori element in knowledge. It is seen in an anal3'sis of the sense-perception itself, that all knowledge cannot be traced to the activity of the senses, but that there must also be presupposed besides these, intellectual func- tions, and hence an independent province of supersensible knowledge. We see with the ej'es, and hear with the ears, but to group together the perceptions attained through these 100 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. different organs, and to* hold them fast in the unit}' of self- eonsciousness, is Ijeyond the power of the activitj' of the senses. Again, we compare the different sense-perceptions with one another, a function wliich cannot belong to the senses, since each sense can only furnish its own distincti\e perception. Still farther, we bring forward determinations respecting the perceptions which we manifestl}- cannot owe to the senses, in that we predicate of these perceptions, being and not-being, likeness and unlikeness, etc. These determinations, to which also belong the beautiful and the odious, good and evil, constitute a peculiar province of knowledge, which the soul, independently of ever}' sense- perception, brings forward through its own independent ac- tivity. The ethical consequences of this Protagorean doctrine are also exhibited by Plato, in other dialogues, b}- his i)olemic against sensualism. He maintains (in the Sophist), that men holding such opinions must be improved before the}' can be instructed, and that when made morally better, they will readily recognize the truth of the soul and its moral and rational capacities, and affirm that these are real things, though objects of neither sight nor of feeling. (2) The Relation of Knoivledge to Opinion. — Opinion is just as little identical with knowledge as is sense-perception. An incorrect opinion is certainly different from knowledge, and a correct one is not identical with it, for it can be engen- dered by the art of speech without therefore attaining the validity of true knowledge. Correct opinion, so far as it is true in matter though imperfect in form, stands rather mid- way between knowing and not-knowing, and participates in both. (3) The Relation of Science to Thonght. — In opposition to the Protagorean sensualism, there has been already estab- lished an energy of the soul independent of sensuous per- ception and sensation, competent in itself to examine the universal, and gi-asp true being in thought. There is, there- 'x)re, a double source of knowledge, sensation and conception, PLATO. 101 and rational thinking. Sensation refers to that which Is con- ceived in a constant becoming and perpetual change, to the pure momentary, which is in an incessant transition from the was, through the now, into the shall be {Parm.^ p. 152) ; it is, therefore, the source of dim, impure, and uncertain knowl- edge ; thought on the other hand refers to the abiding, which neither becomes nor departs, but remains ever the same. (Thn., p. 51.) Existence, sa^'s the Timmus (p. 27), is of two kinds, "that which ever is but has no becoming, and that which ever becomes but never is. The one kind, which is alwa3'S in the same state, is comprehended through reflec- tion by the reason, the other, v/liich becomes and departs, but never properly is, ma}' be apprehended by sensuous per- ception without the reason." True science, therefore, flows alone from that pure and thoroughly* internal acti\'ity of the soul which is free from all corporeal qualities and every sen- suous disturbance. (P/tcecL, p. 65.) In this state the soul looks upon things purely as they are {Phced., p. 66) in their eternal nature and unchangeable condition. Hence the true state of the philosopher is announced in the Phcedo (p. 64), to be a willingness to die, a longing to fl}' from the body, as from a hindrance to true knowledge, and become pure spirit. According to all this, science is the thinking of true being or of ideas ; the means to discover and to know these ideas, or the organ for their apprehension is dialectic, or the art of separating and combining conceptions ; the true objects of dialectic are ideas. 3. The Doctrine of Ideas in its Genesis. — The Platonic doctrine of ideas is the common product of the Socratic method of forming conceptions, the Heraclitic doctrine of absolute becoming, and the Eleatic doctrine of absolute be- ing. To the first of these Plato owes the idea of knowledge through conceptions, to the second the recognition of the sensuous as mere becoming, to the third the positing of a sphere of absolute reality. Elsewhere (in the Philebus) Plato connects the doctrine of ideas with the Pythagorean thought 102 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY that every thing may be formed from unity and multiplicit}-, from tlie limit and the unlimited. The aim of the Theatadus, the SopJdst, and the Parmenides is to determine its relations to the principles of the Eleatics and Heraclitics ; this is effected in the Theaketus by combating directly the principle of an absolute becoming, in the Sojyhist by combating directly the principle of abstract being, and in the Parmenides ironi- cally b}' taking up the Eleatic one and showing its true rela- tions. We have already' spoken of the Theatcetiis ; we ■will now look for the development of the doctrine of ideas in the Sojyhist and Parmenides. The ostensible end of the former of these dialogues is to show that the Sophist is reall}' but a caricature of the philoso- pher, but its true end is to establish the reality of phenomena, i.e., of the not-being, and to discuss speculatively the relation of being and not-being. The doctrine of the Eleatics ended with the rejection of all sensuous knowledge, declaring that the multiplicity of things, or the becoming, which we think we perceive, is in reality a mere appearance. In this there was clearly a contradiction ; the not-being was absolutely denied, and yet its existence in human thought was admitted. Plato at once draws attention to this contradiction, showing that a delusive opinion, which gives rise to a false image or repre- sentation, is not possible upon this theory which rests upon the assumption that the false, the not-true, i.e., not-being cannot even be thought. This, Plato continues, is the great difficulty in thinking of not-being, that both he who denies and he who affirms its reality is driven to contradict himself. For though it is inexpressible and inconceivable either as one or as many, still, when speaking of it, we must attribute to it both being and multiplicity-. If w^e admit that there is such a thing as a false opinion, we assume in this very fact the notion of not-being, for onlj- that opinion can be said to be false wdiich supposes either the not-being to be, or makes that, which is, not to be. In short, if there actually- exists a false notion, so does there actually and trul}' exist a not-being. PLATO. 103 After Plato had thus estabHshed the realit}* of not-being, he discusses the relation of being and not-being, /.e., the rela- tion of conceptions generally in their combinations and an- titheses. If not-being has no less realit}- than being, and being no more than not-being, if, therefore, e.g., the not-great is as trul}' real as the great, then everj' conception may in the same wa^^ be apprehended as one side of an antithesis, as being and not-being at the same time : it is a being in ref- erence to itself, as something identical with itself, but it is not-being in reference to ever}- one of the numberless other conceptions which can be referred to it, and with which, on account of its difference from them, it can have nothing in common. The conceptions of the same (rauroi/) and the differ- ent (Odnpov) represent the general form of an antithesis. These are the uniA'ersal formulae of combination for all con- ceptions. This reciprocal relation of conceptions as at the same time being and not-being, b}- virtue of which they can be arranged among themselves, forms the basis of the art of dialectic, which has to judge what conceptions can and what cannot be joined together. Plato illustrates this by taking the conceptions of being, motion (becoming) , and rest (existence) , and showing from them the results of the com- bination and reciprocal exclusion of ideas. The conceptions of motion and rest cannot well be joined together, though both of them may be joined with that of being ; the concep- tion of rest is therefore in reference to itself a being, but in reference to the conception of motion a not-being or different. Thus the Platonic doctrine of ideas, after having in the Tliea- tcetiis attained its general foundation in fixing the objective reality of conceptions, becomes now still farther developed in the Sophist to a doctrine of the community of conceptions, i.e., of their reciprocal subordination and co-ordination. The category which conditions these reciprocal relations is that of not-being or difference. This fundamental thought of the Sophist, that being is not without not-being and not-being is not without being, ma}' be expressed in modern phraseology 104 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. thus : negation is not not-being but determinateness, and on the other hand all determinateness and concreteness of con- ceptions, all affirmation arises onl}' through negation ; in other words the conception of contradiction is the soul of a philosophical method. The doctrine of ideas appears in the Parmenides as the positive consequence and progressive development of the Eleatic principle. Indeed in this dialogue, in that Plato makes Parmenides the chief speaker, he seems willing to allow that his doctrine is in substance that of the Eleatic sage. True, the fundamental thought of the dialogue — that the one is not conceivable in its complete singleness without the man}', nor the many without the one, that each neces- sarily presupposes and reciprocally conditions the other — stands in the most direct contradiction to Eleaticism. Yet Parmenides himself, b}- dividing his poem into two parts, and treating in the first of the one and in the second of the many, postulates an inner mediation between these two externally so disjointed parts of his philosophy, and in this respect the Platonic theory of ideas might give itself out as the farther elucidation, and the true sense of the Parmenidean philoso- phizing. This dialectical mediation between the one and the not-one or the many Plato now attempts in four antinomies, which have ostensibl}' only a negative result in so far as they show that contradictions arise both whether the one be adopted or rejected. The positive sense of these antinomies, though it can be gained only through inferences which Plato himself does not expressly utter, but leaves to be di'awn bj- the reader — is as follows. The first antinomj' shows that the one is inconceivable as such if it is onl}' apprehended in its abstract opposition to the many ; the second, that in this case also the reality of the many is inconceivable ; the third, that the one or the idea cannot be conceived as not-being, since there can be neither conception nor predicate of the absolute not-being, and since, if not-being is excluded from all fellowship with being, all becoming and departiiig, all PLATO. 105 similarity and difference, every representation and explana- tion of it must also be denied ; and lastlj', the fourth affirms that the not-one or the many cannot be conceived without the one or the idea. What now is Plato's aim in this dis- cussion of the dialectic relations between the conceptions of the one and the many? Would he use the conception of the one only as an example to explain his dialectic method with conceptions, or is the discussion of this conception itself the very object before him? Manifestly the latter, or the dialogue ends without result and without any inner connec- tion of its two parts. But how came Plato to make such a special investigation of this conception of the one? If we bear in mind that the Eleatics had already perceived the an- tithesis of the actual and the phenomenal world in the antith- esis of the one and the many, and that Plato himself had also regarded his ideas as the unity of the manifold, as the one and the same in the many — since he repeatedly uses ' ' idea " and " the one " in the same sense, and places {Reji. VII. 537) dialectic in the same rank with the faculty of reducing a manifold to unit}' — then is it clear that the one which is made an object of investigation in the Parmenides is the idea in its general sense, i.e., in its logical form, and that Plato consequently in the dialectic of the one and the many would represent the dialectic of the idea and the phenomenal world, or in other words would dialectically determine and establish the correct view of the idea as the unity in the manifoldness of the phenomenal. In that it is shown in the Parmenides^ on the one side, that the many cannot be conceived without the one, and on the other side, that the one must be some- thing which embraces in itself manifoldness, so liaA'e we the ready inference on the one side, that the phenomenal world, or the man}', has a true being only in so far as it has the one or the conception within it, and on the other side, that since the conception is not an abstract one but manifoldness in unit}', it must actually have manifoldness in unity in order to be able to be in the phenomenal world. The indirect re- 106 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. suit of the Parmenides is that matter as the infinitely divisible and undetermined mass has no actuality, but is in relation to the ideal world a not-being, and though the ideas as the true being are manifested in it, yet the idea itself is all that is actual in the appeai'ance or phenomena ; the plienomenal world derives its whole existence from the ideal world whicli appears in it, and has being only so far as it has a conception or idea for its content. 4. Positive Exposition of the Doctrine of Ideas. — Ideas ma}' be defined according to the different sides of their historical connection, as the common in the manifold, the universal in the particular, the one in the man}-, or the con- stant and abiding in the changing. Subjectively the}- are principles of knowledge which cannot be derived from expe- rience, the}' are the intuitively certain and innate regulators of cognition. Objectively the}^ are the immutable principles of being and of the phenomenal world, incorporeal and simple unities which have no relation to space, and which may be predicated of every thing which can in any way be posited as self-subsistent. The doctrine of ideas grew originall}- out of the desire to gain a definite conception of the inner essence of things, of what things are in themselves, to express by thought whatever of being is identical with thought, and to comprehend the real world as a harmoniously connected in- tellectual world. This desire for scientific knowledge Aris- totle cites expressl}' as the motive to the Platonic doctrine of ideas. "Plato," he says {Metaph. XIII. 4), "came to the doctrine of ideas because he was convinced of the truth of the Heraclitic view which regarded the sensible world as a ceaseless flowing and changing. His conclusion from this was, that if there be a science of an}- thing there must be, besides the sensible, other substances which have perma- nence, for there can be no science of the fleeting." It is, therefore, the idea of science which demands the reality of ideas, a demand which cannot be met unless Ideas or con- ceptions are also the ground of all being. This is the case PLATO. 107 with Plato. According to him there can be neither true knowledge nor true being without ideas and conceptions which have an independent reality'. What now does Plato mean by idea? From what has already been said it is clear that he means something more than ideal conceptions of the beautiful and the good. An idea is found, as the name itself (elSos) indicates, wherever a universal conception of a species or kind is found. Hence Plato speaks of the idea of a bed, table, strength, health, tone, color, ideas of simple relations and properties, ideas of mathematical figures, and even ideas of not-being, and of that, which in its essence is merely' a contradiction of the idea, baseness, and vice. In a word, we may put an idea wherever many things may be characterized by a common name {Rep. X. 596) : or as Aristotle expresses it {Met. XII. 3), Plato posits an idea for ever}- class of being. In this sense Plato expresses himself in the beginning of the Parme- nides. Parmenides asks the young Socrates what he calls ideas. Socrates answers b}' naming unconditionall}' the moral ideas, the ideas of the true, the beautiful, the good, and then after a little dela}* he mentions some physical ones, as the ideas of man, of fire, of water ; he will not allow ideas to be predicated of that which is onl}^ a formless mass, or which is a part of something else, as hair, mud, and clay, but in this he is answered by Parmenides, that if he would be fully imbued with philosophy, he must not consider such things as these to be wholly' despicable, but should look upon them as truly though remotely participating in the idea. Here at least the claim is asserted that no province of being is ex- cluded from the idea, that even that which appears most acci- dental and irrational is 3'et a part of rational knowledge, in fact that ever}' thing existing may be conceived as rational. 5. The relation of Ideas to the Piiexomenal World. — Analogous to the different definitions of idea are the differ- ent names which Plato gives to the sensible and phenomenal world. He calls it the many, the divisible, the unbounded, 108 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. the undetermined and measureless, the becoming, the rela- tive, great and small, not-being. But in what relation these two worlds of sense and of ideas stand to each other is a question which Plato has answered neither fully nor consist- ently with himself. If, as is most common, he characterizes the relation of things to conceptions as a participation, or calls things the copies and adumbrations, while ideas are the archetypes, these metaphorical definitions do not explain, but on the contrary merely hide the chief difficulties in the doc- trine of ideas. The difficulty lies in the contradiction which grows out of the fact that while Plato admits the reality of the becoming and of the province of the becoming, he still affirms that ideas, which are substances ever at rest and ever the same, are the onl}- actualities. Now in this Plato is indeed formally consistent with himself, in that he characteri5;es the materiel of matter not as a positive substratum but as not- being, and guards himself with the express affirmation that he does not consider the sensuous as being, but onl}- as some- thing similar to being. {Rep. X. 597.) The position laid down in the Parmenides is also consistent with this, that a perfect philosoph}- should look upon the idea as the cogniza- ble in the phenomenal world, and should follow it out in the smallest particulars until ever^' part of being should be known and all dualism removed. In fine, Plato in many of his ex- pressions seems to regard the world of sensation only as a subjective appearance, as a product of subjective representa- tion, as the result of a confused way of representing ideas. In this sense phenomena are entirely dependent on ideas ; they are nothing but the ideas themselves in the form of not- being ; the phenomenal world derives its whole existence from the ideal world which appears in it. But 3-et when Plato calls the sensuous a mingling of the same with the difierent or the not-being (Tim.., p. 35), when he characterizes the ideas as vowels which run through ever}' thing like a chain (SopJi., p. 253), when he himself conceiA'es the possibilit}- that mattei might oflTer opposition to the formative energy of ideas {Tim.^ PLATO. 109 p. 56), when he speaks of an eril soul of the world (de Leg. X. 896), and gives intimations of the presence in the world of a principle in nature hostile to God {Polit., p. 268), when he in the Phceclo treats of the relation between body and soul as one wholly discordant and malignant, — in all this there is evidence enough, even after allowing for the mythical form of the Timceus, and the rhetorical composition which prevails in the Phcedo, to substantiate the contradiction mentioned above. This is most clear in the Timceus. Plato in this dialogue makes the sensible world to be formed b}' a Creator who uses ideas as patterns, but posits as a condition of the creative activity of this Demiurge or Creator a something which should be apt to receive and exhibit this ideal image. This something Plato compares to the matter which is fash- ioned by the artisan (whence the later name hyle). He char- acterizes it as wholly undetermined and formless, but possess- ing in itself an aptitude for every variety of form, an invisible and shapeless thing, a something which it is difficult to char- acterize, and which Plato even does not seem inclined ver}^ closely to describe. In this the actualit3' of matter is denied ; even when Plato makes it equivalent to space it is only the ^lace, the negative condition of the sensible ; it possesses being onl}' as it receives in itself the ideal form. Still matter remains the objective and phenomenal form of the idea : the visible world arises only through the mingling of ideas with this substratum, and if matter be metaphysically expressed as " the different," then does it follow with logical necessity- in a dialectical discussion that it is just as trul3' beuig as not-being. Plato does not conceal from himself this diffi- cult}', and therefore attempts to represent with comparisons and images this presupposition of a hyle which he finds it as impossible to do without as to express in an intelligible form. If he would do without it he must rise to the conception of an absolute creation, or consider matter as an ultimate emanation from the absolute spirit, or else explain it as appearance onl}'. Thus the Platonic S3'stem is onlj' a fruit- less struggle against dualism. 110 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 6. The idea of the Good axd the Deity. — If the true is exhibited in general conceptions which are so related to each other that every higher conception embraces and com- bines under it several lower, so that any one starting from a single idea may eventuall^^ discover all {Meno., p. 81 j, then must the sum of ideas form a connected organism and succes- sion in which the lower appears as a stepping-stone and pre- supposition to a higher. This succession must end in an idea which needs no higher idea or presupposition to sustain it. This highest idea, the ultimate limit of all knowledge, and itself the independent ground of all other ideas, Plato calls the idea of the good, i.e., not of moral but of meta- ph3^sical good. {Ee2). VII. 517.) What this good is in itself, Plato undertakes to show onlj' in images. "In the same manner as the sun," he sixys in the Republic (VI. 506), " is the cause of sight, and the cause not merely that objects are visible but also that the}' grow and are produced, so the good is of such power and beaut}', that it is not merel}' the cause of science to the soul, but is also the cause of being and realit}' to whatever is the object of science ; and as the sun is not itself sight or the object of sight but presides over both, so the good is not science and truth but is superior to both, the}' being not the good itself but of a goodl}' nature." The idea of the good excludes all presupposition, in so far as the good has unconditioned worth and lends value to ever}' thing else. It is the ultimate ground at the same time of knowing and of being, of the perceiver and the perceived, of the subjective and the objective, of the ideal and the real, though itself exalted above such a distinc- tion. (Eej). VI. 508-517.) Plato, however, did not attempt a derivation of the remaining ideas from the idea of the good ; his course here is wholly an empirical one ; a certain class of objects are taken, and having been referred to their common essence, this latter is given out as their idea. He treated individual conceptions so independently, and made each one so complete in itself, that it is impossible to find a proper PLATO. Ill division or establish an immanent continuation of one into another. It is difficult to say precisely what relation, in the Platonic view, this idea of the good, and the ideal world in general, bore to the Deity. On the whole it seems clear that Plato regarded the two as identical, but whether he conceived this highest cause to be a personal being or not is a question which hardly admits of a deflnite answer. The logical result of his system would exclude the personalit}' of God. If only the universal (the idea) trul}- exists, then must the onl}' abso- lute idea, the Deity, be only the absolute universal ; but that Plato was himself conscious of this logical conclusion we can hardly affirm, any more than we can sa}' on the other hand that he was clearly' a theist. For though in numberless mythical or popular statements he speaks of God and the gods, this onlv indicates that he is speaking in the language of the popular religion, and when he speaks in an accurate philosophical sense, he onl}^ makes the relation of the per- sonal deit}' with the idea a ver}' uncertain one. Most prob- able, therefore, is it that this whole question concerning the personality of God was not 3'et definitely before him, that he took up this idea and defended it in the interests of morality against the anthropomorphism of the m^'thic poets, and that he sought to establish it by arguments drawn from the evidences of design in nature, and the universal prevalence of a belief in a God, while as a philosopher he made no use of it. V. The Platoxic Physics. 1. Nature. — The connec- tion between the Phjsics and the Dialectic of Plato lies prin- cipall}' in two points, — the conception of becoming, which forms the chief characteristic of nature, and that of real being, which, when apprehended as the good, is the basis of ever}' teleological explanation of natm'e. Since nature be- longs to the province of irrational sensation it cannot claim the same accuracy' of treatment as is exhibited in dialectic. Plato therefore applied himself with much less zest to ph3'si- cal investigations than to those of an ethical or dialectical 112 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. character, and indeed only attended to them in his later 3'ears. Only in one dialogue, the Tim.cpus^ do we find any extended evolution of physical doctrines, and even here Plato seems to have gone to his work with much less than his wonted in- dependence, this dialogue being more strongl}- tinctured with Pythagoreanism than an}' other of his writings. The diffi- cult}' of the Timceus is increased by its mythical form, by which the old commentators themselves were puzzled. If we take the first impression that it gives us, it appears to posit as prior to the creation of the world, a Creator (or Demiurgus) as moving and reflecting principle, with on the one side the ideal world existing immovable as the eternal archet^'pe, and on the other side, a chaotic, formless, iri'egu- lar, fluctuating mass, w^hich holds in itself the germ of the material world, but has no determined character nor sub- stance. From these two elements the Creator now constructs the world-soul, i.e., the invisible dynamical principle (which is, however, conceived as extended in space) of the order and movement of the world. The Demiurgus spreads out this world-soul like a Aast net or frame throughout the entire space which the world when created is to occupy, dividing this space thus into two spheres, viz., the region of the fixed stars and the planetary heavens, and sub-dividing the second into seven smaller circles corresponding to the orbits of the seven planets. The material world, which has become actual through the arrangement of the chaotic mass into the four elements, is built into this frame, and the process thus begun is completed in its internal structure by the formation of the organic world. It is difficult to separate the m^'thical and the philosophical elements in this cosmogon}' of the Timceus, especiall}' difficult to determine how far that which is historical in this construc- tion, the succession of creative acts in time, belongs to the mere form. The significance of the world-soul is clearer. In the Platonic system the soul is, in general, a mean be- tween the ideas and corporeal existence, the medium thi'ough PLATO. 113 which matter is formed, individualized, animated, and gov- erned ; or, in a word, is raised from disorderly multiplicity to organic unity and maintained in this condition. In a sim- ilar wa}', with Plato, number is a mean between the idea and phenomena, in so far as through it the totality' of material being is brought into the definite quantitative relations of multitude, magnitude, figure, parts, position, distance, etc., — in a w'ord, articulated arithmetically' and geometricall}', in- stead of existing as a limitless and undifferentiated mass. In the w^orld-soul both these functions are united. It is the universal medium between ideas and phenomena, the gTeat world-schema which on a grand scale forms and articulates matter, the mighty world-foi'ce b}' which matter (e.g., the heavenh' bodies) is kept within this order, moved (revolved) , and, through this ordered movement raised to a real cop}' of the idea. The Platonic view of nature, in opposition to the mechanical explanations of the earlier philosophers, is entu'ely teleological, and based upon the conception of the good. Plato conceives the w'orld as the image of the good, as the work of divine munificence. Constructed l)y its Demiurgus in accordance wath the eternal idea it is perfect, the ever- abiding, never-changing image of the good, vitalized and rationalized through the indwelling soul, — infinitel}' beau- tiful, na}' divine. As it is the image of the perfect it is therefore only one, corresponding to the idea of the single all-embracing substance, for an infinite number of worlds is not to be conceived as actual. For the same reason the world is spherical, after the most perfect and uniform struc- ture, which embraces in itself all other forms ; its movement is in a circle, because this, by returning into itself, is most like the movement of reason. The particular points of the Timceus, the derivation of the four elements, the separation of the seven planets according to the musical scale, the opin- ion that the stars were immortal and heavenly substances, the aflh-mation that the earth holds an abiding position in the middle of the world, a view which subsequently became elab- 8- 114 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. orated to the Ptolemaic S3'stem, the reference of all material figures to elementar}^ geometrical forms, the division of inani- mate nature, according to the four elements, into beings of fire and light (gods and demons), and of earth, water, and ah', the discussions respecting organic nature, and especially respecting the construction of the human body — all these we need here onl}' mention. Their philosophical worth consists not so much in their material content, — for they rather serve to show the entire worthlessness of the natural science of that age, — as in their fundamental idea, that the world should be conceived as the image and the work of reason, as an organism of order, harmon}', and beaut}', as the good actualizing itself. 2. The Soul. — The doctrine of the soul, considering it simply as the basis of moral action, and leaving out of view all questions of concrete ethics, is the completion, the cope- stone of the Platonic ph^'sics. The individual soul possesses the same nature and character as the world-soul. It is essen- tial to the perfection of the world that it should contain a plurality of souls, through which the principle of rationality' and vitalit}' ma}' be particularized in a plenitude of indi- viduals. The soul is in itself indestructible, and by virtue of its rationality is of a divine natm'e ; it is formed for the knowledge of the divine and eternal, for a pure and blessed life in the contemplation of the ideal world. But no less essential to it is its connection with a material, perishable body. A race of perishable beings must, for the sake of completeness in the genera of things, be represented in the universe ; and this is accomplished b}' individual souls through their residence in the body. The soul, while it is united to the body, participates in its movements and changes ; it is, thus, in this respect, related to the perishable, and subject to the changing conditions of sensuous life, to the influence of sensuous impressions and impulses. It cannot, therefore, retain its pure divinit}' ; it sinks from the heavenly to the earthly, from the Godlilce to the perishable. In the indi- PLATO. 115 vidual soul is exhibited the conflict between the higher prin- ciple and the lower ; intellect 3'ields to the power of sense ; the latent dualism between idea and realit}^, which in the universe taken as a whole is reduced to unit}', finds here, in the soul, its complete actualit3\ Though on the one hand the souls rules and restrains the body, it is on the other hand just as truh' swajed b}' the bod}', bound down b}' it to the lower sensuous life, to forgetfulness of its nobler origin, and to the finitude of perception and volition. This interac- tion of soul and bod}' is mediated through an inferior, sensu- ous faculty of the soul ; hence Plato distinguishes in the soul two constituents, the divine and the perishable, the rational and the irrational, between which is placed, as a mediating link, courage (^v/xos) , which, though nobler than sensuous im- pulse, yet, since it is exhibited by chikken and even by brutes, and often allows itself to be carried away blindly without reflection, belongs to man's sensuous nature, and must not be confounded with reason. Thus, according to the Platonic doctrine, the soul, during its connection with the body, is in a condition totally inadequate to its nature. Potentially it is divine, in possession of true knowledge, self-subsistent, free, — actually it is precisely the reverse, weak, sensuous, subject to the influence of its physical nature, entangled in evil and sin by all the disquietudes, impulses, passions, and conflicts which originate in the predominance of the sensuous principle, in the necessity of physical self-preservation, and in the strug- gle for possession and enjoyment. A dim consciousness of its loftier origin, a longing for its home, the ideal world, does in- deed I'emain with it, and manifest itself as love of knowledge, enthusiasm for the beautiful (Eros) , and in the endeavor of the spirit to become master of the body. But this very long- ing shows that the true life of the soul cannot be this present sensuous existence, but must lie in a future to be realized only after its separation from the bod}'. The soul which has abandoned itself to sensuality is condemned to enter into other bodies or even into lower forms of existence from 116 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. which it is released onlj- when in the course of time it has returned to its original puritj'. The pure soul which has endured unsoiled the test of association with tlie corporeal world returns at death immcdiatel}' to its state of blessed rest ; then, after a brief period of enjoyment, it resumes once more its life in the bod^'. Plato's accounts of these future states of the soul do not alwaj'S accord one with another ; the statements of the Phcedrus and Phcedo, of the Reimhlic and Timceus, differ in many respects. Plato is, however, like the Pythagoreans, reall}' in earnest in the matter. It is really his opinion that the progress of the world, the his- tor}' of the universe, has for its content just this perpetual transition of souls from the higher to the lower, from the divine to the human world. The soul is of too noble a nature to merely begin with this life and then vanish ; it is divine and eternal. It is not, however, pure being, like the idea ; it has in itself something of ' ' the other " ; it is at once spiritual and unspiritual, free and not free. These two con- tradictory elements are manifested in that change from the superior to the infei-ior state under the form of a succession in time. The soul exhibits the enigma of an equal inclina- tion toward the ideal and the sensuous ; and this enigma is solved, according to Plato, b}' just this doctrine of the con- stitution and destiny of the soul itself. All this appears to be very different from Socrates. The Socratic postulate that man ought not to act from sensuous impulses, but intelli- gentl}', seems to be transformed into a speculatiA^e philoso- pheme which endeavors to explain how the sensuous and rational are united in man. But it is just this fact, that the whole of Plato's philosoph}' is concentrated upon this point, I.e., upon the ethical nature and character of the soul, which proves him to be a true disciple of the master who had aroused in him this lofty idea of the exaltation of spirit over sense. VI. The Platonic Ethics. — The main problem of Plato's ethics (which is nothing but the practical application of his PLATO. 117 theory of ideas), as with the ethics of tlie otlier Socratics, is to define tlie higliest good, the end which all volition and action posit as their goal. From the definition of the summum bouum is deduced the theory of virtue, which in turn is the basis of the doctrine of the state, i.e., of the objective real- ization of the good in human societ}'. (1) The Highest Good. What this supreme aim must be is at once evident from the general character of the Platonic S3'stem. Not life amid the nonentities, mortality, and vicis- situdes of sensuous existence, but exaltation to the ideal, to the only true being, is both in itself and for man that which is absolute!}' good. The soul's problem and vocation is to flee from the internal and external evils of sense, to purify and free itself from the influences of the body, and to strive to become pure, upright, and thus godUke {Thecetetus; Phoido) . I'he way to attain this is to withdraw the mind from sensuous conceptions and deskes, and direct it upon that cognition of the truth which reflection alone can giA'e, — in a word, upon philosophy. Philosophy is with Pato as with Socrates, not something purely theoretical, but the retm-n of the soul to its true nature, a spiritual regeneration in which the soul regains its lost knowledge of the ideal world, and thus the consciousness of its own higher origin, of its original superiority to the sensuous world. In philoso- ph}' the mind purifies itself from all admixture of sense ; it comes to itself and re-obtains that freedom and rest of which its immersion in the material had deprived it. Such being Plato's conception of the highest good, it was natural that he should vehementl}' oppose the hedonism of the Sophistic- C3'renaics. The Gorgias and Philebus are especially de- voted to the refutation of their views. In these dialogues he endeavors to prove that pleasure is something insubstan- tial and indefinite, which can give to life neither order nor harmou}' ; that it is altogether relative since it can readily be transformed into pain, and induces pain just in propoi'tion to its own intensity ; and that it is a contradiction to place 118 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY, pleasure, which in itself is worthless, above the power and virtue of the soul. Yet on the other hand, Plato no more in his practical than in his theoretical philosoph}^ approved of the Cj'nic-Megaric abstraction which would recognize noth- ing positive except cognition, no concrete spiritual activity, no special science or art, nor an}' refinement of life through pleasure. The concrete sciences and arts, and those kinds of pleasure which do not impair the harmony of the spiritual, those pure, painless, passionless, innocent delights which spring from the contemplation of spiritual and natural beaut}', have their proper sphere as well as pure philosoph}'. The good is not a life of mere knowledge or mere pleasure, but the unit}' of the two ; yet it is a life in which knowledge predominates, since it is the element through which volition and action are reduced to rationality, order, and measure. A certain vacil- lation in Plato's opinions in regard to the highest good must not, however, be overlooked. As sensuous existence is for him, at one time, a pure nonentity, the mere disturbance and distortion of ideal being, and at another a beautiful copy of the ideal archet}'pe ; so in the ethics we perceive sometimes a tendency towards a purely ascetic view of sense as the source of sin and evil (Phcedo), and at others, a more positive view {Symposmm ; Philebus) which considers a life without pleasure to be too abstract, monotonous, and spu'it- less, and therefore permits the beautiful to maintain a posi- tion coordinate with the good. 2. Virtue. — In his theory of virtue, Plato is at first wholly Socratic. He holds fast to the opinion that it is knowledge {Protagoras), and therefore teachable {Meno) ; and as to its unity, though it follows from his later dialectical investi- gations that the one can be manifold, or the manifold one, and that, therefore, virtue must both be regarded as one, and also as many, he nevertheless emphasizes prominently the unity and connection of all virtues, and is fond of painting, especially in the introductory dialogues, some single A'irtue as comprising in itself the smn of all the rest. Plato follows PLATO. 119 for the most part the fourfold division of virtues, as popu- larl}' made; and only in the Republic (IV. 441) does he attempt a scientific derivation of them, b}^ referring to each of the three faculties of the soul its appropriate virtue. The vu'tue of the reason he calls prudence or wisdom, the direct- ing or measuring virtue, since reason must govern the soul ; the vu'tue of the heart is A^alor, the helpmeet of reason, or it is the heart imbued with true knowledge, which in the struggle against pleasm'e and pain, desire and fear, asserts itself to be the correct judge of that which ought or ought not to be feared ; the virtue of sensuous desire, whose function is to restrain this within its proper limits, is temperance ; and, lastl}', that virtue to which belong the due regulation and mutual adjustment of the several powers of the soul, and which, therefore, constitutes the bond and the unity of the three other vu-tues, is justice. In this last conception, that of justice, all the elements of moral culture meet together and centre, exhibiting the moral life of the individual as a perfect whole, and then, by requir- ing an application of the same principle to communities, the moral consideration is advanced bejond the narrow circle of individual life. Thus is established the whole of the moral world — Justice •' in great letters," the moral life in its com- plete totality, is the state. In this is first realized the de- mand for the complete harmony of the human life. In and through the state comes the complete elaboration of matter for the reason. 3. The State. — The Platonic state is generally regarded as an ideal or chimera, which it is impracticable to realize among men. This view of the case has even been ascribed to Plato, and it has been said that in his Republic he attempted to sketch only a fine ideal of a state constitution, while in the Laws he traced out a practicable philosophy of the state from the standpoint of the common consciousness. But in the first place, this was not Plato's own opinion. Although he acknowledges that the state he describes cannot be found 120 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. on earth, and is only a heavenly archetype adapted merely to the instruction of the philosopher (IX. 592), still he de- mands that efforts should be made to realize it here, and he even attempts to show the conditions and means under which such a state could be made actual, by adapting its particular institutions to counteract the defects arising from the different characters and temperaments of men. A constitution, disso- ciated from the idea, could only appear untrue to a philoso- pher like Plato, who saw the actual and the true onl}' in the idea ; and the common view which supposes that he wrote his RepuhUc in the full consciousness of its impracticability-, mistakes entirely the standpoint of the Platonic philosophy. Still farther the question whether such a state as the Platonic is attainal)le and the best, is in itself idle and irrelevant. The Platonic state is the Grecian idea of a state presented in the form of a narrative. But the idea, that which is rational in the world's history, — since it is absolutely actual, that in the existent which is essential and necessar}-, — is no inane and impotent ideal. The trul}' ideal is not to he actual, but is actual, and the onlj' actual ; if an idea were too good for existence, or the empirical actuality too bad for it, then w^ere this a fault of the ideal itself. Plato has not given him- self up merel}- to abstract theories ; the philosopher cannot transcend his age, Ijut can onl}' see and grasp it in its true significance. This Plato has done. His standpoint is his own age. He looks upon the political life of the Greeks as then existing, and it is this life, exalted to its idea, which forms the real content of the Platonic RepuhUc. Plato has here represented Greek morality on its substantial side. If the Platonic Jiejmbb'c seems prominentlj' an ideal which can ncA^er be realized this is owing much less to its ideality than to the defects of the political life of the ancients. The most prominent characteristic of the Hellenic conception of the state, before the Greeks l)egan to fall into luibridled licen- tiousness, was the constraint tln'own upon personal subjective freedom, in the sacrifice of ever}' individual interest to the PLATO. 121 absolute sovereignt3' of the state. With Plato also, the state is all in all. His political institutions, so loucll}' ridiculed b}' the ancients, are onl}' the undeniable consequences follow- ing from the very idea of the Grecian state, which in distinc- tion from the modern state, allowed neither to the individual citizen nor to a corporation, any lawful sphere of action inde- pendent of itself. It did not recognize the principle of sub- jective freedom ; and it is just this non-recognition of the subject, which Plato, in opposition to the ruinous tendencies of his age, made the fundamental principle of his state. The grand feature of the Platonic state is, as has been said, the sacrifice of the individual to the universal state, the re- duction of moral to political virtue. Plato desires that social ethics shall become universal and attain a firml}' established existence ; sense must everywhere be restrained and subor- dinated to intelligence. But if this is to be accomplished, a universal, i.e., a political, authority must undertake the education of all in virtue, and the preserA'ation of good morals, and all individual self-will and selfishness must be subordinated to the common will and the common good. The sensuous principle in man is so might}- that it can be ren- dered powerless only b}' the superior strength of social insti- tutions, through the suppression of all selfish activity- for private ends, and the merging of the individual in the uni- versal. Onl}' in this way is virtue, and thus true blessedness possible. Virtue must be realized first in the state and then in the individual citizen. Hence the severity and rigor of the Platonic theory of the state. In a perfect state all things, jo3' and sorrow, and even eyes, ears, and hands, must be common to all, so that the social life would be as it were the life of one man. This perfect uni\'ersality and unity, can only be actualized when ever}- thing individual and particular falls away. Private property and domestic life (in place of which comes a community of goods and of wives), education and instruction, the choice of rank and profession, the arts and sciences, all these must be subjected and placed under 122 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. the exclusive and absolute control of the state. The indi- vidual ma}' lay claim onl}- to that happiness which belongs to him as a constituent element of the state. From this point Plato goes down into the minutest particulars, and gives the closest directions respecting gpiinastics and music, which form the two means of culture of the higher ranks ; respect- ing the stud}' of mathematics, and philosoph}', the choice of stringed instruments, and the proper measure of verse ; re- specting bodily exercise and the service of women in war ; respecting marriage settlements, and the age at which an}' one should study dialectic, marry, and beget children. The state with him is only a great educational establishment, a family in the mass. — Lyric poetry he would allow only under the inspection of competent judges. Epic and dramatic poe- try, even Homer and Hesiod, should be banished from the state, since they rouse and lead astray the passions, and give unworthy representations of the gods. Exhibitions of physi- cal degeneracy or weakness should not be tolerated in the Platonic state ; deformed and sickly infants should be aban- doned, and food and attention should be denied to the sick. — In all this we find the chief antithesis of the ancient to the modern state. Plato did not recognize the will and choice of the individual, and yet the individual has a right to demand this. The problem of the modern state has been to unite these two sides, to bring the universal end and the particular aims of the individual into harmony, to reconcile the highest possible freedom of the conscious individual will, with the highest possible supremacy of the state. The political institutions of the Platonic state are decidedly aristocratic. Grown up in opposition to the extravagances of the Athenian democracy, Plato prefers an absolute mon- archy to every other constitution, though this should have as its alisolute ruler only the perfect philosopher. It is a well- known expression of his, that the state can only attain its end when philosophers become its rulers, or when its present rulers have prosecuted their studies so far and so accurately, PLATO. 123 that they can unite philosophy witli a superintendence of pubHc affairs (V. 473). His reason for claiming that the sovereign power should be vested onl}' in one, is the fact that very few are endowed with political wisdom. This ideal of an absolute rviler who should be able to govern the state per- fectly, Plato abandons in the Laivs, in which work he shows his preference for a mixed constitution, embracing both a monarchical and a democratic element. From the aristo- cratic tendency of the Platonic state, follows farther the sharp division of ranks, and the total exclusion of the third rank from a proper political life. In realit}' Plato makes but two classes in his state, the subjects and the sovereign, an- alogous to his twofold psychological division of sensible and intellectual, mortal and immortal ; but as in psjchology he had introduced a middle term, spirit, to stand between his two divisions there, so in the state he Ij rings in the militaiy class between the ruler and those intended to suppl}^ the ph3\sical wants of the communit}'. We have thus three ranks, that of the ruler, corresponding to the reason, that of the warrior, answering to the heart (courage), and that of the craftsman, which is made parallel to appetite or sen- suous desire. To these three ranks belong three separate functions : to the first, that of legislation and caring for the general good ; to the second, that of defending the common- wealth from attacks of external foes ; and to the third, the care of separate interests and wants, as agriculture, me- chanics, etc. From each of these three ranks and its func- tions the state derives a peculiar virtue — wisdom from the ruler, bravery from the warrior, and temperance from the craftsman, so far as he lives in obedience to his rulers. In the proper union of these three virtues is found the justice of the state, a virtue which is thus the sum of all other virtues. Plato pa^'s little attention to the lowest rank, that of the craftsman, who exists- in the state onl}^ as means. He held that it was not necessary to give laws and care for the rights of this portion of the community. The separation between the 124 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. ruler and the warrior is not so broad. Plato suffers these twc ranks to interpenetrate each other, and analogous to his origi- nal psychological division, as though the reason were but courage in its highest development, he makes tlie oldest and the best of the warriors rise to the dignity- and power of rulers. The education of its warriors should therefore be a chief care of the state, in order that their spirit, though losing none of its peculiar energ}-, ma}' yet be imbued with reason. The best endowed by nature and culture among the warriors, ma}' be selected at the age of thirty, and put upon a course of careful training. When he has reached the age of fifty and looked upon the idea of the good, he may be bound to actualize this archetype in the state, provided always that every one wait his turn, and spend his remain- ing time in philosophy. Only thus can the state be raised to the unconditioned rule of reason under the supremac}' of the good. VII. Retrospect. — With Plato Greek philosoph}' reached the highest point of its development. The Platonic system is the first complete construction of the entire natural and spiritual universe in accordance w^ith one single philosophical principle ; it is the type of all higher speculation, of all meta- physical as well as ethical idealism. Based upon the com- paratively simple foundation laid by Socrates philosophy here for the first time attained a complete realization ; here, with Plato, the spirit of philosophy elevated itself to that full self-consciousness, which with Socrates was only a dim, un- certain instinct. Plato's soaring genius was required to com- pletely realize that for which Socrates had prepared the way. But at the same time Plato placed philosophy' in an idealistic opposition to the giA'cn actuality, which, springing more from his individual character and surroundings than from the na- ture of the Greek mind, needed to be supplemented by a realistic view of things. This w^as supplied by Aristotle. THE OLD ACADEMY. 125 SECTION XV. THE OLD ACADEMY. In the old Acadeni}' we find no spirit of invention, and with few exceptions, no movements of progress, but rather a gradual retrogression of the Platonic philosophizing. After the death of Plato, Speusippus, his nephew and disciple, taught in the Academy during eight 3'ears. He was suc- ceeded b}' Xenocrates, after whom came Polemo, Crates, and Crantor. It was a time in which schools for higher culture were established, and the older teacher yielded to his 3'ounger successor the post of instruction. The genei'al characteristics of the old Academy, so far as can be gathered from the scant}' accounts concerning it, were great attention to learning, the prevalence of Pythagorean elements, especially the doctrine of number, and lasth', the reception of fantastic and demon- ological notions, among which the worship of the stars played a part. The prevalence of the Pythagorean doctrine of num- ber in the later instructions of the Academy, gave to mathe- matical sciences, particularl}- arithmetic and astronom}', a high place, and at the same time assigned to the doctrine of ideas a much lower position than Plato had given it. Subse- quentl}', the attempt was made to get back to the unadul- terated doctrine of Plato. Crantor is said to be the first editor of the Platonic writings. As Plato was the only true Socratic, so was Aristotle the onl}' genuine disciple of Plato, though often accused b}' his fellow-disciples of being unfaithful to his master's principles. We pass on at once to him, without stopping now to inquire into his relation to Plato, or the advance which he made be- 3'ond his predecessor, since these points will come up before us in the exposition of the Aristotelian philosoph}'. (See Sect. XVI., III. 1.) 126 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. SECTION XVI. ARISTOTLE. I. Life and Writings of Aristotle. — Aristotle was born 385 B.C. at Stagira, a Greek colon}' in Thrace. His father, Nicomachus, was a physician, and the friend of Amyntas, king of Macedonia. The former fact may have had its influ- ence in determining the scientific tendencies of the son, and the latter may have procured his subsequent summons to the Macedonian court. Aristotle at a ver}' earl}' age lost both his parents. In his seventeenth year he came to Plato at Athens, and continued with him twenty 3'ears. On account of his indomitable zeal for stud}', Plato named him "the Reader," and said, upon comparing him with Xenocrates, that the latter required the spur, the former the bit. Among the many charges made against his character, most prominent are those of jealousy and ingratitude towards his master, but most of the anecdotes in which these charges are embodied merit little credence. It is certain that Aristotle, after the death of Plato, stood in friendly relations with Xenocrates ; still, as a writer, he can hardly be absolved from a certain want of friendship and regard towards Plato and his philoso- phy, though all this can be explained on psychological gTounds. After Plato's death, Aristotle went with Xenocrates to Hermias, tyrant of Atarneus, whose sister Pythias he mar- ried after Hermias had fallen a victim to Persian treachery. After the death of P}thias he is said to have married his con- cubine, Herpyllis, who was the mother of his son Nicomachus. In the year 343 he was called by Philip of Macedon, to take the charge of the education of his son Alexander, then thirteen years old. Both father and son honored him highly, and the latter, with royal munificence, subsequently supported him in his studies. "\Mieu Alexander went to AEISTOTLE. 127 Persia, Aristotle betook himself to Athens, and taught in the Ljeeum, the only gymnasium then vacant, since Xenocrates had possession of the Acadeni}', and the Cynics of the C3'uo- sarges. From the shady wallvs (TreptVaTot) of the Lyceum, in which Aristotle was accustomed to walk and expound his philosophy, his school received the name of the Peripatetic. Aristotle is said to have spent his mornings with his more mature disciples, exercising thenj in the profoundest questions of philosoph}', while his evenings w^ere occupied with a greater number of pupils in more general and preparator}' instruc- tion. The former investigations were called acroamatic, the latter exoteric. lie abode at Athens, and taught thirteen years, and then, after the death of Alexander, whose dis- pleasure he had incurred, he is said to have been accused b}' the Athenians of impiet}' towards the gods, and to have fled to Chalcis, in order to escape a fate similar to that of Socrates. He died in the 3'ear 322 at Chalcis, in Euboea. Aristotle left a vast number of writings, of which the smaller (perhaps a sixth) , but unquestionably the more im- portant portion have come down to us, though in a form which admits of man}' doubts and objections. The storj' of Strabo about the fate of the Aristotelian writings, and the injmy which the}' suffered in a cellar at Scepsis in Troas is confessedly a fable, or at least limited to the original manu- scripts ; but the fragmentary and descriptive form of many among them, and especially of the most important {e.g., the Metaphysic) , the fact that scattered portions of one and the same work {e.g.., the Ethics) are repeatedly found in different treatises, the in-egularities and striking contradictions in one and the same treatise, the disagreement found in other par- ticulars among different works, and the distinction made by Aristotle himself between acroamatic and exoterical writings, all this gives reason to believe that we have, for the most part, before us only his oral lectures written down, and sub- sequently edited by his scholars. 128 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. II. General Character and Division of the Aristote- lian Philosophy. — - With Plato, philosoph}' had been na- tional in both its form and content, but with Aristotle it loses its Hellenic peculiarit}', and becomes universal in scope and meaning ; the Platonic dialogue changes into barren prose ; a rigid, technical language takes the place of the m3'thical and poetical dress ; the thinking which had been with Plato intui- tive, is with Aristotle discursive ; the immediate intuition of reason in the former, becomes reflection and conception in the latter. Turning awa}' from the Platonic unity of all being, Aristotle prefers to direct his attention to the manifoldness of the phenomenal ; he seeks the idea onl}' in its concrete ac- tualization, and consequently' gi'asps the particular far more prominently' in its peculiar determinateness and reciprocal differences, than in its connection with the idea. He em- braces with equal interest the facts given in nature, in his- toiy, and in the inner life of man. But he ever tends toward the individual, he must ever have a fact given in order to develop his thought u[)on it ; it is always the empuical, the actual, which solicits and guides his speculation ; his whole philosoph}' is a description of the facts given, and onlj' merits the name of a philosophy' because it comprehends the empiri- cal in its totality and synthesis, because it has carried out its induction to the farthest extent. Onlj' because he is the ab- solute empiricist ma}' Aristotle be called the truest philosopher. This character of the Aristotelian philosoph}' explains at the outset its encyclopedic tendenc}', inasmuch as every thing given in experience is equally worthy of regard and inves- tigation. Aristotle is thus the founder of man}' departments of science unknown before him ; he is not onl}' the father of logic, but also of natural histoiy, empirical psj'chology, and the science of rights. This devotion of Aristotle to the given facts will also ex- plain his predominant inclination towards ph3'sics, for nature is the most immediate and actual. Connected also with this is the fact that Aristotle is the first among philosophers who ARISTOTLE. 129 gaA^e to history and its tendencies an accurate attention. The first book of the 3fetapJiysic is also the first attempt at a history of philosoph}-, as liis Politics is the first critical account of the different historical states and constitutions. In both these cases he brings out his own theory onl}' as a deduction from historical data, basing it in the former case upon the works of his predecessors, and in the latter case upon the constitutions which lie before him. It is clear that according to this, the method of Aristotle must be a different one from that of Plato. Instead of pro- ceeding like the latter, syntheticalh' and dialecticall}', he pursues for the most part an anal3-tic and regi'essive course, that is, going backward from the concrete to its ultimate ground and determination. While Plato would take his standpoint in the idea, in order to explain from this position and set in a clearer light that which is given and empirical, Aristotle on the other hand, starts with that which is given, in order to find and exhibit the idea in it. His method is, hence, induction ; that is, the derivation of certain principles and maxims from a sum of given facts and phenomena ; his mode of procedure is, usuall}', argument, an impartial bal- ancing of facts, phenomena, circumstances and possibilities. He appears to be for the most part onl}' a thoughtful ob- server. Renouncing all claim to universalit}' and necessity in his results, he is content to have brought out that which has an approximate truth, and the highest degree of proba- bilit}'. He often affirms that science does not simpl}' relate to the changeless and necessar}', but also to that which ordi- narily takes place, that being alone excluded from its prov- ince, which is strictly accidental. Philosophj', consequent!}', has with him the character and worth of a computation of probabilities, and his mode of exposition assumes not unfre- quently the form of a hesitating deliberation. Hence there is in him no trace of the Platonic ideals ; hence, also, his re- pugnance to a glowing and poetic st3"le in philosoph}', a repugnance which, w^hile it induces in him a fixed, philo- 9 130 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. sophical terininolog}-, also frequently leads him to mistake and misrepresent the opinions of his predecessors. Hence, also, in whatever he treated, his thorough adherence to the actual facts. Connected, in fine, with the empirical character of the Aristotelian philosophizing, is the fragmentar}!^ form of his writings, and their want of a S3'stematie division and arrange- ment. Proceeding alwa3-s from particular to particular, he considers ever}- province of the actual b}' itself, and makes it the subject of a separate treatise ; but he, for the most part, fails to indicate the lines by which the different parts are united and comprehended in a systematic whole. Thus he founded a number of co-ordinate sciences, each one of which has an independent basis, but he fails to give us the highest science which embraces them all. It is sometimes affirmed that all his writings follow the idea of a whole ; but in their procedure there is such a want of all systematic connection, and ever}' one of his writings is a monograph so thoroughl}' independent and complete in itself, that we are sometimes puzzled to know what Aristotle himself received as a part of philosophy, and what he excluded. We are never furnished with an independent scheme or outline, we rarely find definite results or summarj- explanations. Even the diffei'ent diA'isions of philosoph}' which he gives, var^' essentiall}' from one another. At one time he divides science into theoretical and practical, at another, he adds to these two a poetical creative science, while still again he speaks of the three parts of sci- ence, ethics, physics, and logic. At one time he divides the- oretical philosophy into logic and ph3-sics, and at another into theolog}', mathematics, and physics. But no one of these divisions has he expressly given as the basis on which to represent his system ; he himself places no value upon this method of division, and, indeed, openl}' declares himself op- posed to it. It is, therefore, only for the sake of uniformit}' that we can give the preference here to the threefold division of philosophy as already' adopted by Plato. ARISTOTLE. 131 III. Logic AND Metaphysic. 1. Nature and Relation OF the Two. — The word metaphj'sic was first emploj'ed b}' the Aristotelian commentators. Plato had used the term dialectic, and Aristotle had characterized the same thing as " first philosophy," while he calls physics the "second phi- losophy." The relation of this first philosophy' to the other sciences Aristotle determines in the following wa}'. Every science, he sa3's, must have for investigation a determined province and particular form of being, but none of these sci- ences reaches the conception of being itself. Hence there is needed a science which shall investigate that which the other sciences take up h^-potheticall}', or through experience. This is done b}- the ' ' first philosophy " which has to do with being as such, while the other sciences relate onlj' to determined and concrete being. The metaph3sic, which is this science of being and its primitive grounds, is the first philosoph}^ since it is presupposed b}' every other discipline. Thus, sa3's Aris- totle, if there were only a physical substance, then would physics be the first and the onl}- philosophy, but if there be an immaterial and unmoved essence which is the ground of all being, then must there also be an antecedent, and because it is antecedent, a universal philosoph}'. The first ground of all being is God, whence Aristotle occasionall}* gives to the first philosophy the name of theology. It is difficult to determine the relation between this ' ' first philosophy " as the science of the ultimate ground of things, and that science which is ordinaril}- termed the logic of Aris- totle, and which is exhibited in the writings bearing the name of the Organon. Aristotle himself has not accuratel3' exam- ined the relations of these two sciences, the reason for which is doubtless to be found in the incomplete form of the Meta- physic. But since he has embraced them both under the same name of logic ; since the investigation of the essence of things (VII. 17), and the doctrine of ideas (XIII. 5), are expressly called logical ; since he repeatedly attempts in the Metaphysic (Book IV.), to estabhsh the logical principle of 132 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. contradiction as an absolute presupposition for all thinking and speaking and i)liilosopliizing, and employs the method of argument belonging to that science which has to do with the essence of things (III. 2, IV. 3) ; and since, in fine, the cat- egories to which he had already- devoted a separate book in the Organon are also discussed again in the Metapliysic (Book v.), it follows that this much at least may be affirmed with certaint}', that he would not absolutely separate the investiga- tions of the Organon from those of the Metapliysic^ and that he would not approve the ordinaiy division of formal logic and metaph^sic, although he has omitted to show their inner connection. 2. Logic. — The great problem both of the logical facult}' and also of logic both as science and art, is to form and judge of syllogisms, and through S3llogisms to be able to establish a proof. Syllogisms, however, arise from propositions, and propositions from conceptions. From this point of view, which arises from the ver}' nature of the case, Aristotle has in the diflferent books of the Organon discussed the details of his theor}' of logic and dialectic. The first treatise in the Organon is that containing the categories, a work which treats of the universal determinations of being, and is the first at- tempt at an ontology. Of these categories Aristotle enumer- ates ten ; substance, magnitude, qualit}', relation, the where, the when, position, possession, action, and passion. The second treatise (De Interpretatione) investigates speech as the expression of thought, and discusses the doctrine of the parts of speech, propositions and judgments. The third con- sists of the " Analytics" which show how conclusions maj" be referred back to their principles and arranged in accordance with their premises. The first Analytic contains in two books the general theory of the syllogism. S^yllogisms are accord- ing to their content and aim either apodictic, which possess a certain and incontrovertible truth, or dialectic, which are directed toward that which may be disputed and is probable, or, finally, sophistic, which lead deceptivel3' to incorrect con- ARISTOTLE. 138 elusions. The doctrine of apodictic s^dlogisras and tlius of proofs is given in tlie two booivs of the second Analytic^ tliat of dialectic is furnished in the eight books of the Tojnc, and that of sophistic in the treatise concerning '' Sophistical Proofs." A detailed statement of the Aristotelian logic would be familiar to every one, since the formal representations of this science ordinarily given, emplo}' for the most part only the material furnished bj' Aristotle. Kant has remarked, that since the time of the Grecian sage, logic has made neither progress nor retrogression. Only in two points has the for- mal logic of our time advanced beyond that of Aristotle ; first, in adding to the categorical s^dlogism, w^iich was the only one Aristotle had in mind, the In'pothetical and disjunc- tive, and second, in adding the fourth to the first three figures of the syllogism. But the incompleteness of the Aristotelian logic, which might be pardoned in the foundation of the science, still remains, and its thoroughly empirical method not onl}' still continues, but has even been exalted to a prin- ciple b}' means of the un- Aristotelian antithesis between the form of a thought and its content. Aristotle, in reality-, only attempted to collect the logical facts in reference to the for- mation of propositions, and the method of syllogisms ; he has given in his logic only the natural history' of finite thinking. However highly we may rate the correctness of his abstrac- tion, and the clearness with which he brings into conscious- ness the logical operation of the understanding, we must make equally conspicuous with this the want of all scientific derivation and foundation. The ten categories which he, as already remarked, has discussed in a separate treatise, he simply mentions, without furnishing any ground or principle for this enumeration ; that there are this number of categories is onl}' a matter of fact to him, and he even cites them differ- ently in different writings. In the same wa}' also he takes up the figures of the syllogism empirically ; he considers them only as forms and relations of formal thought, and 134 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. remains thus within the province of the logic of the under- standing, although he declares the s3'llogism to be the only form of science. Neither in his Metaphysic nor in his Physics does he apply the rules of fonnal inference which he develops in the Organon, clearly proving that he has nowhere in his system properly elaborated either his categories or his analytic ; his logical investigations do not influence generall}- the de- velopment of his philosophical thought, but have for the most part onl}' the value of a preliminary investigation of language. 3. Metaphysic. — Among all the Aristotelian writings, the Metaphysic is least entitled to be called a connected whole ; it is onl}' a collection of sketches, which, though the}' follow a certain fundamental idea, utterly lack inner mediation and perfect development. We ma}' distinguish in it seven distinct groups. (1) Criticism of the previous philosophic s^'stems from the standpoint of the four Aristotelian principles, Book I. (2) Exposition of the apories or philosophical prelimi- nar}' questions, III. (3) The principle of contradiction, IV. (4) Definitions, V. (5) Examination of the conception of essence {ova-ta) and intelligible being (the ri rjv dvaC) or the conception of matter (wA?/), form (eiSos), and that which arises from the connection of these two (ctwoAof), VII., VIII. (6) Potentialit}^ and actuality, IX. (7) The Divine Spirit moving all, but itself unmoved, XII. (8) To these we may add the polemic against the Platonic doctrine of ideas and numbers, which runs through the whole Metaphysic^ but is especially carried out in Books XIII. and XIV. (1) The Aristotelian Criticism of the Platonic Doctrine of Ideas. — In Aristotle's antagonism to the Platonic doctrine of ideas, we must seek for the specific difference between the two systems, a difference which Aristotle .avails himself of every opportunity (especially Metapjh. I. and XIII.) to ex- press. Plato had beheld all actuality' in the idea, but the idea was to him a rigid truth, which had not yet become in- terwoven with the life and the movement of existence. Such a view, however, had this difficulty ; the idea, however little ARISTOTLE. 135 Plato would have it so, found standing over against it in independent being the phenomenal world, while it furnished no principle on which the being of the phenomenal world could be affirmed. This Aristotle recognizes, and charges upon Plato, that his ideas were only "immortalized things of sense," from which the being and becoming of the sensible could not be explained. In order to avoid this consequence, he himself makes out an original reference of mind to phe- nomena, affirming that the relation of the two is that of the actual to the possible, or that of form to matter, and consid- ering also mind as the absolute actualit}' of matter, and matter, as the potentially mind. His argument against the Platonic doctrine of ideas, Aristotle makes out in the follow- ing way : — Passing by the fact that Plato furnished no satisfactory proof for the objective and independent reality of ideas, and that his theorj' is without vindication, we may affirm in the first place that it is wholly unfruitful, since it possesses no ground of explanation for being. The ideas have no proper and independent content. To see this we need onl}' refer to their origin. In order to make science possible Plato posited certain substances independent of the sensuous particulars, and uninfluenced by their changes. But to serve such a purpose, there was offered to him nothing other than this in- dividual thing of sense. Hence he gave to this individual a universal form, which was with him the idea. From this it resulted, that his ideas can hardly be separated from the sen- sible and individual objects which participate in them. The ideal duality and the empirical duality have one and the same import. The truth of this we can readily sep, when- ever we gain from the adherents to the doctrine of ideas a definite statement respecting the peculiar character of their unchangeable substances, in comparison with the sensible and individual things which participate in them. The onl}' differ- ence between the two consists in appending j^er se to the names expressing the respective ideas ; thus, while the indi- 136 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. vidua! things are, e.g., man, horse, etc., the ideas are man per se, horse per se, etc. There is onl}- this formal change for the doctrine of ideas to rest upon ; the finite content is not removed, but is only characterized as eternal. This ob- jection, that in the doctrine of ideas we have in realit}^ only the sensible posited as a not-sensible and endowed with the predicate of immutabilit}', Aristotle urges as above remarked when he calls the ideas " immortalized things of sense," not as though they were actually something sensible and spacial, but because in them the sensible individual merely loses its individuality, and becomes a universal. lie compares them in this respect with the gods of the popular and anthropo- morphic religion ; as these are nothing but deified men, so the ideas are only things of nature endowed with a super- natural potency, the sensuous exalted to the non-sensuous. This identit}' between the ideas and their corresponding indi- vidual things amounts moreover to this, that the introduction of ideas doubles the objects to be known in a burdensome manner, and without any good results. WI13' set up the same thing twice? Wh}- besides sensuous twofoldness and threefoldness, affirm a twofoldness and threefoldness in the idea? The adherents of the doctrine of ideas, when the}- posit an idea for ever}' class of natural things, and through this theor}' set up two equivalent series of sensible and not- sensible substances, seem therefore to Aristotle like men who think the}" can reckon better with many numbers than with few, and who therefore go to multiplying their numbers before they begin their reckoning. Again the doctrine of ideas is tautological, and wholly unfruitful as an explanation of being. " The ideas do not assist us to the knowledge of the indi- vidual things participating in them, since the ideas are not immanent in these things, but separate from them." Equally unfruitful are the ideas when considered in reference to the arising and departing of the things of sense. They contain no principle of becoming, of movement. There is in the'm no causality which might bring about the event, or explain ARISTOTLE. 137 the event when it had actually happened. Themselves with- out motion and process, if they had any effect, it could only be that of perfect repose. True, Plato affirms in his Plicedo that the ideas are causes both of being and becoming, but in spite of the ideas, nothing ever becomes without a moving force ; the ideas, by their separation from the becoming, have no such power of movement. This indifferent relation of ideas to the actual becoming, Aristotle brings under the categories, potentiality and actuality, and affirms that the ideas are onl}' potential, are onl}' bare possibility and essen- tiality because they are wanting in actuality. — The inner contradiction of the doctrine of ideas is in brief this, viz., that it posits an individual immediatel}' as a universal, and at the same time pronounces the universal, the species, to be numerically an individual ; the ideas are posited on the one side as separate individual substances, and on the other side as participant, and therefore as universal. Although the ideas, as the original conceptions of species, are universals which arise when being is fixed in existence, and the one brought out in the man}', and the abiding given a place in the changeable, yet according to the Platonic notion, that the}' are individual substances, they are indefinable, for there can be neither definition nor derivation of an absolute individual, since even the word (and only in words is a definition possi- ble) is in its nature a universal, and belongs also to other objects ; consequently, every predicate by which I attempt to determine an individual thing cannot belong exclusivelj' to that thing. The adherents of the doctrine of ideas, are therefore not at all in a condition to give an idea an intelligi- ble definition ; their ideas are indefinable. — In general, Plato has left the relation of individual objects to ideas very ob- scure. He calls the ideas archetj'pes, and allows that the objects may participate in them ; 3'et are these only poetical metaphors. How shall we represent to ourselves this " par- ticipation," this copying of the original archetype? We seek in vain for more accurate explanations of this in Plato. It 155 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. is imj^ossible to conceive how and wlij' matter participates in the ideas. In order to explain this, we must add to tlie ideas a still higher and wider principle, which contains the cause for this "participation" of objects, for without a moAdng principle we find no ground for " participation." Alike above the idea {e.g., the idea of man), and the phenomenon {e.g., the individual man), there must stand a third common to both, and in which the two are united, i.e., as Aristotle was in the habit of expressing this objection, the doctrine of ideas leads to the adoption of a " third man." The result of this Aristotelian criticism is the immanence of the uni- versal in the individual. The method of Socrates in trying to find the universal as the essence of the individual, and to give definitions according to conceptions was as correct (for no science is possible without the universal) as the theor}' of Plato in exalting these universal conceptions to an independ- ent subsistence as real individual substances, was erroneous. Nothing universal, nothing which is a kind or a species, exists besides and separate from the individual ; a thing and its conception cannot be separated from each other. With these principles Aristotle hardly" deviated from Plato's funda- mental idea that the universal is the only true being, and the essence of indivichial things ; it ma}' rather be said that he has freed this idea from its original abstraction, and given it a more profound mediation with the phenomenal world. Notwithstanding his apparent contradiction to Plato, the fun- damental position of Aristotle is the same as that of his master, viz., that the essence of a thing {to tl icmv, to tl yv eivat) is know^n and represented in the conception ; Aristotle however recognizes the universal, the conception, to be as little separated from the determined phenomenon as form from matter, and essence or substance {ova-La) in its most proper sense is, according to him, onl}' that which cannot be predicated of another, but of which ever}' other may be pre- dicated ; it is that which is a this (roSe n) , the individual thing and not a universal. ARISTOTLE. 139 (2) The four Aristotelian Principles or Causes, and the Relation of Form and Matter. — From the criticism of the Pla- tonic doctrine of ideas arose directly the groundwork of the Aristotelian system, the determinations of matter (vXrj), and form (etSo?). Aristotle enumerates four metaphysical prin- ciples or causes : matter, form, efficient cause, and end. In a house, for instance, the matter is the wood, the form is the conception of the house, the efficient cause is the builder, and the end is the actual house. These four determinations of all being resolve themselves upon a closer scrutiny- into the fundamental antithesis of matter and form. The conception of the efficient cause is iuA'olved with the two other ideal prin- ciples of form and of end. The efficient cause is that which secures the transition of the incomplete actuality or poten- tiality to the complete actualit}*, or induces the becoming of matter to form. But in ever}' movement of the incomplete to the complete, the latter is the logical 2>''*ws, the logical motive of the transition. The efficient cause of matter is therefore form. So is man the efficient cause of man ; the form of the statue in the understanding of the artist is the cause of the moA-ement b^' which the statue is produced ; health must be in the thought of the physician before it can become the efficient cause of convalescence ; so in a certain sense is medicine health, and the art of building the form of the house. But in the same wa}', the efficient or first cause is also identical with the final cause or end, for the end is the motive for all becoming and movement. The efficient cause of the house is the builder, but the efficient cause of the builder is the end to be attained, i.e., the house. From such examples as these it is seen that the determinations of form and end maj^ be considered under one, in so far as both are united in the conception of actuality (ivipyua), for the end of every thing is its completed being, its conception or its form, the bringing out into complete actuality that which was potentially' contained in it. The final cause of the hand is its conception, the final cause of the seed is the tree, which is at 140 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. the same time the essence of the seed. The onl}- fundamen- tal determinations, therefore, which cannot be "wholl}' resolved into each other, are matter and form. Matter when abstracted from form in thought, Aristotle re- garded as that which is entirely without predicate, determi- nation, and distinction. It is that abiding thing which lies at the basis of all becoming ; but which in its own being is different from every thing which has become. It is capable of the widest diversity of forms, but is itself without deter- minate form ; it is CA^ery thing in possibilit}', but nothing in actualit}'. There is a first matter which lies at the basis of every determinate thing, preciselj- as the wood is related to the bench and the marble to the statue. With this concep- tion of matter Aristotle prides himself upon having conquered the difficulty so frequently urged of explaining the possibility that any thing can become, since being can neither come out of being nor out of not-being. For it is not out of not-being absolutely', but only out of that which as to actualit}' is not- being, but Avhich potentiall}- is being, that an}- thing becomes. Possible or potential being is no more not-being than actual- ity. Every existing object of nature is hence onl}- a potential thing which has become actualized. Matter is thus a far more positive substratum with Aristotle than with Plato, who had treated it as absolutely not-being. From this is clearl}' seen how Aristotle could apprehend matter in opposition to form as something positively' negative and antithetic to the form, and as its positive negation (o-repTjo-ts) . As matter coincides with potentiality, so does form coin- cide with actualit}'. It is that which makes a distinguishable and actual object, a this (roSe rt) out of the undistinguished and indeterminate matter ; it is the peculiar virtue, the com- pleted activity, the soul of ever}' thing. That which Aris- totle calls form, therefore, is not to be confounded with what we perhaps may call shape ; a hand severed from the arm, for instance, has still the outward shape of a hand, but ac- cording to the Aristotelian apprehension, it is only a hand ARISTOTLE. 141 now as to matter and not in form : an actual hand, a hand in form, is onl}' that which can do the proper work of a liand. Pure form is that which, in truth, is without matter (to rt yu elvai) ; or, in otlier words, the conception of being, the pure conception. But such pure form does not exist in the realm of determined being ; ever}' determined being, ever}' indi- vidual substance (oio-ta), ever}' thing which is a this, is rather a totality of matter and form, a avvoXov. It is, therefore, owing to matter, that being is not pure form and pure conception ; matter is the ground of the becoming, the manifold, and the accidental ; and it is this, also, which gives to science its limits. For in precisely the measure in which the individual thing bears in itself a material element is it incognizable. From what has been said, it follows that the opposition be- tween matter and form is a variable one, that being matter in one respect which in another is form ; building-wood, e.g., is matter in relation to the completed house, but in relation to the unhewn tree it is form ; the soul in respect to the body is form, but in respect to the reason, which is the form of form (etSos elSovi) is it matter. On this standpoint the totality of all existence may be represented as a ladder, whose lowest step is a prime matter {irptsir-q vXrj) , which is not at all form, and whose highest step is an ultimate form which is not at all matter, but is pure form (the absolute, divine spirit). That which stands between these two points is in one respect mat- ter, and in another respect form, i.e., the former is ever trans- lating itself into the latter. This position, which lies at the basis of the Aristotelian view of natui'e, is attained analyti- cally through the observation that all nature exhibits the per- petual and progressive transition of matter into form, and shows the exhaustless and original ground of things as it comes to view in ever-ascending ideal formations. That all matter should become form, and all that is potential should be actual, and all that is should be known, is doubtless the demand of the reason and the end of all becoming ; yet is this actually impracticable, since Aristotle expressly affirms 142 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. that matter as the antithesis, or negation of form, can never become wholly actualized, and therefore can never be per- fectly known. The Aristotelian system ends thus hke its predecessors, in the unsubdued dualism of matter and form. (3.) Potentiality and Actuality (Swa/Ats and ivipyua). — The relation of matter to form, logically apprehended, is but the relation of potentialit}' to actualit}-. These terms, which Aristotle fu'st emplo3'ed according to their philosophical sig- nificance, ai^e very characteristic of his S3'stem. AYe have in the movement of potential being to actual being the explicit conception of becoming, and in the four principles we have a distribution of this conception into its parts. The Aristote- lian S3'stem is consequentl}' a S3'stem of the becoming, in which the Heraclitic principle appears again in a richer and profounder apprehension, as that of the Eleatics had done with Plato. Aristotle in this has made no insignificant step towards the subjection of the Platonic dualism. If matter is the possibilit3' of form, or reason becoming, then is the oppo- sition between the idea and the phenomenal world potentiall3' overcome, at least in principle, since there is one being which appears both in matter and form onl3' in different stages of development. The relation of the potential to the actual Aristotle illustrates b3' the relation of the unfinished to the finished work, of the unemplo3'ed carpenter to the one at work upon his building, of the individual asleep to him awake. Potentiall3' the seed is the tree, but the grown-up tree is it actuall3" ; the potential philosopher is he who is not at this moment in a philosophizing condition ; even before the battle the better general is the potential conqueror ; potentiall3' space is infinitel3' divisible ; in fact ever3' thing is potentialh' which possesses a principle of motion, of development, or of change, and which, if unhindered by an3' thing external, will be of itself. Actualit3' or entelech3' on the other hand indicates the perfected act, the end as gained, the completel3^ actual (the grown-up tree, e.g.^ is the entelech3' of the seed), that ac- tivit3" in which the act and the completion of the act coincide, ARISTOTLE. 143 e.g., seeing, thinking (he sees and he has seen, he thinks and he has thouglit, are identical) , wliile in tliose activities which involve a becoming, e.g., to learn, to go, to become "well, the two are separated. In this apprehension of form (or idea) as actuality or entelechy, i.e., in joining it with the movement of the becoming, is found the chief antagonism of the Aris- totelian and Platonic s^'stems. Plato considers the idea as at rest, self-subsistent, and opposed to becoming and motion ; but with Aristotle the idea is the eternal product of the be- coming, it is an eternal energA', i.e., an activit}' in complete actuality, it is not perfect being, but is being produced in every moment and eternalh', through the movement of the potential to its actual end. (4) The Absolute, Divine Spirit. — Aristotle sought to es- tablish from a number of points of view, the conception of the absolute spirit, or as he calls it, the first mover, and espe- cially' b}' connecting it with the relation of potentialit}' and actuality. (a) The Cosmological Form. — The actual is ever antece- dent to the potential not only in conception (for I can speak of potentiality' onl}' in reference to some activit}') but also in time, for the possible becomes actual onl}' through an acting ; the uneducated becomes educated through the educated, and this leads to the assumption of a first mover which is pure activit}'. Or, again, motion, becoming, or a chain of causes is possible onl}' through the prior existence of a principle of motion, a mover. But this principle of motion must be one whose essence is actuality, since that w^hich onl}' exists in possibility need not become actual, and therefore cannot be a principle of motion. All becoming postulates, thus, some- thing which is eternal and which has not become, which it- self unmoved is a principle of motion, a first mover. (b) The Ontological Form. — In the same wa}' it follows from the conception of potentialit}', that the eternal and necessarj^ being cannot be potential. For that which poten- tially is, may just as well either be or not be ; but that which 144 A HisTonY or philosophy. possibl}- is not, is temporal and not eternal. Nothing there- fore which is absolutely permanent, is potential, but onl}' actual. Or, again, if potentialit}- be the first, nothing can exist : but this contradicts the conception of the absolute, which it is impossible should not be. (c) The Moral Form. — Potentiality alvva^-s involves a possibility of opposites. He who has the capacit}' to be well, has also the capacity to be sick, but actuall}' no man is at the same time both sick and well. Therefore actualit}- is better than potentialit}-, and it alone can belong to the eternal. {d) So far as the relation of potentialit}' and actuality is identical with the relation of matter and form, we may appre- hend, in the following wa}', these arguments for the existence of a being which is pure actuality-. The supposition of an abso- lute matter without form (the irpuirq vk-q) involves also the supposition of an absolute form without matter (a TrpuJTov ciSos) . And since the conception of form resolves itself into the three determinations of the efficient, the intelligible, and the final cause, so is the eternal one the absolute principle of motion (the first mover, -n-pwrov x'-vow) , the absolute notion or pure intelligible (the pure tl rjv ehai), and the absolute end (prime good). All the other predicates of the first mover or the highest principle of the world, follow from these premises with logical necessit}'. Unity belongs to him, since the ground of the manifoldness of being lies in matter and he has no participa- tion in matter ; he is immovable and abiding ever the same, since otherwise he could not be the absolute mover and the cause of all becoming ; he is life as active self-end and en- telech}' ; he is at the same time intelligible and intelligence, because he is absolutel}' immaterial and independent of na- ture ; he is active, i.e., thinking intelligence, because his essence is pure actualit}- ; he is self-contemplating intelli- gence, because the divine thought cannot attain its actuality in an}' thing external, since if it were the thought of an}' thing other than itself, it would depend upon some potential exist- AEISTOTLE. 145 ence for its actualization. Hence the famed Aristotelian defi- nition of the absolute that it is the thought of thought (voi^o-ts J/0J/O-6W?) , the personal unity of the thinking and the thought, of the knowing and the known, the absolute subject-object. In the Metaphysic (XII. 1) we have a statement in order of these attributes of the Divine Spirit, and an almost devout sketch of the eternally blessed Deit}', knowing himself in his eternal tranquillity- as the absolute truth, satisfied with him- self, and wanting neither in activity nor in an}' virtue. As would appear from this statement, Aristotle never fully developed the idea of his absolute spirit, and still less hai*- monized it wath the fundamental principles and demands of his philosoph}-, although many consequences of his system would seem to drive him to this, and immerous principles which he has laid down would seem to prepare the way for it. This idea is unexpectedly introduced in the twelfth book of the Metaphysic simpl}' as an assertion, without being farther and inductivel}' substantiated. It is attended with important difficulties. We do not see w-h}' the ultimate ground of mo- tion or the absolute spirit must be conceived as a personal being ; we do not see how any thing can be a moving cause and 3'et itself unmoved ; how it can be the origin of all be- coming, that is of the departing and arising, and itself remain a changeless energy, a principle of motion with no poten- tialit}' to be moved, for the moving thing must stand in a relation of passivity and activity with the thing moved. Moreover, Aristotle, as would follow from these contradictor}- determinations, never thoroughly and consistently developed the relation between God and the w^orld. He considered the absolute spirit only as contemplative and theoretical reason, from whom all action must be excluded because he is perfect end in himself, since every action presupposes an end not 3'et realized ; we have thus no true motive for his activity in reference to the world. He cannot be truly called the first mover in his theoretical relation alone, and since he is in his essence extra-mundane and unmoved, he cannot once per- 10 146 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. meate the life of the world with his activity, and since also mattei' on one side never rises whoU}' to form, we have, there- fore, here again the unreconciled dualism between the Divine Spirit and the unmistakable reality of matter. Many of the arguments which Aristotle brings against the god of Anaxa- goras ma}^ be urged against his own theory-. IV. The Aristotelian Physics. — The physics of Aris- totle, which embraces the greater portion of his writings, follows the becoming and the building up of matter into form, the successive stages through which nature as a living being progresses in order to become individual soul. All becoming has an end ; but end is form, and the absolute form is spirit. With perfect consistency', therefore, Aristotle regards the hu- man individual of the male sex as the end and the centre of earthly nature in its realized form. All else beneath the moon is, as it were, an unsuccessful attempt of nature to pro- duce the male human, and is a superfluit}' which arises from the impotence of nature to subdue the whole of matter and bring it into form. Eveiy thing which does not attain the universal end of nature must be regarded as incomplete, and is properly an exception or abortion. For instance, he calls it an abortion when a child does not resemble its father ; and the female child he looks upon as an abortion in a less de- gree, which he accounts for b^' the insufficient energ}' of the male as the forming principle. In general, Aristotle regards the female as imperfect in comparison with the male, an im- perfection which belongs in a higher degree to all the inferior animals. If nature did her work eonsciousl}', all these mis- takes, these incomplete and improper formations would be inexplicable, but she is an artist working only from an un- conscious impulse, and does not complete her work with a clear rational insight. 1. The universal conditions of all natural existence, mo- tion^ space, and time, Aristotle investigates in the books of phj'sics. These ph3-sical conceptions may, also, be reduced to the metaph^'sical notions of potentialit}' and actuality ; ARISTOTLE. 147 motion is according!}' defined as the activity of potential be- ing, and is therefore a mean between the merelj' potential entity and the perfectly realized actualit}-, — space is the possibilit}- of motion, and possesses, therefore, potentially, though not actuall}', the property of infinite divisibility ; time is in the same wa}' infinitely divisible, and, as expressing the measure of motion numericall}', is the number of motion according to before and after. All three are infinite, but the infinite which is represented in them is onl}' potentiall}' but not actuall}' a whole : it comprehends nothing, but is itself comprehended, — a fact mistaken b}' those who are accus- tomed to extol the infinite as though it comprehended and held every thing in itself, because it has some similarity- to totalit}'. 2. From his conception of motion Aristotle derives his view of the collective universe^ as brought out in his books De Ccelo. The most perfect motion is the circular, because this is constant, uniform, and ever returning into itself. The world as a whole is therefore conditioned bj' the circular mo- tion, and being a whole complete in itself, it has a spherical form. But because the motion which returns into itself is better than every other, it follows, from the same ground, that in this spherical universe the better sphere will be in the circumference where the circular motion is most perfect, and the inferior one will arrange itself around the centre of the universal sphere. The former is heaven, the latter earth, and between the two stand the planetarj' spheres. Heaven, as the place of circular motion, and the scene of unchangeable order, stands nearest the first moving cause, and is under its immediate influence ; it consists not of perishable matter but of the finer element ether ; it is the place where the ancients, guided b}' the correct tradition of a lost wisdom, have placed the Divine abode. Its parts, the fixed stars, are passionless, unalterable, and eternal essences, which, having attained the best end, must be conceived as existing in an eternal, tu-eless activity, and which, though not clearl}' cognizable, are yet 148 A HISTORY OP PHILOSOPHY. much more divine than man. A lower sphere, next to that of the fixed stars, is the sphere of the planets, among which, besides the five known to the ancients, he reckons the sun and the moon. This sphere stands a little removed from the most perfect : instead of moving directl}" from right to left, as do the fixed stars, the planets move in contrary du-ections and in oblique orbits ; the}" serve the fixed stars, and are ruled by theu' motion. Lastl}', the earth is in the centre of the uni- A^erse, farthest removed from the first mover, and hence par- taking in the smallest degree of the Divine ; it is the sphere, — under the influence of the planets, and especiall}' of the sun, — of constant interchange of arising. and departing, 3'et exhibiting throughout this endless process a picture of the eternity of heaven. There are thus three kinds of being, exhibiting three stages of perfection, necessar}' for the expla- nation of nature ; first, the absolute spuit or God, an imma- terial being, who, himself unmoved, produces motion ; second, the super-terrestrial region of the heavens, a being which is moved and which moves, and which, though not without mat- ter, is eternal and unchangeable, and possesses ever a circular motion ; and, lastl}^ in the lowest course this earth, a change- ful being, which has onl}" to pla}' the passive part of being moved. 3. Nature in a strict sense, the scene of elemental action, presents to us a constant and progressive transition of the elementar}' to the vegetable, and of the vegetable to the ani- mal world. The lowest step is occupied b}' inanimate things, which are simple products of the union of the elements, and have their entelechy only in the determinate combinations of these elements, but whose energy consists onl}' in striving after a place in the universe adapted to them, and in resting there so far as the}" reach it unhindered. But living bodies have no such merely external entelech}' ; within them dwells a motion as organizing principle b}' which they attain to actu- ality, and which as a preserving activit}' develops in thera towards a perfected organization, — in a word they have ft ARISTOTLE. 149 soul, for a soul is the entelechy of an organic bod}'. In plants we find the soul working oul}' as a conserving and nour- ishing energy : the plant has no other function than to nourish itself and to propagate its kind ; among animals — where progress is determined b\' their mode of reproduction — the soul appears as sensitive ; animals have sense, and are capable of locomotion ; lasth', the human soul is at the same time nutritive, sensitive, and cognitive. 4. Man, as the end of all nature, embraces in himself the different steps of development in which the life of nature is exhibited. The division of the faculties of the soul must therefore be necessarily regulated according to the division of living creatures. As nutrition is the sole propert}' of vege- tables, and sensation, of animals, while the more perfect animals are capable of locomotion, so are these three activi- ties also functions of the human soul, the first being the necessary condition of, and presupposed b}', the other two ; while the soul itself is nothing other than the union of these different activities of an organic body in one common activity' directed b}' design, as the entelech}' of the organic bod^'. The soul is related to the body as form to matter ; it is its vital principle ; but for this very reason it cannot be con- ceived to exist per se, apart from the bod}'. The fourth faculty, thought or reason, which, added to the thi'ee others, constitutes the peculiarity of the human soul, forms alone an exception from the general law. It is not a simple product of the lower faculties of the soul, it does not stand related to them simply as a higher stage of dcA-elopment, nor simpl}- as the soul to the body, as the end to the instrument, as actualit}' to possibilit}', as form to matter. But as pure in- tellectual activity, it perfects itself without the mediation of any bodily organ ; as the reason comes into the body from without it is independent of all connection with the functions of the body ; it is absolutely simple, immaterial, self-subsist- ent, — the divine in man ; it is also separable from the body. True, there exists a connection between thought and sensa- 150 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. tion, for while the sensations are outvvardl}' divided, accord- ing to the different objects of sense, yet internall}' the}' meet in one centre, as a common sense. Here the}' become changed into images and representations, wliich again become transmuted into thoughts, and so it might seem as if thought wer-^, only the result of the sensation, as if intelligence were passivel}' determined ; hence Aristotle distinguishes between the reason as active and the reason as passive (receptive), the latter being only gradually developed into cognition through reflection. (Here we might notice the proposition falsel}' ascribed to Aristotle : nUiil est in intellectu quod non fuerit in sensu, and also the well-known though often misunderstood comparison of the soul with an unwritten tablet, which only implies this much, viz., that as the unwritten tablet is poten- tially but not actuall}^ a book, so does knowledge belong potentiall}' though not actually to the human reason ; funda- mentall}' and radicall}' thought ma}' have potentially in itself universal conceptions, in so far as it has the capacity to form them, but not actually nor in a determined or developed form) . But this passiA'ity presupposes rather an activity ; for if the thought in its actuality, since it appears as knowledge, be- comes all forms and therefore all things, then must the thought constitute itself that which it becomes, and therefore all passively determined human intelligence rests on an origi- nally active intelligence, which exists as self-actualizing pos' sibility and pure actuality, and which, as such, is wholly independent of the human body, and has not its entelechy in it but in itself, and is not therefore participant in the death of the body, but lives on as universal reason, eternal and immortal. The Aristotelian dualism here again appears. Manifestly this active intelligence stands related to the soul as God to nature. The two sides possess no essential rela- tion to each other. As the Divine Spirit could not enter into the life of the world, so is the human spirit unable to per- meate the life of sense ; although it is determined as some- thing passionless and immaterial, still must it as sou.l be ARISTOTLE. 151 connected with matter ; and although it is pure and self-con- teinplative form, still it should be distinguished from the Divine Spirit which is its counterpart ; the want of a satis- factory mediation on the side of the human and on that of the Divine, is unmistakable. V. The Aristotelian Ethics. 1. Relation of Ethics TO Physics. — Aristotle, guided b}" his tendency towards the natural, connected ethics and plnsics more closeh' than either of his predecessors, Socrates or Plato, had done. AYhile Plato found it impossible to speak of the good in man's moral condition disconnected from the idea of the good in itself, Aristotle's principal object is to determine what is good for man solel}' ; and he supposes that the good in itself, the idea of the good, in no way facilitates the knowledge of that good which alone is attainal)le in practical life. It is only the lat- ter, the moral element in the life of men, and not the good in the great affairs of the universe, with which ethics has to do. Aristotle therefore considers the good especially in its rela- tion to the natural condition of men, and affirms that it is the end towards which nature herself tends. Instead of viewing the moral element as something pureh' intellectual, he rather apprehends it as only the bloom of the phj-sical, which here becomes spiritualized and ethical ; instead of making A'irtue to be knowledge, he treats it as the normal perfection of natural instinct. That man is hy nature a political animal, is the fundamental proposition of his theoiy of the state. From this union of the ethical and the ph3-sical, arose the objections which Aristotle urged against the Socratic concep- tion of virtue. Socrates had placed the essence of virtue in an intellectual activity superior to and dominant over sense, and had accordingly made virtue and knowledge one. But in this, said Aristotle, the pathological element which is as- sociated by nature with ever}* moral act, is destro^'ed. It is not reason, but the sensations, passions, and natural bias of the soul, without which no action is conceivable, which are the first ground of virtue. There is an instinct in the sou) 152 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. which at first strives unconscioiisl}' after tlie good, wliich is only subsequent!}' souglit with the full moral insight. Moral- it}' arises only from natural virtue. It is on tliis ground, also, that Aristotle combats the notion that virtue may be learned. It is not through the perfection of knowledge, but b}' exercise, that we become acquainted with the good. It is b}' a practice of virtue that we become virtuous, just as b}- a practice of building and of music we become architects and musicians ; for the liabit which is the ground of moral con- stancy', is onlj- a fruit of the abundant repetition of a moral action. Accurate insight is indeed essential to the perception of the good and to the realization of it in particular acts ; in- sight, however, cannot make a virtuous will, but is rather itself conditioned by the will, since a perverted will corrupts and misleads the judgment. It is bj' three things, therefore, nature, habit, and reason, that man becomes good. The standpoint of Aristotle is in these respects directly opposed to that of Socrates. While Socrates regarded the moral and the natural as opposites, and made moral conduct to be the result of rational enlightenment, Aristotle treated both as different steps of development, and reversing the order of Socrates, made rational enlightenment in moral things conse- quent upon moral conduct. 2. The Highest Good. — Ever}' action has an end; but every end cannot be itself only a means to some other end ; there must rather be an ultimate, highest end, something after which w^e can strive for its own sake, and which is a good absolutely, or a best. What now is this highest good and supreme object of human pursuit? In name, at least, all men are agreed upon it, and call it happiness, but what hap- piness is, is a much disputed point. If it be asked in what human happiness consists, the first characteristic given would be that it is something altogether peculiar to man's nature ; that it must consist in an activity which springs from this nature, and elevates it to a more perfect actuahty, thereby inducing the feeling of complete satisfaction. But man's AKISTOTLE. 153 peculiarity is not sensation, for he shares this with the brutes. A sensation of pleasure, therefore, which arises when some desire is gratified, may be the happiness of the brute, but cer- tainly does not constitute the essential of human happiness. That which is peculiarlj- human is rational activity. Man is by A'irtue of his nature and intelligence adapted to rational action, to the rational exercise of his natural faculties and powers. This is his vocation and his happiness ; for to the activity itself, the unrestrained, successful exercise to which its nature compels it, is always the highest and best. Hap- piness, therefore, is a well-being, which is at the same time a well-doing, and it is a well-doing which satisfies all the conditions of nature, and wliicli finds the highest contentment or well-being in an unrestrained energ}'. Activity and pleas- ure are inseparabl}' bound together b}' a natural bond, and happiness is the result of their union when the}' are sustained through a perfect life. Hence the Aristotelian definition of happiness. It is a perfect practical activity- in a perfect life. Although it might seem from this as though Aristotle placed the happiness of man in the natural activity of the soul, and regarded this as self-sufficient, still he is not blind to the fact that perfect happiness is dependent on other kinds of good whose possession is not absolutely within our power. It is true he expresses an opinion that outward things in moderation are sufficient, and that only great success or sig- nal reverses materiall}' influence the happiness of life ; still he holds that wealth, the possession of friends and children, noble bu'tli, beaut}' of bod}-, etc., are more or less necessar}' conditions of happiness, which is therefore parti}' dependent on accidental circumstances. This element in the Aristo- telian theory of happiness springs naturally from his empiri- cal method of investigation. Careful in noting every thing which general experience seems to furnish, he expressly avoids making either virtue (rational activit}) or pleasure his principle, because actual experience shows that each is conditioned by the other. He thus avoided the one-sidedness 154 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. of later philosophers, who considered happiness to be alto- gether independent of externals. 3. CoNCEPTroN OF Virtue. — As has alread}- been seen in the Aristotelian Polemic against Socrates, virtue is the product of an oft-repeated moral action, a condition acquired through practice, a moral dexterit}' of the soul. The nature of this dexterity is seen in the following way : every action accomplishes something as its work ; but if a work is imper- fect when it has either a want or a superfluity', so also is every action imperfect in so far as there is in it either too little or too much ; its perfection, therefore, consists in main- taining the due proportion, the true mean between too much and too little. Accordingl}', virtue in general may be defined as the observance of the right mean in action ; b}- which is meant not the arithmetical or absolute mean, but the one relative to ourselves. For what is enough for one individual is insufficient for another. The virtue of a man, of a woman., of a child, and of a slave is respectively different. Thus, virtue depends upon time, circumstance, and relation. The determination of this correct mean will therefore always be doubtful. An exact and exhaustive rule being impossible, we can onl}' say respecting it that it is a question of correct practical insight: i.e., that is the correct mean which is seen to be such b}- the intelligent man. It follows from this general conception of virtue, that there will be as many separate virtues as there are circumstances of life, and as men are ever entering into new relations, in which it becomes difficult practically' to determine the correct method of action, Aristotle, in opposition to Plato, would limit the separate virtues by no definite number. Onh' in so far as there exist certain constant relations in human life, can certain fundamental virtues be named. For instance, man has a fixed relation to pleasure and pain. In relation to pain, the true moral mean is found in neither fearing nor courting it, and this is valor. In relation to pleasure, the true mean standing between oreediness and indifference ARISTOTLE. 155 is temperance. In social life, the moral mean is between doing and suffering wrong, wliicli is justice. In a similar wa}' many other virtues might be characterized, each one of them standing as a mean between two vices, the one of which expresses a want and the other a superfluit}'. A closer ex- liibition of the Aristotelian doctrine of virtue would have much psychological and linguistic interest, though but little philosophical worth. Aristotle forms his conception of virtue more from the use of language than from a thoroughly ap- plied principle of classification. His catalogue of the virtues of practical life is, thus, devoid of all systematic deduction and arrangement. His classification of the virtues into the ethical and dianoetic^ i.e., into those which relate to the pas- sions and affections, and those which relate to knowledge (practical and theoretical) is the most scientific. The latter class, since they are the virtues of the vovs-, of that which is highest in man, are more elevated than the former. AVis- dom, OiwpLa, is the best and noblest ; and philosophy, or the life in wisdom, is supreme happiness. But it is precisely in this class of virtues that the rule that virtue is the correct mean between two extremes, cannot be applied ; for the}' ex- ist independently, side b}' side, in the same dualistic relation which reason holds to the other faculties of the soul. 4. The State. — The individual b}' himself, according to Aristotle, can attain neither virtue nor happiness. Ethical culture and moral aetivit}-, as well as the attainment of the external means necessary thereto, are conditioned through a regulated social life, within which the individual obtains edu- cation in the good, the protection of law, the assistance of others, and the opportunit}- for the practice of virtue. JMore- over, since man is b}' nature destined for societ}', since he is a political animal, a truly human life is possible only in a conuTiunity. The state is thus superior to the individual, superior even to the family ; individuals are only accidental parts of the political whole. Still, Aristotle is so far from adopting Plato's abstract apprehension of this relation, that 156 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. he express!}' controverts Plato's political theories. He agrees with Pluto in believing tliat the prime oVyect of the state is to make its citizens good men, to make human life perfect; but he saw that this could not be accomplished b}- destro3ing the natural rights of the individual and the lamily, personal free- dom, and the distinction between meum and tuum. The state, he said, is not a unity, but is essentially a manifold of smaller communities and individuals. This fact the state must recognize, and must endeavor by means of its consti- tution and laws to make virtue and culture as geneial as possible, and to place political power in the hands of virtuous citizens. Of the different forms of gOA^ernmeut Aristotle pre- ferred the limited monarch}' and aristocrac}' ; i.e., the state which is governed not b}' wealth nor b}' the mere majorit}', but by those citizens, who through the possession of a com- l)etency have received a careful education in morals, and are, thus, fitted to direct and govern the whole. That state is the best in which vu-tue, whether it be that of one man or of more, rules. Aristotle, however, does not advocate an}' particular constitution as universally best. The question, he thinks, is not of an ideal state, but of what is most advisable under the given natural, climatic, geographic, economic, in- tellectual, and moral conditions. In this he is faithful to the character of his whole philosophy. Standing on the basis of the empirical, he advances here as elsewhere, critically and reflectively, and in despair of attauiing the absolutely true and good, he seeks for these relatively, with his eye fixed only on the probable and the practicable. VI. The Peripatetic School. — The school of Aristotle, called the Peripatetic, can here only be mentioned ; the want of independence in its philosophizing, and the absence of any great and universal influence, rendering it unworthy an ex- tended notice. Theophrastus, Eudemus, and Strato are its most famous leaders. Like most philosophical schools, it confines itself chiefly to a more thorough elaboration and ex- planation of the system of its master. In some empirical ARISTOTLE. 157 provinces, especiall}' the ph3'sical, the attempt was made to carry out still further the system, while at the same time its speculative basis was set aside and neglected. This view was most fully developed by Strato the physicist, who aban- doned the Aristotelian dualism between the intellectual and the natural principle of things, and declared nature to be the sole, all-producing and all-sustaining power of existence. VII. Transition to the Post- Aristotelian Philosophy. — The productive energy of Grecian philosoph}' expends it- self with Aristotle, contemporaneously and in connection with the universal decay of Grecian life and spirit. Instead of the great and universal systems of a Plato and an Aristotle, we have now systems of a partial and one-sided character, corresponding to that universal breach between the subject and the objective world which characterized the civil, relig- ious, and social life of this last epoch of Greece, the time succeeding Alexander the Gi*eat. That subjectivity', which had been first propounded by the Sophists, was at length, after numerous struggles, victorious, though its triumph was gained upon the ruins of the Grecian civil and artistic life ; the individual has become emancipated from society and the state ; his unquestioning belief in the given world is wholly destroyed ; there remains onl}- the problem of developing and satisf^'ing a subjectivitj' which has become autonomic and self-centred. This general intellectual movement of the age appears also in philosophy. It lost both its purel}' scientific and its political interest ; it became a mean for the subject, b}' which he endeavored to procure what the deca3'ing relig- ious life and morality of the state could no longer furnish, namel}', a philosophic conviction in reference to the highest religious, metaphj'sical, and ethical problems, — a fixed theoiy of hfe and action attained through free thought alone. Every thing, even logic and physics, was viewed from this practical standpoint ; the former aflbrded the subject a sure knowledge elevated above all disquieting doubts ; the latter was ex- pected to give the necessary explanations in reference to the 158 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. ultimate grounds of all existence, of God, nature, and the constitution of man, whereby man might know his relations to all things, what he ought to hope or fear, and how his in- dividual happiness can be harmonized with the nature of things. In one respect, thus, the Post- Aristotelian S3'stems indicate an intellectual advance. They are in earnest with philosoph}' ; they would have it supplant religion and tradi- tion ; the}' would make it the truth of life, a faith, dogma, conviction, in accordance with which the subject must con- sistently direct his life and action, and in which he must seek peace and felicity. The result of this mode of thought was that men sought above all things certainty, ultimate knowl- edge ; the}' strove to arrive at some fixed ground ; the}' aban- doned the transcendentalism of the Platonic ideahsm, and the hypothetical philosophizing of Aristotle, and establishing themselves upon the realistic basis of immediate external and internal experience sought from thence to attain a theor}- of things which should be logicall}' developed and leave nothing undecided. In other words they sought to abolish the dual- ism of the Platonico- Aristotelian philosoph}', and finall}' solve the problem of reducing all the differences and antitheses of being, of subject and object, mind and matter, to one ulti- mate ground. Philosoph}' was to explain every thing ; no gap, uncertaint}', halfness, should be allowed to remain. On the other hand, however, the Post -Aristotelian philosoph}' is wanting in true scientific devotion to the object ; it is a dog- matism which aims only at truth for the subject and is there- fore one-sided ; it emphasizes not things nor thought, but the subjective consistenc}- of thought. It sought to attain truth b}' the logical application of a single principle throughout the entire sphere of being. Hence there appeared in opposition to this dogmatism, and with equal positiveness, a scepticism which denied the possibilit}' of real knowledge, and developed the negative tendencies of the Sophistic and Megaric eristic to their extremest consequences. The most important sjstem of the Post- Aristotelian period AEISTOTLE. 159 is the Stoic. In it subjectivit}' appears as universal, thinking subjectivit}' (c/. Sect. XI. 6) ; and this superiority- of the uni- A^ersality of subjectivity, of tliought, to every thing special and particular is its theoretical and practical principle. All particular existences are onl}' the product of the universal reason which lives and acts in aU things : the one universal reason is the essence of things. Hence the vocation of man is no other than to realize this universal subjectivit}' which is elevated above all vicissitude of circumstance, and thus to seek his happiness not in external things and particular satis- factions, but in a life in harmony with nature and reason. A precisely opposite view was advocated by Epicureanism. In it the subject withdraws itself into the individualit}- of pleas- ure, into the happiness of philosophic repose, enjo3'ing the pres- ent, keeping itself free from all care and inordinate passion, and occupying itself with the objective world onlj^ so far as it is a means for the enjoj'ment of its individuality. Scejyti- cism coincides with these two systems in that it endeavors to render the subject indifferent to every thing external ; but it sought to attain this indifference negativeh', by the renun- ciation of all definite knowledge and volition. Finally-, this subjectivity is also exhibited b}' the last of the philosophical s^'stems of antiquit}', Neo-Platonism ; for it also makes the elevation of the subject to the absolute its corner-stone. For if, on the other hand, Neo-Platonism speculates objectively in reference to God and his relation to the finite, this speculation had its motive in the desh-e to demonstrate a continuous transition from the absolute object to human personality. The predominant influence, therefore, even here, is the interest of subjectivity' ; and the greater wealth of objective determinations was grounded upon the fact that subjectivit}' had been expanded into absoluteness. 160 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. SECTION XVII. STOICISM. Zeno, the founder of the Stoic school, was born aLout 340 B.C., hi Citium, a city of C3'prus. He was not of pure Greek, but of Phoenician extraction. Deprived of his prop- ert}^ b}' shipwreck, he took refuge in philosoph}', incited also b}' an inner bias to such pursuits. He at fii'st became a dis- ciple of the Cjnic Crates, then of Stilpo, one of the Mega- rians, and lastly he betook himself to the Academy, where he heard the lectures of Polemo. After twentj- 3'ears had been occupied in this way, haA'ing become convinced of the neces- sity of a new philosophy, he opened a school at Athens, in the " variegated porch," so called from the paintings of Polj'gnotus, with which it was adorned, whence his adher- ents received the name of " philosophers of the porch " (Sto- ics) . Zeno is said to have presided over his school for fifty- eight 3-ears, and at a ver}- advanced age to have put an end to his existence. He was praised by the ancients for the temperance and the austerit}' of his habits, while his ab- stemiousness is proverbial. The monument in his honor, erected after his death b}' the Athenians, at the instance of Antigonus, bore the high but simple eulogium that his life had been in unison with his philosoph}'. Cleanthes of Assos, in Asia Minor, was the successor of Zeno in the Stoic school, and faithfully' carried out the method of his master. Clean- thes was succeeded b}' Chrysipjnis (born at Soli, in Cilicia) , who died about 208 b.c. He has been regarded as the chief support of the school ; so much so, indeed, that it was said of him, that without a Chrj'sippus there never would have been a Stoa. At all events, as Chrysippus was an object of the greatest veneration, and of almost undisputed authority with the later Stoics, he ought to be considered as the princi- STOICISM. 161 pal founder of the school. He was a writer so volnmhious, that his works have been said to amount to seven hundred and five, among wliieh, however, were repeated treatises upon the same propositions, and citations without measure from poets and historians, given to prove and illustrate his opinions. Not one of all his writings has come clown to us. Clnysippus closes the series of the philosophers who founded the Stoic school. The later heads of the school, as PancetiuSj the friend of the 3'ounger Scipio (his famous work De Officiis, Cicero has elaborated in his treatise of the same name) , and Posidonius, may be classed with Cicero, Pompeius, and others, and were eclectic in their teachings. The Stoics con- nected philosophy most intimately' with the duties of practical life. Philosophj' is with them the practice of wisdom, the exercise of virtue, the training-school of virtue, the science of those principles in accordance with which a virtuous life must be guided. Thej^ asserted all science, art, culture, in so far as they are sought for their own sake to be super- fluous ; man should strive for nothing but wisdom, the knowl- edge of things human and divine, and should govern his life b}' this alone. Logic supplies the method for attaining true knowledge ; physics comprehends the theory- of nature and the order of the universe ; ethics deduces from these those consequences which relate to practical life. 1. Logic. — The feature most worthy of notice in their logic, is the striving after a subjective criterion of truth, by which they might accurately' distinguish true conceptions from false. All knowledge, according to the Stoics, originates in real impressions of external things upon the senses, in objec- tive sensuous experiences, which are combined into concep- tions by the understanding ; knowledge comes not from the subject but from the object ; this is the ground of its truth. Since, however, it is possible that representations of the subjective imagination ma}' insinuate themselves among the true conceptions which are produced in us b}' external things, the question arises, how shall we distinguish them, how sep- 11 162 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. arate the falsB from the true? The criterion for this is the irresistible evidence, the strength of conviction witli which the idea impresses itself upon the mind. Whenever a con- ception i)ossesses this evidence, when it compels the mind involuntarily to recognize its validity', it ma}- be assumed to be no mere figment of the imagination but the product of a real object. Other criterion than this "striking evidence" of a conception there is none since we know things only b}' means of conceptions. The Stoic theor}- of knowledge is thus a mean between empiricism and idealism. Sensuous expe- rience alone is certain ; but whether an}- thing is actuall}- per- ceived is decided onl}' b}' the iiTcsistible subjective conviction of truth which a perception brings with it. 2. Physics. — In their physics, where they follow for the most part Heraclitus, the Stoics are distinguished from their predecessors, especially from Plato and Aristotle, by their thoroughly carried out proposition that nothing uncorporeal exists, that ever}- thing essential is corporeal (just as in their logic they sought to derive all knowledge from the sensuous perception). This sensualism or materialism of the Stoics which, as we have seen in their logic, lies at the basis of their theory of knowledge, might seem foreign to all their moral and idealistic tendencies, but is clearly explained by their dogmatic standpoint ; an ideal being is, for them, not objec- tive, substantial enough ; the relations and activities of things are ideal, but things themselves must have corporeal reality. In the same way it seemed to them impossible that there can be any interaction between the ideal and corporeal, between the spiritual and the material. Reciprocity can exist only between things which are like in kind ; mind, the deity, the soul, are thus corporeal though different from the body and from matter. The most immediate consequence of this attempt to destroy the duality of mind and matter is their pantheism. Aristotle before them had separated the Divine Being from the world, as the pure and eternal form from the eternal matter ; but so far as this separation implied a dis- STOICISM. 163 tinction which was not simpl}' logical, but actual and real, the Stoics would not admit it. It seemed to them impossible to dissever God from matter, and they therefore considered God and the world in the relation of power and its manifes- tation, and thus as one. Matter is the passive ground of things, the original substratum for the divine activity' : God is the active and formative energ}' of matter dwelling within it, and essentially united to it : the world is the body of God, and God is the soul of the world. The Stoics, therefore, considered God and matter as one identical substance, which, on the side of its passive and changeable capacity they call matter, and on the side of its active and changeless energ}', God. The world has no independent existence, it is not self-subsistent finite being, but is produced, animated, and governed b}' God. It is a living thing (^wov) of which the Deity is the rational soul. Ever}' thing in it is equally di- vine since the divine power pervades all things alike. God exists in it as the eternal necessit}' which directs all things in accordance with unalterable law ; as the rational Providence which brings all things into harmon}' with its designs ; as the perfect wisdom which maintains the order of the world, com- mands and rewards the good, and forbids and punishes the evil. Nothing in the world can isolate itself, or overstep its natural limitations ; but each is unconditionally connected with the order of the whole whose principle and power is God. Thus even in the physics of the Stoics is displaj-ed that stern regard for law which is the chief characteristic of their philosoph}- : they are, like Heraclitus, the sworn ene- mies of all arbitrariness and individuality'. This principle of the unit}' of all being connects them in 3'et another way with Heraclitus. They apprehended the being of God, which according to then* philosophical principles must be corporeal, just as he did, i.e., as a fieiy, heat-giving force, which is the life of the world, and into which all individual lives are merged in order to be renewed under new forms, and so on ad infinitum {cf. Sect. VII. 8). At one time the}' call God 164 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. the rational breath which passes through all nature ; at an- other, the artistic fire which fasliions or begets tlie universe ; and still again the ether, which, however, they hardly distin- guish from the lire. This identifi(tation of God and the world, according to which the Stoics regarded the whole formation of the universe as but the development of God, renders their remaining doctrine concerning the world very simple. All the world seemed to them to be vitalized by the divine life, coming into special existence out of the divine whole, and returning into it again, thus forming a necessar}' cycle of origination and destruction in which the whole alone is pei"- manent and eternally renewed. On the other hand, nothing within this whole is in vain, nothing is without an end ; in every thing actual there is reason. Even the bad (within cer- tain limits) is necessary to the perfection of the whole, since it is the condition of virtue: e.g., injustice is the condition of justice. The world taken as a whole could have been no better than it is or more suited to its purpose. 3. The Ethics. — The ethics of the Stoics is most closely connected with their ph3sics. In the plnsics was demon- strated the rational order of the universe as it exists through the divine thought. In the ethics, the highest law of human action, and thus the whole moral governance of life, is made to depend upon this rational order and conformit}' to law in universal nature, and the highest good, or the highest end of our strivings, is to shape our life according to this universal law, to live ni conformity with the harmony of the world or with nature. "Follow nature," or "live in harmony with nature," is the moral maxim of the Stoics. More accurately : live in harmony with tli}" rational nature so far as this has not been distorted or corrupted by art, but is held in its nat- ural simplicit}' ; be consciously and voluntarily what thou art by nature, a rational part of a rational universe ; be reason and in reason, instead of following unreason and thine own arbitrary' desires. Herein consists thy vocation, herein th}' felicit}', since in this way thou avoidest ever}' thing which is STOICISM. 165 in contradiction with thy nature and the order of things with- out thee, and securest for thyself a calmly flowing, undis- turbed life. From this moral principle, in which the Stoic conception of virtue is also expressed, the peculiarities of their theory- of morals follow with logical necessity. (1) Respecting the Relation of Virtue to Pleasure. — The demand that life should be in conformity with nature subor- dinates the individual wholh* to the universal, and excludes every personal end. Hence pleasure, which of all ends is the most individual, must be disregarded. Pleasure, as the abate- ment of that moral energ}- of the soul, wherein all blessedness consists, could appear to the Stoics only as a hindrance to life, and therefore as an evil. Pleasure is not in conformity with nature, and is no end of nature, says Cleanthes ; and though other Stoics relax a little the strictness of this opin- ion, and admit that pleasure may be according to nature, and is to be considered in a certain degree as a good, ^et the}- all held fast to the doctrine, that it has no moral worth and is no end of nature, but is only something which is accidentally connected with the free and fitting activity of nature, while itself is not an activit}*, but a passive condition of the soul. In this lies the whole severity of the Stoic doctrine of morals ; every thing personal is cast aside, every external end of action is foreign to moralit}* ; wise action is the onl}' true aim. From this follows directl}' : (2) The View of the Stoics Concerning External Good. — Virtue, as the sole aim of a rational being, is also his sole blessedness, his only good ; since only inner rationality and strength of mind, a will and activity in harmony with nature, can make man happy and afford him a counterpoise to the accidents and restrictions of his outward life. From this it clearly follows that external goods, health, wealth, etc., are altogether indifferent : they add nothing to the rationality-, force, and greatness of the soul ; the}* can be used either rationally or irrationall}', and in the end are as liliel}- to prove 166 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. evil as good. Tliey are, therefore, not realh- good , virtue alone is advantageous. The loss of external possessions does not affect the happiness of the virtuous. Even the so- called external evils are not evils ; the onl}' evil is baseness, which is both unnatural and irrational. The Stoics differ from their predecessors, the Cynics, inasmuch as they admit that there may be a distinction among indifferent things ; that while none of these can be called a moral good, yet some may be preferable to others, and that the preferable, so far as it contributes to a life in conformity to nature, should enter into the account of a moral life. Thus the sage will prefer health and wealth when these are balanced in the choice with sickness and povert}-, but though these objects have been rationallv chosen, he does not esteem them as reallj' good, for they are not the highest, the}' are inferior to Adrtuous action, in com- parison with which every thing else sinks to insignificance. In making this distinction between the good and the prefer- able, we see how the Stoics exclude from the good every thing relative, and hold fast to it alone in its highest significance. (3) This abstract apprehension of the conception of virtue is still farther verified in the rigid antagonism which the Stoics affirmed between virtue and vice. Virtue is reasonableness, — right action in harmony with the nature of things ; A'ice is unreason, perversity, which is in contradiction to nature and truth. Either, they argue, the actions of a man are rational and uncontradictory or the}' are not. In the first case the man is good ; in the second, even though his act is but slightly opposed to reason and nature, he is bad. He alone is good who is perfectl}' good ; but he is bad who is in any degree irrational or vicious : e.(/., whoever yields to a desire, affection, passion, or commits a fault. Between virtue and vice there is no mean, no point of transition, an}' more than between truth and falsehood. From this the Stoics concluded that a perfectly moral act is possible only when the actor is altogether virtuous, /.e., has a perfect knowledge of the good and the power to completely realize it. Virtue must be pos- STOICISM. 167 sessed wholly or not at all : the virtuous man must therefore be absolutely virtuous. To this maj- be added the farther paradox of the Stoics, — all good actions are equall}^ right and equally' good ; all bad actions are equally faulty and therefore equally bad ; there are no degrees of goodness and badness, virtuousness and viciousness, but the two are abso- lutely antithetical. The Stoics on this point conceded only that legal acts which are in substantial accordance with the law of virtue but have not perfect virtue for their source, are intermediate between the good and the bad but have no moral worth. (4) Tlie Sjpecial Doctrine of Ethical Action was most completel}- developed by the later Stoics, who were thus the fouuders of deontology'. Virtue, according to the Stoics, consists in absolute correctness of judgment, in the soul's perfect control of pain, in its complete dominion over pleasure and desire, and in the absolute justice which estimates every- thing in accordance with its worth in the universe. They diA'ided duties into two classes, duties to self, and duties to others. The former relate to rational self-preservation and the avoidance of all that contradicts nature and reason ; the latter to those relations of the individual to society which must be directed b}' man's social nature, and in which all the claims of justice and humanity toward others must be satis- fied. The state is likewise a result of man's political nature. But the division of mankind into hostile peoples and states is a contradiction of human nature ; the whole human race should form one great communitj' with equal laws and equal rights. The Stoics, thus, originated the idea of cosmopoli- tism. The Stoic teachings conclude with the picture of the loise man, — the ideal tj-pe of virtue in its completest realization, which with its attendant subjective blessedness is set forth as a model and pattern for action. The wise man is he who actually possesses true knowledge of divine and human things, as well as the absolute moral insight and strength which flow 168 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. from it, and thus unites in himself all conceivable human perfections. The more special application of this thought appears paradoxical since such absolute perfection does not harmonize with the conception of individuality-. The Stoics, however, valued it most highl}- precisely because the eleva- tion of the indi^idual to pure and perfect virtue is the postu- late which supports their entire theor}- of ethics, and espe- cially distinguishes it from the Aristotelian, which requires onl}- isolated and relative virtues. The wise man, they said, knows ever^- thing, and understands every thing better than any other l^ecause he possesses a perfect mind and the knowledge of the true nature of things. He alone is the true statesman, lawgiver, orator, educator, critic, poet, phy- sician ; while the unwise man remains ever rude and uncul- tured, even though he possesses gi'eat knowledge. The wise man is unerring and faultless, since he always acts rationall}-, and thinks all things in their rational connection ; for this reason he fears and wonders at nothing, he is guilty of no weakness or passion. He alone is a true companion, neigh- bor, kinsman, and friend, because he alone perfect!}' knows and fulfils the duties which spring from these relations. Moreover, the wise man, since he has the good as a law within himself, is free from all subjection to external law and tradition ; he is lord of his own actions and responsible to himself alone. No less is he by his character and virtue free in reference to all vocations and modes of life ; he can move in an^- sphere. He is rich because he can obtain all that he needs and dispense with all that he lacks. He is joyous under all circumstances because in his virtue he has an ever present source of blessedness. But on the other hand all the external and internal goods which the unwise think they have, the}' in reality do not possess, since they lack the fun- damental condition of true blessedness, — perfection of soul. In this thought, that inner moral integrity of mind is the necessary basis of all qualification for action and of all true happiness, lies the truth of this ideal of the Stoics. It also EPICUREANISM. 169 exhibits the abstraction in which their wliole system is in- volved ; this wisdom is an empty ideal which as even tlie Stoics themselves admitted has no realit}' ; it is a general conception of perfection which is inapplicable to life, and thus shows that the Stoics, in general, adopted a one-sided princi- ple, the universality of subjectivity. The subject instead of being, as formerlj-, a mere accident of the state, was now to become absolute ; but as a result of this his own reality- vanishes in the clouds and mist of an abstract ideal. The merit of the Stoic philosophy, however, is that in an age of social ruin it held fast to the moral idea, and b}- separat- ing politics from morals, established the latter as an inde- pendent science. SECTION XVIII EPICUEEAISriSM. The Epicurean school arose almost contemporaneously with the Stoic, though perhaps a little earlier, i^picurus, its founder, the son of an Athenian who had emigrated to Samos, was born 342 B.C., six years after the death of Plato. Of his 3'outh and education little is known. In his thirty-sixth year he opened a philosophical school at Athens, over which he presided till his death, 270 b.c. His disciples and adherents formed a society, in which the}' were united by the closest friendship, illustrating the general condition of things in Greece after the time of Alexander, when the social took the place of the decaying political life. Epicurus himself compared his society to the P^'thagorean fraternit}', although the communit}' of goods, which forms an element in the lat- ter, Epicurus excludes, affirming that true friends can confide in one another. The moral character of Epicurus has been 170 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. repeatedly assailed, but, according to the testimony of the most reliable witnesses, his life was blameless in every re- spect, and his personal character was estimable and amiable. Moreover, it cannot be doubted that much of that, which is told by some, of the offensive voluptuousness of the Epicu- rean band, should be regarded as calumny. P^picurus was a voluminous writer, surpassing, in this respect, even Aristotle, and exceeded by Chrysippus alone. To the loss of his greater works he has himself contributed, by his practice of com- posing summaries of his system, which he recommended his disciples to commit to memory. These summaries have been for the most part preserved. The end which Epicurus proposed to himself in science is distinctly revealed in his definition of philosophy. He calls it an activity which, by means of conceptions and arguments, procures the happiness of life. Its end is, therefore, with him essentiall}^ a practical one, and on this account the object of his whole S3'stem is to produce a scheme of morals which should teach us how we may certainl}' attain a happy life. It is true that the Epicureans adopted the usual division of philosophy into logic (which they called canonics), physics, and ethics ; but the}' confined logic to the detei'mination of the criterion of truth, and considered it only as an instrument and introduction to phj'sics, while they treated ph3'sics as entirely subordinate to ethics, and necessar}' only in order to free men from superstitious fear, and deliver them from the power of fables and m^'thical fancies concerning nature, which might hinder the attainment of happiness. We have there- fore in Epicureanism the three ancient divisions of philoso- phy, but in a reversed order, since logic and ph3-sics are here made ancillar}^ to ethics. We shall confine ourselves in our exposition to the latter, since the Epicurean canonics and phj'sics have little scientific interest, and since the ph^-sics especially is not only ver}' incomplete and without an}' inter- nal connection, but rests entirel}' upon the atomic theory of Democrjtus, EPICUREANISM. 171 Epicurus, like Aristotle and the other philosophers of his day, placed the highest good in happiness, or a happy life. Happiness, however, in his opinion, consists solely in pleas- ure : virtue has no value in itself but only in so far as it in- creases our enjoyment, — renders life agreeable. But Epicurus goes on to give a more accurate determination of pleasure, and in this he differs essentiall}' from his predecessors, the Cyrenaics (c/. Sect. XIII. 3.) 1. While with Aristippus the pleasure of the moment is made the end of human effort, Epicurus directs men to strive after a system of pleasures which will insure a permanent condition of happiness for the whole life. True pleasure is thus the object to be considered and weighed. Many a pleas- ure should be despised because it will result in pain, and many a pain should be rejoiced in because it wiU lead to a greater pleasure. 2. Since the sage will seek after the highest good, not simpl}' for the present but for his whole life, he will hold the pleasures and pains of the soul, which like memory' and hope extend to the past and the future, in greater esteem than those of the body, which relate only to the present moment. The pleasure of the soul consists in the untroubled tranquil- lity of the sage, who rests secure in the feeling of his inner worth and his exaltation above the strokes of destin3^ Thus Epicurus would say that it is better to be miserable but rational than to be happy and irrational, and that the wise man might be happ}' though in torture. He would even affirm, like a true follower of Aristotle, that pleasure and happiness were most closely connected with virtue, that virtue is in fact inseparable from true pleasure, and that there can be no agreeable life without virtue, and no virtue without an agree- able life. On the same grounds he declares that friendship, which the Cyrenaics thought to be superfluous, is a chief means of happiness ; and it is such, in so far as it is an enduring, life-gladdening, and beautif3'ing union of congenial minds, and gives a happiness more lasting than any which sensuous enjoyment can afford. 172 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 3. While other Hedonists regarded the most positive and intense feeling of pleasure as the highest good, Epicurus, on the other hand, fixed his eye on a happiness which should be abiding and for the whole life. He would not seek the most exquisite enjoyments in order to attain to a happ}' life, but he rather recommends one to be satisfied with little, and to practise sobriety and temperance of life. He guards him- self against such a false application of his doctrine as would imply that the pleasure of the debauchee is the highest good, and boasts that with a little barle3'-bread and water he would rival Zeus in happiness. He even expresses an aversion for all costl}' pleasures, not, however, in themselves, but because of the evil consequences which the}' entail. True, the Epi- curean sage need not therefore live as a Cynic. He will enjo}' himself where he can without harm, and will even seek to acquire means to live with dignit}' and ease. But though all these enjoyments of life may properly belong to the sage, 3'et he can deprive himself of them without misery — though he ought not to do so — since he enjoys the truest and most essential pleasure in the calmness of his soul and the tran- quillit}^ of his heart. In opposition to the positive pleasure of some Hedonists, the theory of Epicurus expends itself in negative conceptions, representing that freedom from pain is pleasure, and that hence the activity of the sage should be prominently directed to the avoidance of that which is dis- agreeable. All that man does, says Epicurus, he does in order that he may neither suffer nor fear pain ; if he attains this, nature is satisfied. Positive gratifications can never in- crease pleasure, but only complicate it. Happiness is thus, according to Epicurus, simple and easily attained if we will but follow nature, and not ruin and imbitter life itself b}' in- ordinate demands and a foolish fear of fancied evils. Among the evils which man fears, death holds the first place. But it is no evil not to live. Hence death, for which men have the greatest terror, the wise man does not fear. For while sve live, death is not, and when death is, we are not ; when SCEPTICISM AND THE NEW ACADEMY. 173 it is present we feel it not, for it is the end of all feeling, and that, which b}' its presence cannot affect our happiness, ought not to trouble us when thought of as future. The Epi- curean doctrine thus results in the purel}' subjective endeavor of the Individual to find rest and satisfaction in existence ; it knows nothing of man's moral nature, but it has, so far as is possible, ennobled the ancient conception of pleasure. Epicurus's view of the universe is completed b}' his doc- trine of the gods, to whom he applied his ideal of happiness. To the gods belongs a human form, though without an}' fixed bod}' or human wants. In the void spaces between the infi- nite worlds they lead an undisturbed and changeless life, whose happiness is incapable of increase. From the blessed- ness of the gods he inferred that they can have nothing to do with the management of our afll'airs ; for blessedness is repose. They trouble neither themselves nor others ; and therefoi'e they need not be objects of superstitious, life-dis- turbing fear. These inactive gods of Epicurus, these inde- structible but unstable forms, these bodies which are not bodies, have but little connection with the rest of his system ; but even here he is thinking of the happiness of man ; the thought of the gods is robbed of all its terrors, yet retained in a modified form which serves to establish rather than refute the Epicurean theory of happiness. SECTION XIX. SCEPTICISM AND THE NEW ACADEINIY. This subjective direction was carried out to its farthest extent by the Sceptics, who broke down completely the bridge between subject and object, denying all objective truth, knowledge and science, and wholl}' withdrawing the philosopher from every thing but himself and his own subjec- 174 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. tive estimates. In this direction we may distinguisli between the old Scepticism, the new Academy*, and the later Scepti- cism. 1. The old Sckpticism. — PyrrJio of Elis, a cotemponiry of Aristotle, was the head of tlie old Sceptics. He left no writings behind him, and all our knowledge of his opinions is derived from his disciple and follower, Timon of Phlius. The tendenc}' of these sceptical philosophers, like that of the Stoics and Epicureans, was a practical one, for philosophy-, said the}', ought to lead us to happiness. But in order to live happil}' we must know how things are, and, therefore, how we are related to them. The first of these questions the Sceptics answered by attempting to show that we do not per- ceive things as they actually' are, but onl}- as they appear to us ; our representations of them are neither true nor false ; nothing definite can be predicated of an}' thing. Neither our senses nor our opinions concerning any thing teach us any truth ; to ever}- precept and to every position a contrary may be advanced ; hence the contradictor}' views of men, and especially of the philosophies of the schools respecting one and the same thing. All objective knowledge and science being thus impossible, the true relation of the philosopher to things consists in the entire suspension of judgment, and the withholding of every positive assertion. In order to avoid every thing like a positive assertion, the Sceptics had recourse to a variety of artifices, and availed themselves of doubtful modes of expression, such as it is jwssible ; it may he so; 'perhaps; I assert nothing^ — cautiously subjoining to this last — not even that I assert nothing. By this suspension of judgment the Sceptics thought they could attain their practi- cal end, happiness ; for the abstinence from all positive opin- ion is followed by a freedom from all mental disturbance, as a substance is by a shadow. He who has embraced Scepti- cism lives thenceforward tranquilly, without inquietude, with- out agitation, in a mere apathy which excludes both the knowledge of good and of evil. Pyrrho is said to have SCEPTICISM AND THE NEW ACADEMY. 175 originated the doctrine which lies at the basis of sceptical apathy, viz., that there is no difTerence between sickness and health, or between life and death. The Sceptics, for the most part, derived the material for their theory from the previous investigations and polemic of the dogmatic schools. But the grounds on which they rested were far from being profound, and were for the most part either dialectic errors which could easil}' be refuted, or mere subtleties. The use of the follow- ing ten tropes is ascribed to the old Sceptics, though these were perhaps not definitel}' brought out b}- either P^rrlio or Timon, but were probably first collected by ^nesidemus, soon after the time of Cicero. The withholding of all decisive judgment may rest; (1) upon the differences of conception and sensation generall\' existing among individual living beings ; (2) upon those ph^'sical and intellectual differences between men which cause them to view the same thing in dif- ferent lights ; (3) upon the varying testimony of sense itself, and the uncertainty whether the organs of sense are compe- tent ; (4) upon the circumstances under which objects ap- pear ; (5) upon their relative positions, intervals, and places ; (G) upon the fact that we know nothing directly, but only through some extraneous medium (air, etc.) ; (7) upon the fact that our impressions of the same thing var}' in quantit}-, temperature, color, motion, etc. ; (8) upon the dependence of our conceptions upon custom, since that which is new and strange affects us differentl}' from that which is familiar ; (9) upon the relativit}' of all our conceptions, which is based upon the fact that predicates express merel}' the relations of things one to another, or to our faculty of representation; (10) upon the different wa3's of life, the varieties of customs and laws, the mythical representations and dogmatic opinions of men. 2. The New Academy. — Scepticism, in its conflict with the Stoics, as it appeared in the Platonic school established hy Arcesilaics (Sl6-24:l) , has a far greater significance than belongs to the performances of the P^Trhonists. In this 176 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. school Scepticism sought to support itself by its gi'eat re- spect for the writings and the traditions of the oral teachings of Plato. Arcesilaus could neither have assumed nor re- tained the chair of instruction in the Academy, had he not carefully cherished and imparted to his disciples the impres- sion that his own view, respecting the withholding of a deci- sive judgment, coincided essentialh' with that of Socrates and of Plato, and if he had not also taught that he was only restoring the genuine and original significance of the Platonic dialectic when he set aside the dogmatic method of teaching. An immediate incitement to the efforts of Arcesilaus is found in his opposition to the rigid dogmatic S3'stem which had lately arisen in the Porch, and which claimed to be in ever}' respect an improvement upon Platonism. Hence, as Cicero remarks, Arcesilaus directed all his sceptical and polemic at- tacks against Zeno, the founder of Stoicism. He opposed the Stoic theor}' of cognition b}' maintaining that even false conceptions can induce a feeling of intense conviction, and that all representation results only in opinion and never in knowledge. Accordingly Arcesilaus denied the existence of a criterion which could certify to us the truth of our knowl- edge. If there be an}" truth in our affirmations, said he, we cannot be certain of it. In this sense he taught that one can know nothing, not eA'^en that he does know nothing. But in morals, in choosing the good and rejecting the evil, he taught that we should follow that which is probable, that which is supported by the most and best reasons. In this way we may act rightly and be happ}', since this method is in accord with reason and the nature of things. Of the subsequent leaders in the new Acadeni}', Carneades (214-129) alone need here be mentioned, whose whole phi- losophy, however, consists almost exclusivel}' in a polemic against Stoicism. His positive performance is an attempt to bring out a philosophical theory of probabilities or a method of probable thought, a determination of the ditferent degi'ees of probability, which Carneades thought to be a necessit}' of THE ROMANS. 177 practical life. The later Academicians fell back to an eclectic dogmatism. 3. The later Scepticism. — Once more we meet with a peculiar Scepticism at the time when Grecian pliilosophy had wholly lallen to decay. To this time belong ^Enesidemns, xigrippa^ whose date is also uncertain, though subsequent to ^nesidemus (he emphasized the necessit}' of proving eveiy thing, but at the same time showed that every proof must itself be proved, and so on ad infinitum)^ and Sextus Empi- ricus, a Greek ph3'sician of the empiric sect, who probabi}' flourished in the first half of the third eentuiy of the Christian era. These are the most significant names. Of these the last has the greatest interest for us, from two writings which he left behind him (the Hypotyposes of P3'rrho in three books, and a treatise against the mathematicians in nine books), which are sources of much historical information. In these he has profusely- collected eveiy thing which the Scepticism of the ancients could advance against the certaint}' of knowl- edge. SECTION XX. THE ROMANS. The Romans took no independent part in the progress of philosoph}'. After Greek philosophy and literature had begun to gain a foothold among them, and especiall}" after three dis- tinguished representatives of Attic culture and eloquence — Carneades the Academician, Critolaus the Peripatetic, and Diogenes the Stoic — had appeared in Rome as envoys from Athens ; and after Greece, a few 3'ears later, had become a Roman province, and thus outwardl}^ in a close connection with Rome, almost all the more significant systems of Gre- cian philosophy, especially the Epicurean (Lucretius), and 12 178 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. the Stoic (Seneca), flourished and found adherents in Rome, though without gaining an}' real philosophical progress. The Roman philosophizing is wholly eclectic, as is seen in Cicero, "the most important and influential philosophic writer among the Romans. But the popular philosophy- of this man and of the minds akin to him cannot be strongly assaUed, for, not- withstanding its want of originalit}- and logical sequence, it gave philosoph}^ a broad dissemination, and made it a means of universal culture. SECTION XXI. NEO-PLATONISM. In Neo-Platonism, the spirit of antiquit}' made its last and almost despau'ing attempt at a philosoph}' which should re- solve the dualism between the subjective and the objective. This attempt was made on the one hand from a subjective standpoint, like the other Post-Aristotelian philosophies {cf. Sect. XVI. 7) , and on the other with the design to bring out objective determinations in reference to the highest concep- tions of metaphj'sics, and the absolute ; in other words, to sketch a system of absolute philosophv- In this respect it sought to copy the Platonic-Aristotelian philosophy', and claimed to be a revival of the original Platonism. On both sides the new attempt formed the closing period of ancient philosophy. It represents the last struggle, but at the same time the exhaustion of the ancient thinking and the dissolu- tion of the old philosoph}'. The first, and also the most important, representative of Neo-Platonism, is Plotinus of L3-copolis in Eg3-pt. He was a pupil of Ammonius Saccas, who taught the Platonic phi- losophy at Alexandria in the beginning of the third centurv, but left no writings behind him. Plotinus (a.d. 205-270) NEO-PLATONISM. 179 from his fortieth 3ear taught philosophy' at Rome. His opinions are contained in a course of hastily written and not closelj' connected treatises, which, after his death, were col- lected and published in six Enneads b}' Porphyry (who was l)orn A.D. 233, and taught both philosoph}- and eloquence at Rome), his most noted disciple. From Rome and Alexan- dria, the Neo-Platonism of Plotinus passed over in the fourth centur}' to Athens, where it established itself in the Academy. In the fourth century, Jamblichus, a scholar of Porph3T3', and in the fifth, Proclus (412-485), were prominent among the Neo-Platonists. With the triumph of Christianit}' and the consequent fall of heathenism, in the course of the sixth centur}', even this last bloom of Grecian philosophy faded away. The common characteristic, of all the Neo-Platonists is a tendenc}' to m3'sticism, theosoph}', and theurg}'. The major- it}^ of them gave themselves up to magic and sorcer}', and the most distinguished boasted that the}' were the subjects of divine inspiration and illumination, able to look into the future, and to work miracles. They professed to be hiero- phants as much as philosophers, and exhibited an unmis- takable desire to establish a Pagan copy of Christianit}', which should be at the same time a philosoph}' and a univer- sal religion. In the following sketch of Neo-Platonism we confine ourselves mainl}' to Plotinus. 1. Ecstasy as a Subjective state. — The result of the philosophical strivings antecedent to Neo-Platonism had been Scepticism, which, seeing the impracticabihty of both the Stoic and Epicurean theory, had assumed a totally nega- tive relation to ever}' positive theoretical content. But the end which Scepticism had actually gained was the opposite of that for which it had striven. It had striven for the per- fect apathy of the sage, but it had gained onl}- the necessity of incessantly opposing every positive affirmation. Instead of the rest which the}' had sought, they found rather an ab- solute unrest. This absolute unrest of the consciousness 180 A HISTORY OF THTLOSOPHY, striving after an absolute rest, begat immediatel}' a longing to be freed from this unrest, a longing for some conclusion which should be absolutely satisfying, and stripped of ever}' sceptical objection. This longing after an absolute truth found its historical expression in Neo-Flatonism. The sub- ject sought to master and comprehend the absolute ; and this, neither by objective knowledge nor dialectic mediation, but immediatel}', b}' an inner and mjstical exaltation of the subject in the form of an ijumediate beholding, or ecstas}-. The knowledge of the true, says Plotinus, is not gained b}- proof nor by an}" mediation ; it cannot be found when the objects known remain separate from the subject knowing, but only when the distinction between knower and known disappears ; it is a beholding of the reason in itself, not in the sense that we see the reason, but the reason beholds it- self; in no other way can knowledge arise. Nay, even this self-intuition of reason, within which subject and object are still opposed to one another, must itself be transcended. The highest stage of knowledge is an intuition of the Highest, of the one principle of things, in which all separation be- tween it and the soul vanishes ; in which the soul with pure rapture touches the absolute itself, and feels itself filled and illumined b}'^ it. If an}' one has attained to such a be- holding, to such a true unit}' with the divine, he will despise the pure thinking which he otherwise loved, for this think- ing was only a movement which presupposed a difference between the perceiver and the perceived. This mystical absorption into the Deity, or, the One, this resolving the self into the absolute, is that which gives to Neo-Platonism a character so peculiarly distinct from the genuine Grecian S} s- tems of philosophy. 2. The Cosmical Principles. — The doctrine of the three cosmical pi'inciples is most closely connected with the theory just named. To the two cosmical principles already assumed, viz., the world-soul and the world-reason, a third and higher one was added by the Neo-Platonists, as the ultimate unity NEO-PLATONISM. 181 of all distinctions and antitheses, in which, therefore, all differ- ence must vanish in pure simplicit}' of being. This simple unity cannot be reason, for in reason is the antithesis of thought and its object, and the movement from the first to the last ; reason relates to the manifold. But the manifold presupposes the simple as its principle. If, therefore, there is to be a unity of the totality of being, reason must be tran- scended and the absolute One attained. To this primal essence Plotinus gives different names, as "the first," "the one," "the good," and "that which stands above being" (being is with him but a subordinate conception, which, united wath the reason, forms but the second step in the series of highest conceptions). In all these names, Plotinus does not profess to have satisfactorily- expressed the essence of this primal One, but onl}- to have given a representation of it. In characterizing it still farther, he denies to it all thinking and willing, because it needs nothing and can desire nothing ; it is not energ}', but above energy ; life does not belong to it ; neither being nor essence nor any of the most general categories of being can be ascribed to it ; in short, it is that which can neither be expressed nor thought. Plotinus has throughout striven to think of this first principle as abso- lute, as a simple, excluding all determinations which can restrict it, and therefore as existing pe?" se, independent of all other being. This pure abstraction, however, he could not carr}' out. He set himself to show how every thmg else, and especially the two other cosmical principles, could emanate from this first ; but in order to have a principle for his ema- nation theory, he was obliged to consider the first in its rela- tion to the second and as its producer. 3. The Emanation Theory of the Xeo-Platonists. — Kver}' emanation theory, and hence also that of the Neo-Pla- tonists, considers the world as the effluence of God, and gives to the emanation a greater or less degree of perfection, according as it is nearer or more remote from its source, and thus represents the totalitj- of being as a series of descending 182 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. gradations. Fire, says Plotinus, emits heat, snow cold, fra- grant bodies odors, and ever}' organic thing so soon as it matures begets something like itself. In the same wa}' the all-perfect and the eternal, in the excess of his perfection sends out from himself that which is also eternal, and after him, the best, viz., the reason or world-intelligence, which is the immediate reflection and image of the primal One. Plo- tinus abounds in figures to show how the primal One need lose nothing nor become weakened by this emanation of reason. Next to the original One, reason is the most per- fect. It contains in itself the ideal world, and the whole of true and changeless being. Some notion ma}' be formed of its exaltation and glory by attentivel}' considering the sen- * sible world in its greatness, its beauty, and the order of its ceaseless motion, and then b}^ rising to the contemplation of its archetype in the pure and changeless being of the intelli- gible world, and then by recognizing in intelligence the author and finisher of all. In it there is neither past nor future, but only an ever-abiding present. It is, moreover, as incapable of division in space as of change in time. It is the true eter- nit}^ of which time is onl}' a cop}'. As reason flows from the primal One, so does the world-soul eternally emanate from reason, though tJie latter incurs no change thereb}'. The world-soul is Uie coj)}' of reason, permeated by it, and actual- izing it in an outer world. It gives ideas externall}' to sen- sible matter, which is the last and lowest step in the series of emanations and in itself is undetermined, and has neither quality nor being. In this way the visible universe is but the transcript of the world-soul, which forms it out of matter, permeates and animates it, and carries it forward in a circle. Here closes the series of emanations, and, as was the aim of the theor}', we have been carried in a constant movement from the highest to the lowest, from God to the mere image of tnie being, or the sensible world. Individual souls, like the world-soul, are linked both to the higher and the lower, to reason and the sensible ; now NEO-PLATONISM. 183 bound with the latter and sharing its destinj^, and anon ris- ing to their source in reason. Tlieir original and proper home was in the rational world, from whence the^^ have un- willingl}' descended, each one in its proper time, into the cor- poreal ; not, however, wholly forsaking their ideal abode, but as a sunbeam touches at the same time the sun and the earth, so are they found alike in the world of reason and the world of sense. Our vocation, therefore, — and here we come back to the point from which we started in our exposi- tion of Neo-Platonism, — can only be to direct our senses and aspirations towards our proper home, in the ideal world, and by asceticism and crucifying of the flesh, to free our better self from its participation with the body. But when our soul has once mounted up to the ideal world, that image of the originally good and beautiful, it then attains the final goal of all its longings and efforts, the immediate union with God, through the enraptured beholding of the primal One in which it loses its consciousness and becomes buried and absorbed. According to all this, the Neo-Platonic philosophy would seem to be a monism, and thus the most perfect development of ancient philosoph}', in so far as this had striven to carry back the sum of all being to one ultimate ground. But as it attained its highest principle from which all the rest was de- rived, by means of ecstacy, by a mystical self-destruction of the individual person, by asceticism and theurgy, and not b}'' means of self-conscious thinking, nor by any natural or rational way, it is evident that ancient philosophy, instead of becoming perfected in Neo-Platonism, only overleaps itself to its own self-destruction. 184 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. SECTION XXII. CHRISTIANITY AND SCHOLASTICISM. 1. The Christian Idea. — The intellectual life of Greece at the period of its highest development was characterized by the immediate sacrifice of the subject to the object (nature, the state, etc.) : the complete severance of the two, of spirit and nature, had not yet arrived ; the subject had not yet so far reflected upon himself that he could apprehend his own absolute worth. This severance l)egan with the decay of Grecian life, in the age immediately subsequent to Alexander the Great. As the objective world lost its influence, the thinking consciousness turned back upon itself; but even in this very process, the bridge between sul)ject and object was broken down. The self-consciousness had not yet become suflTiciently absorbed in itself to look upon the true, the divine, in any other light than as separate from itself; while a feel- ing of pain, of unsatisfied desire, took the place of that fair unity between spirit and nature which had been peculiar to the better periods of Grecian civil and artistic life. Neo- Platonism, by its extravagant speculation, and, practicall}^ by its mortification of the sense, made a last and despairing attempt to overcome this separation, or to bury itself within it, by bringing the two sides forcil)ly together. The attempt was in vain, and the old philosophy, totally exhausted, came to its end. Dualism is therefore the rock on which it split. This problem, thus left without a solution, Christianity took up. It assumed for its principle the idea which ancient thought had not known how to carry out, affirming that the separation between God and man might be overcome, and that the human and the divine could be united in one. The speculative fundamental idea of Christianity is, that God has become incarnate, and this had its practical exhibition (for CHRISTIANITY AND SCHOLASTICISM. 185 Christianity was a practical religion) in the idea of the atone- ment and the demand of the new birth, i.e., the positive pmiflcation of the sense from its corruptions, instead of a merel}' negative asceticism. From the introduction of Christianity, monism has been the character and the fundamental tendency of all modern philosophy. In fact, the new philosophy started from the very point at which the old had stood still. The turning of the self-consciousness upon itself, which was the standpoint of the Post- Aristotelian speculations, forms in Descartes the starting-point of the new philosoph}', whose whole coiu'se has been the mediation and reconciliation of that antithesis be- yond which the old could not pass. 2. Scholasticism. — It very early resulted that Chris- tianity came in contact with the cotemporaneous philosophy-, especially with Platonism. This arose first with the apolo- gists of the second century, and the fathers of the Alexan- drian church. Subsequently, in the ninth century, Scotus Erigena made an attempt to combine Christianity with Neo- Platonism, though it was not tiU the second half of the Middle Ages, from the eleventh centuiy, that there was de- veloped any thing that might be properl}' termed a Christian philosophy. This was the so-called Scholasticism. The effort of Scholasticism was to mediate between the dogma of religion and the reflecting self-consciousness ; to reconcile faith and knowledge. When the dogma passed over into the schools from the Church which had given it utterance, and theolog}' became a science of the universities, the scientific interest asserted its rights, and undertook to bring the dogma which had hitherto stood over against the self-consciousness as an external power, into a closer rela- tion to the thinking suliject. A series of attempts was now made to bring out the doctrines of the Church in the form of a scientific S3"stem (the first complete dogmatic s^'stem was that of Peter Lomhard (who died 1164) in his four books of sentences, and was voluminously' commented upon by the 186 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. later ScholavStics), all starting from the indisputable premise (lieyond which scholastic thinking never went), that the faith of the church is absolute truth ; but all guided likewise by the desu'e to make this rcA^ealed truth intelligil^le, and to show it to be rational. '•'•Credo %d intelligam" — this ex- pression of Anselm, the beginner and founder of Scholasti- cism (he was born about 1035, and made Archbishop of Canterbury' in 1093), was the watchword of the whole move- ment. Scholasticism applied to the solution of its problem the most remarkable logical acumen, and brought out sys- tems of doctrine like the Gothic cathedrals in their architec- ture. The extended study of Aristotle, called par eminence " the philosopher," whom man}- of the most distinguished Scholastics wrote commentaries upon, and who was exten- sively studied at the same period among the Arabians {Avi- cenna and Averroes) , furnished their terminology and most of their points of view. At the summit of Scholasticism we must place the two incontestably greatest masters of the Scholastic art and method, Thomas Aquinas (Dominican, who died 1274) and Duns Scotns (Franciscan, who died 1308), the founders of two schools, into which after them the whole Scholastic theolog}' divides itself, — the former exalting the understanding (intellectus) , and the latter the will {volun- tas)^ as the highest principle, both being driven into essen- tially differing directions b}' this opposition of the theoretical and practical. Even with this began the downfall of Scho- lasticism ; its highest point was also the turning-point to its self-destruction. The rationalit}' of the dogma, the oneness of faith and knowledge, had been constantly their fundamen- tal premise ; but this premise fell away, and the whole basis of their metaphysics was given up in principle, the moment Duns Scotus placed the problem of theolog}' in the practical. When the practical and the theoretical became divided, and still more when thought and being were separated b}' Nomin- alism (c/. 3), philosophy broke loose fi'om theology and knowledge from faith ; knowledge assumed its position above CHRISTIANITY AND SCHOLASTICISM. 187 faith and above authority (modern philosophy), and the religious consciousness broke with the traditional dogma (the Reformation) . 3. Nominalism and Realism. — Hand in hand with the whole development of Scholasticism, there was developed the opposition between Nor^inalism and Realism, an opposition whose origin is to be found in the relation of Scholasticism to- the Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy. The Nominalists were those who held that conceptions of the universal {uni- versalia) were simple names, flatus vocis, representations without content and without reality. According to them there are no universal conceptions, no species, no classes ; every thing which is, exists only as separate in its pure individuality ; there is, therefore, no pure thinking, but onl^' representation and sensuous perception. The Realists, on the other hand, taking pattern from Plato, held fast to the objective reality of universals (universalia ante rem). This opposition appeared first between Moscellinus, who took the side of Nominalism, and Anselm, who advocated the Realistic theory, and it is seen from this time through the whole period of Scholasticism, though from the age of Abelard (born 1079) a middle view, which was both Nomiiialistic and Realistic, held with some slight modifications the prominent place {uni- versalia in re). According to this view the universal is only something thought and represented, though as such it is not simply a product of the representing consciousness, but has also its objective realit}^ in objects themselves, from which, it was argued, we could not abstract it if it were not essentially contained in them. This identity of thought and being, is the fundamental premise on which the whole dialectic course of Scholasticism rests. All its arguments are founded on the claim, that that which has been s^llogisticall}^ proved exists in reality as well as in logical thinking. If this pre- mise is overthrown, so falls with it the whole basis of Scho- lasticism ; and there remains nothing more for thought, thus at fault in reference to its own objectivity, but to fall back 188 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. upon itself. This self-dissolution of Scholasticism actuall} appears with William of Oxurn (died 1347), the most influ- ential reviver of that Nominalism which had been so mighty in the beginning of Scholasticism, but which now, more vic- torious against a decaying than then against a rising form of culture, plucked away its foundation from the framework of Scholastic dogmatism, and brought the whole structure into inevitable ruin. SECTION XXIII. TRANSITION TO MODERN PHILOSOPHY. The emancipation of modern philosoph}' from the bondage of Scholasticism was a gradual process. It first showed itself in a series of preparative movements during the fif- teenth century, and was completed negatively, in the course of the sixteenth, and positivelj- in the first half of the seven- teenth century. 1. Fall of Scholasticism. — The immediate ground of this changed direction of the time, we have already seen in the inner deca}^ of Scholasticism itself. Just so soon as the fundamental premise on which the Scholastic theology and method rested, the rationalit}- of the dogma, was abandoned, the whole structure, as alread}' remarked, fell to inevitable ruin. The conviction, directly opposed to the principle of vScholasticism, that what might be true dogmaticalh', might be false, or, at least, incapable of proof in the eye of the reason — a point of view from which, e.g., the Aristotelian Pomponatius (1462-1530) treated the doctrines of the future state, and in whose light Vanini subsequently went over the chief problems of })hilosophy — kept gaining ground, notwith- standing the opposition of the Church, and even associated TKANSITION TO MODERN PHILOSOPHY. 189 with itself the opinion that reason and revelation could not be harmonized. The feeling became prevalent that philoso- phj' must be freed from its previous condition of minority and servitude ; a struggle after a greater independence of philosophic investigation was awakened, and though no one yet ventured to attack directly the doctrine of the Church, the effort was made to shatter the confidence in the chief bulwark of Scholasticism, the Aristotelian philosophy', or what at that period was regarded as such ; (especiallj' in this connection Peter Ramus (1515-1572), should be mentioned, who fell in the massacre of St. Bartholomew) . The author! tj* jf the Church became more and more weakened in the faith of the people, and the great sj'stems of Scholasticism came to an end, 2. The Results of Scholasticism. — Notwithstanding all Ihis, Scholasticism was not without its positively good results. Though wholly in the service of the Church, it had, never- theless, gi'own out of a scientific impulse, and thus naturally awakened a free spirit of inquiiy and a taste for knowledge. It made the objects of faith the objects of thought, it raised men from the sphere of unconditional faith to the sphere of doubt, of investigation and of knowledge, and b}' its ver}' effort to demonstrate the principles of theolog}' it established, though against its knowledge and design, the authority' of reason. It thus introduced to the world another principle than that of the old Church, the principle of the thinking spii'it, the self-consciousness of the reason, or at least pre- pared the way for the victory of this principle. Even the deformities and unfavorable side of Scholasticism, the many absurd questions upon which the Scholastics divided, even their thousand-fold unnecessary and accidental distinctions, their inquisitiveness and subtleties, all sprang from a rational principle, and grew out of a spirit of investigation, which could only utter itself in this way under the all-powerful ecclesiastical spirit of the time. Onl}' when it was surpassed by the advancing spirit of the age, did Scholasticism, falsi- 190 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. fying its original meaning, malve common cause and interest with tlie old ecclesiasticism, and become the most violent opponent of the improvements of the new period. 3. The Revival of Letters. — The revival of classic literatm-e contributed prominentl}- to that change in the spirit of the age which marks the beginning of the new epoch of philosophy. The stud}- of the ancients, especiall}' of the Greeks, had almost wholly ceased in the course of the Middle Ages ; even the philosophy of Plato and Aristotle was known, for the most part, onl}' through Latin translations or second- ary sources ; no one realized the spirit of classic life, and all sense for beauty of form and elegant composition had passed awa}'. The change was chieflj' brought about by means of the Greek scholars who fled from Constantinople to Italj' ; the stud}^ of the ancients in the original sources was re- newed ; the newl3'-discovered art of printing allowed the classics to be widely circulated ; the Medicis drew classic scholars to their court ; all this working for a far better un- derstanding of the ancient philosoph}'. Besarion (died 1472) and Ficinus (died 1499) were prominent in this movement. The result was presently seen. The new scholars contended against the stiff and uncritical manner in which the sciences had hitherto been treated, new ideas began to circulate, and there arose once more the free, universal, thinking spirit of antiquit3\ In German}^, also, classic studies found a fruit- ful soil. Reuchlin (born 1454), Melanctlion and Erasmus, labored in this direction, and the classic movement, hostile as it was to the Scholastic impulse, favored most decidedly the growing tendencies to the Reformation. 4. The German Reformation. — All the elements of the new age, the struggle against Scholasticism, the revival of letters and the more enlarged culture thus secured, the striv- ing after national independence, the attempts of the state to free itself from the Church and the hierarchy, and above all, the desire of the thinking self-consciousness for autononi}', for freedom from the fetters of authority — all these elements TRANSITION TO MODEEN PHILOSOPHY. 191 found their focus and point of union in the German Refor- mation. Though having its root at first in practical, and religious, and national interests, and falling very early into erroneous courses, issuing in a dogmatic ecclesiastical one- sidedness, yet was the Reformation in principle and in its true consequences a rupture of the thinlving spirit with author- ity, a protest against the fetters of the positive, a return of the mind from its self-estrangement to itself. From that which was without, the mind now came back to that which is within, and the purel}' human as such, the individual heart and conscience, subjective conviction, in a word, the rights of the subject now began to be of worth. AVhile marriage had formerl}' been regarded, though not immoral, as jet infe- rior to continence and celibacy, it appeared now as a divine institution, a natural law ordained of God. While povert}' had formerly been esteemed higher than wealth, and the con- templative life of the monk was superior to the manual labor of the layman supporting himself b}' his own toil, povert}' now ceased to be desirable in itself, and labor was no longer despised. Ecclesiastical freedom took the place of spiritual bondage ; monasticism and the priesthood lost their power. In the same way, on the side of knowledge the individual came back to himself, and threw off the restraints of authority. He was impressed with the conviction that the whole process of redemption must be experienced within him- self, that his reconciliation to God and salvation was his own concern, for which he needed no mediation of priests, and that he stood in an immediate relation to God. He found his whole being in his faith, in the depth of his feelings and convictions. Since thus Protestantism sprang from the same spirit in which modern philosophy had its birth, the two have the closest relation to each other, though of course there is a specific difference between the religious and the scientific principle. Yet in their origin, both kinds of Protestantism, that of religion and that of thought, are one and the same, 192 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. and in their progress they have also gone hand in hand together. For the reduction of rehgion to its simplest ele- ments, which Protestantism began l)iit allowed to stop at the Bible, must necessarily be carried farther, terminating only with the ultimate, original, supra-historical element, i.e., with that rational knowledge which is the source of all re- ligion as well as of all philosoph}'. 5. The Advancement of the Natural Sciences. — To all these phenomena, which should be regarded both as causes and as symptoms of the intellectual revolution of this period, we must add yet another, which essentially facilitated and positively assisted in freeing thought from the fetters of authority, — the starting up of the natural sciences and the inductive method of examining nature. This epoch was a period of the most fruitful and influential discoveries in natu- ral science. The disco verj- of America and the passage to the East Indies had alread}' widened the circle of view, but still greater revolutions are connected with the names of Copernicus (died 1543), Kepler (died 1630), and Galileo (died 1642), revolutions which could not remain without an influence upon the whole mode of thinking of that age, and contributed prominentl}' to break the faith in the prevailing ecclesiastical authorit}'. Scholasticism had turned awa)' from nature and the phenomenal world, and, blind towards that which lay before its e3'es, had spent itself in a dreamy intellectuality ; but now nature rose again in honor ; her glor}' and exaltation, her infinite diversit}' and fulness of life became again the immediate objects of observation ; to inves- tigate nature became an essential object of philosoph}', and scientific empiricism was thus regarded as a universal and essential concern of the thinker. From this time the natural sciences date their historical importance, for onl}' from this time have the}' had an uninterrupted history. The results of this new intellectual movement can be readily' estimated. Such a scientific investigation of nature not onl}- destroj-ed a series of traditional errors and prejudices, but, what was TEANSITION TO MODERX PHILOSOPHY. 193 of greater importance, it directed tlie intellectual interest towards that which is real and actual, it nourished and pro- tected reflection and the feeling of self-dependence, the spirit of inquiry and doubt. The standpoint of observation and experiment presupposes an independent self-consciousness of the individual, a breaking loose from authorit}', — in a woi'd, scepticism, with which, in fact, the founders of modern phi- losophy, Bacon and Descartes, began ; the former b}' con- ditioning the knowledge of nature upon the removal of all prejudice and ever}' preconceived opinion, and the latter by demanding that philosoph}' should be begun with iniiversal doubt. No wonder that a bitter struggle should soon break out between the natural sciences and ecclesiastical orthodox}', which could only result in breaking the power of the latter. G. Bacon of Veeulam. — Fi'ancis Bacon was born in 1561, and was Lord High Chancellor of England and Keeper of the King's Seal under James I. From these offices he was subsequently' expelled, and died in 1626, with a character which has not been without reproach. He took as his pi'inci- ple the inductive method, which he directed expressl}^ against Scholasticism and the ruling scientific method. On this account he is frequentl}' placed at the head of modern phi- losophy. The sciences, says Bacon, have hitherto been in a most deplorable condition. Philosophy, wasted in empt}' and fruitless logomachies, has failed during so man}- centuries to bring out a single work or experiment of actual benefit to human life. Logic hitherto has subserved rather the estab- lishment of error than the investigation of truth. Whence all this ? Why this penur}' of the sciences ? Simply because they have broken awa}' from their root in nature and expe- rience. The blame of this is chargeable to man}" sources ; first, the old and rooted prejudice that the human mind loses somewhat of its dignity when it busies itself much and con- tinuously with experiments and material things ; next, super- stition and a blind religious zeal, which has been the most 13 194 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. irreconcilable opponent of natural philosophy ; again, the ex- clusive attention paid to morals and politics b}' the Romans, and since the Christian era to theolog}', by every acute mind ; still farther, the great authoritj- of certain philosophers and the great reverence paid to antiquit}' ; and, in fine, a want of courage and a despair of overcoming the many and great diniculties which lie in the way of the investigation of nature. All these causes have contributed to keep down the sciences. Hence they must now be I'enewed, and regenerated, and re- formed in their most fundamental principles ; there must now be found a new basis for knowledge and new principles of science. This radical reformation of the sciences depends upon two conditions, — objectivel}' upon the referring of science to experience and the philosoph}' of natui'e, and sub- jectively upon the purifying of the sense and the intellect from all abstract theories and traditional prejudices. These two conditions together furnish the correct method of natural science, which is nothing other than the method of induction. Upon correct induction depends all the soundness of the sciences. In these propositions the Baconian philosophy is contained. The historical significance of its founder is, therefore, in gen- eral this, — that he directed the attention and reflection of his cotemporaries again upon the given actualit}', upon na- ture ; that he affirmed the necessit}' of experience, which had been formerly onl^' a matter of accident, and made it in and for itself an object of thought. His merit consists in having established scientific empiricism, and only in this. Strictl}' speaking, we can allow no content to the Baconian philoso- ph}', although (in his treatise De Augmentis Scientiarum) he has attempted a S3'stematic encyclopedia of the sciences on a new principle of classification, through which he has scattered an abundance of fine and fruitful observations, which are still used as apothegms. 7. The Italian Philosophers of the Transition Epoch. — Besides Bacon there were others who prepared and intro- TEANSITION TO MODERN PHILOSOPHY. 195 duced the new age of philosoph}'. First among these is a Hst of Italian philosophers of the second half of the sixteenth and the first half of tlie seventeenth century. These philoso- phers are connected in a twofold manner with the movements of this transition period, first by an enthusiasm for nature which among them all partook in a greater or less degree of pantheism (Vanini, e.g.^ gave to one of his writings the title " concerning the wonderful secrets of nature, the queen and goddess of mortals"), and second, b}' their connection with the systems of ancient philosoph}'. The best known of these philosophers are the following : Cardanus (1501-1575), Cam- panella (1568-1639), Giordano Bruno (1548-1600), Vanini (1586-1619). The}' were all men of a passionate, enthusi- astic, and impetuous nature, unsteady' and wild in character, restless and adventurous in life, men who were inspired by an eager impulse towards knowledge, but who were carried awa}' b}' fantasy, wildness of imagination, and a tendenc}' toward secret astrological and geomantic knowledge. For these reasons they also passed awa}', leaving no fruitful re- sult. They were all persecuted b}' the hierarch}', and two of them (Bruno and Vanini) ended their lives at the stake. Their whole history is like the eruption of a volcano, and they are to be regarded more as forerunners and announcers than as beginners and founders of the new age of philosoph}'. The most important among them is Giordano Bruno. He revived the old idea of the Stoics, that the world is a living being, and that a world-soul penetrates it all. The content of his general thought is the profoundest enthusiasm for nature, and the plastic reason which is present in it. The reason is, according to him, the inner artist who shapes the matter and manifests himself in the forms of the universe. From the heart of the root or the germ he sends out the lobes, and from these again he evolves the shoots, and from the shoots the branches, until bud, and leaf, and blossom are brought forth. Every thing is inwardl}- arranged, adjusted, and per- fected. Thus the universal reason calls back from within the 196 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. sap out of the fruits and flowers to the l)i-aiK']ics again, etc. The universe thus is an infinite living tiling, in which every thing lives and moves after the most manifold wa^'s. The relation of the reason to matter, Bruno determines wholl}' in the Aristotelian manner ; both stand related to each other as form and matter, as actualit}' and potentiality', nei- ther is without the other ; the form is the inner impelling might of matter, and matter, as the unlimited possibility, as the capabilit}' for an infinite diversit}' of form, is the mother of all forms. The other side of Bruno's philosophizing, his theory of the forms of knowledge, which occu])ies the greater part of his writings, has little philosophic interest, and we therefore pass it b}'. 8. Jacob Boeiime. — Like Bacon among the English and Bruno among the Italians, Jacob Boelime is among tlie Ger- mans the exponent of this transition period. Each of these three deals with the matter in a wa}' peculiar to his own nationalit}' ; Bacon as the herald of empiricism, Bruno as the representative of a poetic pantheism, and Boehme as the father of theosophic mysticism. If we consider solel}' the profoundness of his principle, Boehme should hold a much later place in the history- of philosoplw, but if we look chiefly at the imperfect form of his philosophizing, his rank would be assigned to the mystics of the Middle Ages, while chro- nologically we must associate him with the German Refor- mation and the protestant elements that were nourished at that time. His true position is among the forerunners and prophets of the new age. Jacob Boehme was born in 1575, in old Seidenburg, a vil- lage of upper Lusace, not far from Goerlitz. His parents were poor peasants. In his bo3'hood he took care of the cat- tle, and in his 3'outh, after he had acquired the rudiments of reading and writing in a village school, he was sent to Goer- litz to learn the shoemaker's trade. He finished his appren- ticeship and settled down at Goerlitz in 1594 as master of his trade. Even in his 3'Outh he had received illuminations TRANSITION TO IVIODERN PHILOSOPHY. 197 or m^'sterious revelations, which were subsequentlj' repeated when his mind, striving for the truth, had become profoiindl}' agitated by the rehgious conflicts of the age. Besides the Bible, the onlj" books which Boehme read were some m3'stical writings of a theosophic and alchemistic character, e.g.^ those of Paracelsus. His entire want of culture is seen as soon as he undertakes to write down his thoughts, or, as he calls them, his illuminations. Hence the imperious struggle of the thought with the expression, which, however, not unfre- quently rises to a dialectical acuteness and a poetic beauty. His first treatise, Aurora^ composed in the j-ear 1612, brought Boehme into trouble with the chief pastor in Goerlitz, Gre- gorius Richter, who publicly condemned the book from the pulpit, and even ridiculed the person of its author. The writing of books was prohibited him b}' a magistrate, a pro- hibition which Boehme observed for man^- years, till at length the command of the spirit was too might}' within him, and he took up again his literary labors. Boehme was a plain, quiet, modest, and gentle man. He died in 1G24. To give an exposition of his theosophy in a few words is ver}' difficult, since Boehme, instead of clothing his thoughts in a logical form, uses o\\\y sensuous pictures and obscure analogies, and often availed himself of the most arbitrary and singular modes of expression. A twilight reigns in his writ- ings, as in a Gothic cathedral where the light falls through variegated windows. Hence the magic effect which he has made upon many hearts. The chief thought of his philoso- jihizing is, that self-distinction, self-diremption is the essen- tial determination of spirit, and hence of God so far as God is to be apprehended as spirit. God, according to Boehme, is living spirit onl}- at the time and in the degree in which he conceives within himself a different from himself, and is in this distinction object and consciousness. This self-differen- tiation of the Deity is the onl}' source of his and of all actu- osit}' and spontaneit}-, the spring and fountain of that self- active life which produces consciousness out of itself. Boehme 198 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. is inexhaustible in images b}' which this negativit}' in God, his self-distinguishing and self-manifestation in the world, may be made conceivable. Great expansion without end, he says, needs limitation and a compass in which it may mani- fest itself, for in expansion without limit there could be no manifestation, there must be a contraction and an enclosing, in order that a manifestation may arise. See, he sa^s in another place, if the will were onl}' of one kind, then would the soul have only one qualit}-, and were an immovable thing, which would always lie still and never do any thing farther than one thing ; in this there could be no joy, as also no art nor science of other things, and no wisdom ; every thing would be a nothing, and there would be neither heart nor will for an}' thing, for there would be only the single. Hence it cannot be said that the whole God is in one will and one being ; there is a distinction. Nothing can ever become manifest to itself without resistance, for if it suffers no resist- ance, it expends itself and never comes to itself again ; but if it does not come to itself again as to that from which it originall}' sprung, it knows nothing of its original condition. The above thought Boehme expresses when he sajs in his Questio7iibus Theosoj)hicis : the reader should know that in yea and na^' all things consist, whether divine, devilish, earthly, or whatever may be named. The one as the 3'ea, is simple energy and love, and is the truth of God and God himself. But this were inconceivable, and there were neither delight, nor elevation, nor sensibilit}', without the na}'. The nay is a reaction against the jea, or truth, in order that the truth ma}'^ be manifest and something in which there may be a contrarium, where eternal love may work and become sen- sitive and willing. There is nothing in the one which is an occasion for willing until the one becomes duplicated, and so there can be no sensation in unit}', but onl}' in dualit}'. In brief, according to Boehme, neither knowledge nor conscious- ness is possible, without distinction, without opposition, with- out duplication ; a thing becomes clear and an object of DESCARTES. 199 consciousness only through something else, through its own opposite (which is yet identical with itself). It was very natural to connect this thought of a unitj- distinguishing it- self in itself, with the Christian doctrine of the Trinity, as Boehme has, in fact, repeatedly done when treating of the Divine life and its process of duplication. Schelling after- wards took up these ideas of Boehme and philosophically elaborated them. If we should assign to the theosophy of Boehme a position in the development of later philosophy corresponding to the inner content of its principle, it would most properly be placed as a complement to the system of Spinoza. If Spinoza taught the reflux of all finitude into the eternal one, Boehme, on the other hand, shows the procession of the finite from the eternal one, and the inner necessity of this procession, since the being of this one would be rather a not-being without such a self-duplication. Compared with Descartes, Boehme has at least more profoundly apprehended the conception of self- consciousness and the relation of the finite to God. But his historical position in other respects is far too isolated and exceptional, and his mode of statement far too impure, to warrant us in incorporating him anywhere in a series of sys- tems developed continuously and in a genetic connection. SECTION XXIV. DESCARTES. The founder of modern philosophy is Descartes. While, like the men of the transition epoch just noticed, he broke loose entirely from the previous philosophizing, and began wholly de novo., he did not content himself, like Bacon, with merely bringing out a new method, or like Boehme and his 200 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. cotemporanes among the Italians, with affirming philosophi- cal views without a methodical ground. He went further than an}' of these, and from the standpoint of universal doubt, affirmed a new, positive, and pregnant philosophical principle, from which he attempted logically to deduce the chief points of his system. The character and novelty of his principle makes him the beginner, and its inner fruitfulness the founder, of modern philosophy-. Rene Descartes {Renatus Cartesius) was born in 1596, at La Haye in Touraine. Very earl}' dissatisfied with the preva- lent philosoph}^, he became altogether sceptical in regard to it, and determined after the completion of his studies to bid adieu to all school learning, and thenceforward to learn only from himself and the great book of the world, from nature and the observation of human life. In his twent3'-first year he exchanged the study of science for the life of the camp, serving as a volunteer first under Maurice of Orange and afterwards under Tilly. The impulse toward philosophical and mathematical investigations was, however, too powerful to permit him to abandon them permanently. In 1621 having, after long iuAvard struggles, formed the design of reconstruct- ing science upon a surer basis, he left the camp, made several long journeys, sta3'ed for a long time in Paris, and finall}' in 1629 abandoned his native land and betook himself to Hol- land, that he might there, undisturbed and unknown, devote himself to philosoph}' and elaborate his scientific ideas. He spent twenty ^ears in Holland, enduring much Aexatious treat- ment from fanatical theologians, until in 1649 he accepted an invitation from Queen Christina of Sweden, to visit Stock- holm, where he died in the following 3'ear. The more important principles of the Cartesian system may be seen condensed in the following epitome. 1. If science is ever to attain any thing fixed and abiding, it must begin at the foundation ; every presupposition which we may have cherished from infancy must be abandoned ; in a word, we must doubt wherever doubt is possible. We DESCARTES. 201 must therefore doubt not only the existence of the objects of sense, since the senses so frequentlj' deceive, but also the truths of mathematics and geometr}', — for, however evident the proposition ma}- appear that two and three make five, or that the square has four sides, j'et we cannot know whether valid knowledge is at all possible to finite beings, or whether God may not have designedly formed us for erroneous judg- ments. It is therefore advisable to doubt ever}' thing, nay, even to deny every thing, to posit ever}- thing as false. 2. But though we posit every thing as false to which the slightest doubt may be attached, yet we cannot den}' one thing, viz., the truth that we, who so think, do exist. But rather from the very fact that I posit every thing as false, that I doubt every thing, is it manifest that I, the doubter, exist. Hence the proposition : I think, therefore I am {cogito ergo sum) , is the first and most certain position which offers itself to every one attempting to philosophize. Upon this the most certain of all propositions, the certainty of all other knowledge depends. The objection of Gassendi, that existence may be inferred from any other activity of man as well as from thinking, that I might just as well say : I go to walk, therefore I exist, — has no weight ; for, of all my actions, I can be absolutely certain only of my thinking. 3. From the proposition, I think, therefore I am, the whole nature of the mind may be determined. When we ex- amine who we are who hold every thing to be false that is distinct from ourselves, we see clearly that without destroy- ing our personality we can think ourselves to be without every thing which belongs to us, except onl}' our thought. Hence, neither extension nor figure, nor any thing which can be predicated of body, but only thought, belongs to our na- ture. I am, therefore, essentially a thinking being, i.e., mind, soul, intelligence, reason. Thought is my substance. Mind can therefore be apprehended clearly and completely for itself alone, without any of those attributes which belong to body. The conception of it contains nothing of that which 202 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. belongs to the conception of bod}'. It is therefore impossi- ble to apprehend it through any sensuous representation, or to make an image of it : it is apprehended through pure thought alone. 4. P>om the proposition cogito ergo sum, follows still farther the universal rule of all certainty. I am certain that because I think, I exist. Whence comes this certainty? Evidently from the clear discernment, that it is impossible that any one should think and jet not exist. From this is readily deduced the universal criterion of certainty in knowl- edge ; every thing is certain which I perceive clearly and evi- dently to be true, which m}' reason apprehends as true with the same irresistible clearness as this cogito ergo sum. 5, This rule, howcA^er, is only a principle of certainty; it affords no knowledge of the truth itself. We merel}' apply it to our thoughts or ideas, in order to discover which of them are objectively true. But our ideas are partly innate, partly acquired, and partly self-originated. Among these ideas we find preeminent before all the idea of God. The question arises, whence have we this idea? Manifestl}' not from our- selves ; this idea could only be implanted within us b}' a being who has the fulness of all perfection in himself, i.e., only b}' an actually existing God. If I ask now, whence have I the faculty to conceive of a nature more perfect than my own? the answer must ever be, that I have it only from him whose nature is actually more perfect. All the attributes of God, the more I contemplate them, show that the conception of them could not have originated with myself alone. For though there might be in me the idea of substance because I am a substance, 3'et I could not of myself have the idea of an infinite substance, since I am finite ; such an idea could onlj' be given me through a substance actually* infinite. Moreover, we must not think that the conception of the infinite is to be gained through abstraction and negation, as darkness, perhaps, is the negation of light ; but I perceive, rather, that the in- finite contain? more reality than the finite, and that, therefore, DESCAKTES. 203 the conception of the infinite must be correspondingly ante- cedent in me to that of the finite. Since then I have a clear and determined idea of the infinite substance, and since this has a greater objective reality than every other, there is no other which I have so little reason to doubt. But now since I am certain that the idea of God has come to me from God himself, it only remains for me to examine the way in which I have received it from God. I have neither constructed it from the materials afforded by the senses, nor has it come to me therefrom involuntaril}- like the ideas of sensible objects, since these arise through affections of the external organs ; neither have I invented it, since I can neither add any thing to it nor take any thing from it ; it must, therefore, be innate as the idea of myself is innate. Hence the first proof we can assign for the existence of a God is the fact that we find the idea of a God within us, and that we must have a real cause for its being. Again, the existence of a God may be con- cluded from my own imperfection, and especially from the knowledge of my imperfection. P'or since I know that there is a perfection which is wanting in me, it follows that there must exist a being who is more perfect than I, on Avhom I depend and from whom I receive all I possess. — But the best and most evident proof for the existence of God is, in fine, that which is gained from the conception of a God. The mind among all its different ideas singles out the chiefest of all, that of the most perfect being, and perceives that this has not only the possibility of existence, i.e., accidental existence like all other ideas, but that it involves necessar}' existence in itself. And as the mind knows that in every triangle its three angles are equal to two right angles, because this is implied in the very idea of a triangle, so does the mind necessarily conclude that since necessary existence is involved to the con- ception of the most perfect being, the most perfect being ac- tually exists. No other idea which the mind finds within itself involves necessary existence, but from the idea of the Supreme Being existence cannot be separated without contra- 204 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. diction. It is onl}' our prejudices which keep us from seeing this. Since we are accustomed in ever}' thing to separate the conception of it from its existence, and since we often con- struct ideas arbitrarily, it readily happens, that when we con- template the Supreme Being we are in doubt whether its idea ma}- not also be one arbitrarily devised, or at least one in whose conception existence is not contained. — This proof is essentially different from that of Anselra of Canterbury', which was controverted by Thomas. His argument was as follow\s : "•When we consider what the word God signifies, it is evi- dent that we understand by it that which must be thought as the greatest ; but to exist actually as well as in thought is greater than to exist in thought alone ; therefore God exists not only in thought but in fact." Here the defect in the syl- logism is manifest, for the legitimate conclusion would be, God must therefore be thought as existing in fact ; but from this the actualit}' of his existence does not at all follow. My proof on the other hand is this, — we ma}' predicate of a. thing what we clearly see belongs to its true and changeless nature, or to its essence, or to its form. But after we had examined what God is, we found existence to belong to his true and changeless nature, and therefore may we properly predicate existence of God. Necessar}' existence is contained in the idea of the most perfect being, not by a fiction of our under- standing but because existence belongs to his eternal and changeless nature. 6. The result just obtained — the existence of God — is of the highest consequence. Before attaining this we were obliged to doubt every thing, and give up even ever}' cer- tainty, for we did not know but that it was the nature of the human mind to err, but that God had formed us for error. But so soon as we look at the necessary attributes of God in the innate idea of him, we know that he is veracious. It would, therefore, be a contradiction to suppose that he would deceive us, or that he could have made us to err ; for though an ability to deceive might prove his skill, a willingness to DESCARTES. 205 deceive would 011I3' demonstrate his frailt}'. Our reason, there- fore, can never apprehend an object which miglit possiblj' be vuitrue so far as the reason appreliended it, Le., so far as it is clearl}' known. For God might justly be styled a deceiver if he had given us a reason so perverted as to mistake the false for the true. And thus the absolute doubt with whicli we began is dispelled. From the existence of God we derive every certaint}'. For to be assured of the certaint}' of any knowledge it is sufficient that we have known a thing clearly and distinctl}', and are certain of the existence of a veracious God. 7. From the true idea of God follow the principles of a philosophy of nature or the doctrine of the tv/o substances. Substance is that which so exists that it needs nothing else for its existence. In this (highest) sense God is the only substance. God, as the infinite substance, has the ground of his existence in himself, is the cause of himself. The two created substances, on the other hand, the thinking and the corporeal substance, mind and matter, are substances only in a broader sense of the word ; they ma}' be apprehended under the common conception that they are things which for their existence need onlj' the cooperation of God. Each of these two substances has an attribute which constitutes its nature and its essence, and to which all its other determina- tions may be referred. The attribute and essence of matter is extension, that of mind, thought. For ever}' thing else which can be predicated of body presupposes extension, and is only a mode of extension, as ever}' thing we can find in mind is only a modification of thought. A substance to whicli thought immediately belongs is called mind, and a substance, which is the immediate substratum of extension, is called body. Since thought and extension are distinct from each other, and since mind can not only be known without the attributes of body, but is in itself the negation of those attri- butes, we may say that the essence of these substances lies in their reciprocal negation. Mind and body are wholly dis- tinct, and have nothing in common. 206 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 8. We pass by the physics of Descartes, which has onl}' a subordinate philosophical interest, and notice next liis views of anthropology. From this dualistic relation between mind and matter, there follows a dualistic relation between soul and body. If matter is essentially extension, and mind essentiall}' thought, and if the two have nothing in common, then the union of soul and body can be conceived only as a mechanical one. The body is to be regarded as a skilfully constructed automaton, which God has made, — as it were a statue or machine formed b}' God from the earth. Within this body the soul dwells, closel}- but not internall}' connected with it. The union of the two is onl}' a forcible collocation, since each is not onl^- an independent factor, but is essen- tially distinct from and even opposed to the other. The bod}' by itself is a perfected machine, in which nothing is changed b}' the entrance of the thinking soul, except that through the latter certain motions are originated ; the wheel-work of the machine remains as it was. It is only the indwelling thought which distinguishes this machine from eveiy other ; hence brutes which are not self-conscious must be ranked with all other machines. From this standpoint arose the question concerning the seat of the soul. If bod}' and soul are inde- pendent substances, each essentially opposed to the other, they cannot interpenetrate each other, and even if forcibly brought together can touch onl}' at one point. This point where the soul has its seat, is, according to Descartes, not the whole brain but the pineal gland, a small gland in the middle of the brain. The proof for this assumption, that the pineal gland is the only place where the soul immediately exhibits its energ}', is found in the circumstance that all other parts of the brain are twofold, which should not be the case in an organ where the soul has its seat, since such a structure would cause the soul to perceive two objects instead of one. There is, therefore, no other place in the body where impres- sions can be so well united as in this gland. The pineal gland is, therefore, the chief seat of the soul, and the place where all our thoughts are formed. DESCARTES. 207 We have thus developed the fundamental thoughts of the Cartesian S3'stem, and will now recapitulate in a few words the features characteristic of its standpoint and historic posi- tion. Descartes was the founder of a new epoch in philoso- ph3', firsts from his postulate of absolute freedom from all preconceptions. This protest against ever3' thing which is not posited by the thought, against taking an}' thing for granted, has remained from that time onward the fundamental prin- ciple of the new age. Secondly, Descartes introduced the principle of self- consciousness, the pure for-itself-existing Ego (the mind or the thinking substance is regarded by him as an individual self, a particular Ego) — a new principle, unknown under this form to the ancients. Thirdly, He has shown the opposition between being and thought, existence and consciousness, and declared the mediation of this oppo- sition, which has been the problem of all modern philosophy, to be the true object of philosophical investigation. But with these ideas, which make an epoch in the history of philosophy, there are at the same time connected the defects of the Cartesian philosophizing. First, Descartes obtained the content of his sj'stem, particularl}' his three substances, empirically'. True, the S3'stem which begins with a protest against all existence would seem to take nothing for granted, but to derive ever}' thing from thought. But in fact this protesJ^ is not thoroughl}' carried out. That which seems to be cast aside is afterwards, when the principle of certaint}' is gained, taken up again unchanged. And so it happens that Des- cartes finds at hand not only the idea of God, but his two substances as something immediately given. True, in order to reach them, he abstracts from much which lies immedi- ately beforfe him, but in the end the two substances are seen as the residuum when all else is abstracted. The}' are re- ceived empirically. The second defect is, that Descartes separates wholly from each other the two sides of the antithe- sis, thought and being. He posits both as "■substances," i.e., as forces which reciprocally repel and negate each other. 208 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. The essence of matter according to bim consists only in extension, i.e.^ in pure externality, and that of mind only in thought, i.e., in pure iuternality. The two stand over against each other as centrifugal and centripetal. But with this apprehension of mind and matter, an inner mediation of the two is an impossibilit}' ; there must be a powerful creative act, there must be the divine assistance in order that the two sides ma}' come together, and be united as they are in man. Nevertheless Descartes demands and attempts a mediation of the two sides. But the impossibility of trul}' overcoming the dualism of his standpoint is the third, and the chief defect of his S3'stem. In the proposition " I think, therefore I am," or " I exist thinking," the two sides, being and thought, are indeed connected together, but onl}' that they may become fixed independently of each other. If the question is asked, how does the Ego stand related to the extended ? the answer can only be: by thinking, i.e., negatively', by excluding it. The idea of God, therefore, is all that remains for tlie media- tion of these two sides. The two substances are created b}' God, and through the divine will may be bound together ; through the idea of God, the Ego attains the certaint}' that the extended exists. God is therefore in a certain degree a Deiis ex machina, necessary in order to effect the union of the Ego with the extended. It is obvious how external such a mediation is. This defect of the Cartesian system operated as an impell- ing motive to the systems which follow. GEULIXCX AND MALEBEANCHE. 209 SECTION XXV. GEULINCX AND MALEBRANCHE. 1. Mind and matter, consciousness and existence, Des- cartes had completel}' separated from each other. Both, with him, are substances, independent powers, reciprocally ex- clusive opposites. Mind (i.e., in his view the simple self, the Ego) he regarded as essentially abstraction from the sen- suous, the distinguishing of self from matter and the sepa- rating of matter from self; matter, on the other hand, he regarded as the complete opposite of thought. If the rela- tion of these two powers be as has been stated, then the question arises, how can the}^ ever be connected? How, on the one hand, can the affections of the bod}' work upon the soul, and on the other hand, how can the volition of the soul direct the body, if the two are absolutely distinct and op- posed to each other? At this point, Arnold Geulincx (a dis- ciple of Descartes, born at Antwerp 1625, and died as professor of philosophy at Leyden 1669) took up the Car- tesian system, and endeavored to give it a greater logical perfection. According to Geuhncx neither does the soul work immediately^ upon the body, nor the body immediately upon the soul. Certainly not the former: for though 7 can determine and move my bodj' in many respects arbitrarily', j'et I am not the cause of this movement ; for I know not how it happens, I know not in what manner motion is communicated from my brain to the different parts of my body, and it is im- possible that I should do that in respect of which I cannot see how it is done. But if I cannot produce motion in m}' body, much less can I do this outside of my body. I am therefore simply a contemplator of the world ; the onlj' act which is jDcculiarly mine is contemplation. But even this contempla- tion arises in a singular manner. For if we ask how we 14 210 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. obtain our perceptions of the external world, we find it im- possible that the external world should directl}' give them to us. For however much we ma^^ say that, e.g.^ in the act of seeing, the external objects produce an image in the e^-e or an impression in the brain as in wax, 3'et this impression or pic- ture is after all onlj' something corporeal or material, and cannot therefore come into my mind, which is absolutely dis- tinct from every thing material. There remains, therefore, onl}^ that we seek the mediation of the two sides in God. It is God alone who can unite the outer with the inner, and the inner with the outer ; who can make the outer phenomena to become inner representations or notions of the mind ; who can thus bring the world under the mind's observation, and transform the inner determinations of the will into external acts. Hence every operation, every act which unites the outer and inner, which brings the mind and the world into connection, is neither an activit}' of the mind nor of the world, but onl}- an immediate act of God. The movement of m}^ limbs does not follow from m}' will, but onlj' because it is the will of God that these movements should follow when I will. M}' will is an occasion hy which God moves m}' bod}' — an affection of my body is an occasion by which God brings within me a representation of the external world : the one is only the occasional cause of the other (hence the name occa- sionalism). M}^ will, however, does not move God to move m}' limbs, but He who has imparted motion to matter and given it its laws, created also m}' will, and has so connected together these most diverse things, the movement of matter and the arbitrium of my will, that when ni}' will puts forth a volition, such a motion follows as it wills, and the motion follows the volition without any interaction or physical influ- ence exerted by the one upon the other. But just as with two clocks which go exactly alike, the one striking precisely as the other, their harmony is not the result of an}' reciprocal interacting, but is the result of their similar construction and adjustment, — so is it with the movements of the body and GEULINCX AND MALEBRANCHE. 211 the will, the}- harmonize onlj- because their sublime artificer has in some inexplicable way connected them together. We see from this that Geulincx carried to its limit the fundamen- tal dualism of Descartes. While Descartes called the union of mind and matter a conjunction through power, Geulincx named it a miracle. There is consequently in this view no immanent, but onl}' a transcendent mediation possible. 2. Closely connected with this view of Geulincx, and at the same time a real consequence and a wider development of the Cartesian philosophizing, is the philosophic standpoint of Nicolas Malebranche (born at Paris in 1G38, chosen a member of the " Congregation cle Voratoire'" in his twent}-- second year, won over to philosoph}' through the writings of Descartes, and died, after numerous feuds with theological opponents, in 1715). Malebranche started with the Cartesian view of the relation between mind and matter. Both are strictlj^ distinct from each other, and in their essence opposed. How now does the mind (i.e., the Ego) gain a knowledge of the external world and have ideas of corporeal things ? For only under the spiritual form of ideas can external, especially material, things be present in the mind ; the mind does not possess the thing itself but onl}" an idea of it ; the thing itself remains alwa^-s external. Now the mind can neither gain these ideas from itself, nor from the things themselves. Not from itself; for to the soul, as a limited being, a capacity for producing the ideas of things purel}' from itself, cannot be ascribed ; that which is merely an idea of the soul does not, for that very reason exist actitally, and that which exists actually' does not depend for its existence and perception upon the choice of the soul ; the ideas of things are given to us, they are not products of our thought. Just as little has the mind derived these ideas from things themselves ; for it is unthinkable that material things should produce impressions upon the soul which is immaterial ; not to mention that these infinitely numerous and various impressions would in their coinci- 212 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. dences reciprocally annul and destroy one another. It onl}- re- inains, therefore, that the mind beholds things in a third that stands above the opposition of tlie two, viz., God. God, as the absolute substance comprehends all things in himself; in himself he sees all things according to their true being and nature. P'or the same reason, in him are also the ideas of all things ; the whole world, as intellectual or ideal, is God. God is, therefore, the higher mean between the Ego and the external world. In him we behold ideas, we being so strictly united with him, that he ma}' properly be called the place of minds. From him proceed also our volitions and sensations relative to things ; he unites the objective and subjective w^orlds which in themselves are separate and disjoined. The philosophy of Malebranche, whose simple thought is this, that we know and see all things in God, — shows itself to be, like the occasionalism of Geulincx, a special attempt to overcome the dualism of the Cartesian philosoph}' on its own ground and by means of its own fundamental assump- tions. 3. Two defects or inner contradictions have manifested themselves in the philosoph}' of Descartes. He had consid- ered mind and matter as substances, as mutually exclusive opposites, and had sought a mediation of the two. But with such presuppositions no mediation other than an external one is possible. If thought and existence are separate sub- stances then they can onl}' negate and exclude each other. Unnatural theories, like those which have been mentioned, are the inevitable result of this. The simplest wa}' out of the difficult}- is to give up the principle first assumed, to strip off their independence from the two opposites, and instead of regarding them as substances, view them as accidents of one substance. This way of escape is moreover indicated by a particular circumstance. According to Descartes, God is the infinite substance, the only substance in the proper sense of the word. Mind and matter are indeed substances, but only in relation to each other : in relation to God the}' are SPINOZA. 213 dependent, and not substances. This is, strictly taken, a contradiction. Tlie true consequence were rather to say that neither the P^go (i.e., the individual thinker) nor the ma- terial things are self-subsistent, but that this can be predicated onl}- of the one substance, God ; this substance alone has a real being, and all the being which belongs to individual es- sences these latter possess not as a substantial being, but only as accidents of the one only true and real substance. Malebranche approached this conclusion. With him the cor- poreal world is ideally at least resolved and made to sink in God, in whom are the eternal archet3'pes of all things. But Spinoza most decidedly and logically adopted tliis conse- quence, and affirmed the accidence of all individual being and the exclusive substantiality of God alone. His system is the perfection and the truth of the Cartesian. SECTION XXVI. SPINOZA. Baruch or Benedict Spinoza was born at Amsterdam, Nov. 24, 1632. His parents who were Jews of Portuguese descent, and wealthy tradespeople, gave him a finished edu- cation. He studied with great diligence the Bible and the Talmud, but soon exchanged the pursuit of theology for the study of ph3sics and the works of Descartes. He early be- came dissatisfied with Judaism, and presentl}- came to an open rupture with it, though witliout going over formal!}' to Christianit}', In order to escape the persecutions of the Jews, who had excommunicated him, and who even went so far as to make an attempt upon his hfe, he left Amsterdam 214 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. and betook himself to Rh^^nsberg, near Lejden. He finall}' settled down at the Hague, where he spent his life in the greatest seclusion, devoted wholly to scientific pursuits. He supported himself by grinding optical glasses, which his friends sold for him. The Elector Palatine, Charles Louis, offered him a Professorship of Philosoph}* at Heidelberg, with the full permission to teach as he chose, but Spinoza declined the post. Naturall}" of a weak constitution, which consumption had for many j-ears been undermining, Spinoza died at the age of 44, on the 21st of February, 1677. In his life there w^as mirrored the unclouded clearness and exalted serenit^^ of the perfected sage. Abstemious in his habits, satisfied with little, the master of his passions, never intemperately sad or joyous, gentle and benevolent, with a character of singular excellence and purity, he faithfullj^ illustrated in his life the doctrines of his philosophy. His chief work, the Ethica, appeared the 3'ear of his death. His design was probably' to have published it during his life, but the odious report that he was an atheist restrained him. The friend he most trusted, Louis Ma^'er, a physician, at- tended to its publication after the author's death and accord- ing to his will. The system of Spinoza rests upon three fundamental con- ceptions, from which all the rest may be derived with mathe- matical necessity. These conceptions are that of substance, of attribute, and of mode. 1. Spinoza starts from the Cartesian conception of sub- stance : substance is that which needs nothing other for its existence. But this definition admits of the existence of only one substance. That which exists through itself alone is necessarily infinite, since it is neither conditioned nor limited by any thing else. Existence-through-self is the absolute power to exist which can neither depend upon an}' other, nor find in an}^ other a limit or negation of itself; onl}' an unlim- ited being is self-subsistent, substantial being. A plurality of infinites, however, is impossible since they would be indis- SPINOZA. 215 tinguishable. The plurality of substances which Descartes assumed is, therefore, necessarily a contradiction. Onl}^ one absolutely infinite substance can exist. But such a self-exist- ent substance is presupposed by the given finite reality. It would be contradictory to suppose that only the finite exists and not the infinite as well ; that there exists only that which is conditioned and posited through another, and not also that which is self-subsistent. The absolute substance is rather the real cause of each and ever}' existence ; it alone is actual, unconditioned being ; it is the sole power of being from which every finite thing derives its existence ; without it there is nothing, with it every thing ; in it is comprehended all real- it}', since beside it there can be no self-subsistent being ; it is not only the cause of all being, but is itself all being ; all particular existence is onl}' a modification of the universal substance itself, which by virtue of an inner necessit}^ ex- pands its own infinite realit}' into an equally infinite quan- tity of being which includes v/ithin itself all conceivable forms of existence. This single substance Spinoza calls God. We must not, of course, understand by this the Christian idea of God, i.e., the conception of an individual spiritual person- alit}'. Spinoza expressly declares that he entertains a con- ception of God which is entirely distinct from the Christian. He strenuoush' asserts that all existence, material existence as well, springs immediately from the nature of God as the one substance. He ridicules those who see in the world an}' thing else than an accident of the divine substance itself. In their views he detects a dualism which would destro}' the necessary unit}' of all things, and an attribution of self-exist- ence to the world, which would annul the universal causality of God. The world is not a product of the divine will, co- existent with God and free, but an emanation of the divine nature according to his infinite creative essence. God is, with him, only substance, and nothing more. The proposi- tions that there is only one God, and that the substance of all things is only one, are with him identical. 216 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. Wliat now peculiarly is this substance? What is its posi- tive nature ? This question is ver}^ difficult to answer directl}' from the standpoint of Spinoza, parti}' because a definition, according to him, must contain (/.e., must be genetically) the immediate cause of that which is to be explained, but sub- stance is uncreated and can have no cause besides itself; but prominently because Spinoza held that every determination is a negation, since it must indicate a want of existence, a relative not-being. {Omnis determinatio est negatio is an ex- pression which, though he uses it only occasional!}^, expresses the fundamental idea of his whole system.) Hence, by en- deavoring to determine it positively, we only take away from substance its infinity' and make it finite. When, therefore, we affirm any thing concerning it, we onl}' speak negatively, e.g., that it has no external cause, that it is not a manifold, that it cannot be divided, etc. It is even reluctantly that Spinoza declares concerning it that it is one, for this predicate might readil}' be taken numerically, as implying that others, the many, stood over against it. Thus there can remain onl}' such positive affirmations respecting it as express its absolute reference to itself. In this sense Spinoza says that substance is the cause of itself, i.e.., its essence involves existence. When Spinoza calls it eternal, it is onl}' another expression for the same thought ; for by eternity he understands exist- ence itself, so far as it is conceived to follow from the defini- tion of the thing, in a sense similar to that in which geome- tricians speak of the eternal properties of figures. Still farther he calls substance infinite in so far as the conception of infinit}' expressed to him the conception of true being, the absolute affirmation of existence. So also the expression, God is free, affirms nothing more than those already men- tioned, viz., negatively, that every foreign restraint is ex- cluded from him, and positiveh', that God is in harmon}' with himself, that his being corresponds to the laws of his nature. The comprehensive statement for the above is, that there exists one infinite substance which excludes from itself all spmozA. 217 determination and negation, tlie one being in all existence, and is named God. 2. Besides the infinite substance of God, Descartes had assumed two other substances created by God, viz., mind (thought) and matter (extension) . These are also with Spi- noza the two fundamental forms under which he subsumes all reality, the two " attributes" under which the one substance, in so far as it is the cause of all realit}', reveals itself to us. What, now, is the relation of these attributes to the infinite substance? This is the severe question, the Achilles' heel of Spinoza's system. The essence of the substance itself cannot be wholly merged in them ; for if it were, it would become finite, hmited, — which contradicts the definition of substance as stated above. If then these two attributes do not exhaust the objecti^'e essence of the substance, they can only be the determinations in which the in itself infinite sub- stance exhibits itself to the subjective understanding, for which every thing is either thought or extension. And this is, in fact, the opinion of Spinoza. Attribute, according to him, is that wiiich the understanding perceives in the sub- stance as constituting its essence. The two attributes are, therefore, determinations which manifest the substance in these precise forms onl}' for the perceiving understanding. Since substance itself is not exhausted b}' such determinate modes of being, these attributes can express the essence of substance only for an understanding wdiich exists apart from it. To the substance itself it is indiiferent whether the under- standing contemplate it under these two attributes or not ; the substance in itself has an infinity' of attributes, i.e., every possible attribute which is not a limitation, may be predicated of it ; it is only the human understanding which attaches these two attributes to the substance, and it affixes no more than these, because, among all the conceptions it can form, these alone are actuall}' positive, or express a reality. God, or the substance, is therefore thinking, in so far as the under- standing contemplates him under the attribute of thought. 218 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. and is extended in so far as the understanding contemplates him under the attribute of extension. In a word, the two attributes are empirically derived determinations which are inadequate to the nature of the substance itself: the substance remains behind them as the absolutely infinite which cannot be comprehended under such definite conceptions ; they do not explain what substance is in itself, and hence, in reference to substance, appear accidental. Spinoza fails to establish any mediation between the notion of the absolute substance and the particular manner in which it manifests itself in the two attributes. In relation to each other, the attributes are, as with Des- cartes, to be taken as antithetical. The}^ are, it is true, attributes of one and the same substance ; but each attribute is independent, — as completely independent as the sub- stance itself whose essence it realiter manifests. Between thought and extension, between the spiritual and the mate- rial worlds, there is no reciprocal influence nor interaction : that which is material can have onl}' a material, and that which is spiritual {e.g.^ thoughts, volitions, etc.) can have only a spiritual source. Hence, neither can the mind work upon the bod}' nor the bod}' upon the mind. Thus far, there- fore, Spinoza adheres to the Cartesian separation of matter and mind. But when referred to the notion of a single sub- stance, both worlds, the spiritual and material, are just as truly one and the same ; there exists between them a com- plete agreement, a perfect parallelism. It is one and the same substance which is conceived under each of the two attributes ; and under whichever of the two it ma}' be con- sidered it is merely one and the same substance manifested under different forms of existence. " The idea of the circle and the circle itself are one and the same thing, onl}' in the first case it is conceived under the attributes of thought, in the second under that of extension." From the one sub- stance there proceeds, in fact, onl}' one infinite series of tilings ; but it is a series of things existing under various SPINOZA. 219 forms, as these are expressed in the attributes. Every tiling exists, as does substance itself, as well under the ideal form of thought, as under the real form of extension. For every spiritual form there is a corresponding material one, and for every material form a corresponding spiritual one. Nature and spirit are indeed distinct, but not unrelated ; they are every- where united as type and antitype, as thing and conception, as object and subject, — in which latter the object mirrors itself, or the real idealiter reflects itself. The world could not be the product of one substance, if these two elements, being and thought, were not at each point united in it in in- separable identity. To this inseparable unity of the spiritual and material elements, which, according to him, pervades all nature, though in different degi'ees of perfection, Spinoza refers, in particular, the relation between the body and the soul of man. This problem which, from the Cartesian stand- point was so difficult, so insoluble, receives from him a ver}^ simple explanation. In man, as everywhere else, extension and thought (the latter, indeed, not merel}^ as feeling and imagination, but as self-conscious, rational thought) are in- separably united. Mind is the consciousness which has for its object the body associated with it, and, through the me- dium of the body, the rest of the material world in so far as it affects the body. The body is the real organism whose states and affections are consciously reflected in the soul. But any interaction of the two is for this very reason impos- sible ; soul and body are the same thing, viewed in different ways, — on the one hand as conscious thought, and on the other as material, extended being. The}^ are onl}' formally distinct, in so far as the being and life of the body, Le., the impressions, movements, activities, which are determined solely by the laws of the material organism, spontaneously' coincide in the soul with the unit}' of consciousness, concep- tion, and thought. 3. Individual things, which considered under the attribute of thought are ideas, and under the attribute of extension are 220 - A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. bodies, Spinoza comprehends under the conception of acci- dence, or, as he calls it, mode. By modes we are therefore to understand the various individual forms of existence into which the universal being of the substance is sundered. The modes stand related to the substance as the rippling waves of the sea to the water of the sea, as forms constantly dis- appearing and never having a real being. The finite has no independent existence in itself; it exists because the unre- strained productive activity of the substance spontaneously produces an infinite variety of particular finite forms ; it has, however, no proper reality, it exists onl}- in and through the substance. Finite things are the most external, the last, the most subordinate forms of existence into which the uni- versal life is specialized ; and the}' manifest their finitude in that they are without resistance subjected to the infinite chain of causalit}' which binds the world. The divine substance works freely according to the inner essence of its own nature ; individuals, however, are riot free but are subject to the in- fluences of those things Avith which thej' come in contact. Their finitude consists in being determined not through them- selves, but through something other than themseh-es. The}' constitute the sphere of pure necessity within which each in- dividual is free and independent of the others only in so far as it has from nature the power to maintain its own existence and the stabilit}' of its own peculiar being. Such are the fundamental thoughts and features of Spino- za's system. His practical 2'>hllosojyhy yet remains to be char- acterized, and in a few words. Its chief propositions follow necessarily from the metaphysical grounds already cited. First, it follows from these, that what is called free will can- not be admitted. For since man is onl}^ a mode, he, like ever}^ other mode, stands in an endless series of conditioning causes, and no free will can therefore be predicated of him. The will like every other corporeal activity must be deter- mined b}' something, either b}' impressions of external things (representations) or by its own inner nature (impulses). SPINOZA. 221 Men regard themselves as free only because thej' are con- scious of their actions and not of the determining causes. Just so the notions which one coramonl}^ connects with tlie Avords good and evil, rest on an error as follows at once from the conception of the absolute divine causality-. Good and evil are not something actually in the things themselves, but only express relative conceptions which we have formed from a comparison of things with one another. Thus, by observ- ing certain things we form a certain universal conception, which we thereupon treat as though it were the rule for the being and acting of all individuals, and if an}' individual A^aries from this conception we fanc}' that it does not corre- spond to its nature, and is incomplete. Evil or sin is there- fore onl}' relative, not positive, for nothing happens against God's will. It is onl}' a simple negation or deprivation, which onl}' seems to be a reality in our representation. With God there is no idea of the evil. What is therefore good and what evil ? That is good which is useful to us, and that evil which hinders us from partaking of a good. That, moreover, is useful to us which brings us to a greater realit}', which preserves and exalts our being. But our true being is knowledge ; knowledge is the essence of our spirit ; knowl- edge alone makes us free, ^■.e., gives us the impulse and the power to counteract the influences which external things exert upon us, to determine our action according to the law of the rational preservation and promotion of our being, to place ourselves as regards all things in a relation adequate to our own nature. Hence that onl}' is useful to us which aids us in knowing ; the highest knowledge is the knowledge of God ; the highest virtue of the mind is to know and love God. From the knowledge of God we gain the highest glad- ness and joy of the mind, the highest blessedness. Blessed- ness, therefore, is not the reward of virtue, but virtue itself. The grand feature of Spinoza's philosophy is that it buries every thing individual and particular, as finite, in the abyss of the divine substance. With its view unalterably fixed 222 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. upon the eternal one, it loses sight of eveiy thing which seems actual in the ordinary notions of men. But its defect con- sists in its inabilit}' to transform this negative abyss of sub- stance into the positive ground of all being and becoming. The substance of Spinoza has been justly' compared to the lair of a lion, which many footsteps enter, but from which none emerge. The existence of the phenomenal world, though it be only the apparent and deceptive realit}' of the finite, Spinoza does not explain ; we fail to see why this world of void appearances exists ; a living connection between God and the world is lacking. Substance is merel}' a principle of unit}' and not also a principle of distinction. Reflec- tion, moves from the finite to the absolute, but not from the absolute to the finite ; it comprehends the manifold in God as an impersonal unity ; it sacrifices all individual existence to the negative thought of unity, instead of allowing this unit}' to negate its empty negativit}' by means of a living develop- ment into the concrete manifold. The S3'stem of Spinoza is the most abstract Monotheism that can be thought. It is not accidental that its author, a Jew, should have brought out again this view of the world, this view of absolute identity, for it is in a certain degree with him onl}' a consequence of his national religion — an echo of the Orient. SECTION XXVII. IDEALISM AND REALISM. We have now reached a point of divergence in the devel- opment of philosoph}'. Descartes had aflfirmed and attempted to mediate the opposition between thought and being, mind and matter. This mediation, however, was hardl}' success- ful, for the two sides of the opposition he had fixed in their IDEALISM AND REALISM. 223 widest separation, when lie posited them as two substances or powers, which reciprocal!}- negate each other. The fol- lowers of Descartes sought a more satisfactor}' mediation, but the theories to which they saw themselves driven, only indi- cated the more clearly that tlie premise from which the}' started must be altogether abandoned. At length Spinoza abandoned this false presupposition, and took awa}' its sub- stantiality from each of the two opposed principles. Mind and matter, thought and extension, are now one in the infi- nite substance. Yet they are not one in themselves^ which would be the only true unit}- of the two. That they are one in the substance is of little avail, since the}' are inditferent to the substance, and are not immanent distinctions in it. Thus even with Spinoza the two remain strictly- separate. The ground of this isolation we find in the fact that Spinoza him- self did not sufficientl}' renounce the Cartesian postulate, and thus could not escape the Cartesian dualism. With him, as with Descartes, thought is only thought, and extension only extension, and in such an apprehension of the two, the one necessarily excludes the other. If we would find an inner mediation for the two, this abstraction must be overcome. The opposite sides must be mediated even in their strictest opposition. To do this, two ways alone were possible. A position could be taken either on the material or on the ideal side, and the attempt made to explain the ideal b}' the mate- rial, or the material by the ideal, comprehending one through the other. Both these attempts were in fact made, and at about the same time. The two parallel courses of a one- sided idealism, and a one-sided realism (Empiricism, Sen- sualism, Materialism) , now begin their development. 224 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. SECTION XXVIII. LOCKE. The founder of the realistic course and the father of mod- ern Epiricism and MateriaUsm, is John Locke, an EngUsh- man. He had, indeed, in his countryman, Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679), a predecessor, whom, however, we need mere!}- mention here, since his significance consists chiefly in his influence upon the history of poUtical science. John Locke was born at Wrington, 1632. His student years he devoted to philosoph}' and especially to medicine, though his weak health prevented him from practising as a physician. Few cares of business interrupted his leisure, and he devoted his time mostly to literar}' pursuits. His friendl}' relations with Lord Ashle}^, afterwards Earl of Shaftesbury, exerted a weighty influence upon his course in life. At the house of this distinguished statesman and author he always found the most cordial reception, and intercourse with the most important men of England. In the year 1670 he sketched for a number of friends the first plan of his famous Essay concerning Human Understanding, though the completed work did not appear till 1690. Locke died aged 72 in the j'ear 1704. His writings are characterized b}' clearness and precision, perspicuit}' and definiteness. More acute than pi'ofound in his philophizing, he does not in this respect belie the peculiarities of his nation. The fundamental thoughts and results of his philosophy have now become common property, especially among the English ; but it should not for this reason be forgotten that he is the first who has scien- tifically established them, and is, on this account, entitled to a true place in the history of philosophy, even though his jjrinciple was wanting in an inner capacity for development. Locke's Philosoph}' {i.e., his theory of knowledge, for his LOCKE. 225 whole philosophizing expends itself in investigating the fac- ulty of cognition) rests upon two thoughts, to which he never ceases to revert : first (negatively) , there are no innate ideas ; second (positively), all our knowledge originates in experi- ence. Man}', sa3'S Locke, suppose that there are innate ideas which the soul receives coetaneously with its origin, and brings with it into the world. In order to prove that these ideas are innate, it is said that they universally exist, and are universall}- valid with all men. But admitting that this were so, such a fact would prove nothing if this universal harmon}' could be explained in an}' other way. But men mistake when they claim this to be a fact. There are, in reality, no fundamental propositions, theoretical or practical, which are universally admitted. Certainly there is no such practical principle, for the example of different peoples and especially of different ages shows that there is no moral rule universally admitted as valid. Neither is there a theoretical one ; for even those propositions which might lay the strong- est claim to be universally valid, e.g., the pi'oposition, — " what is, is," or — "it is impossible that one and the same thing should be and not be at the same time," — receive b}' no means a universal assent. Children and idiots have no notion of these principles, and even uncultivated men know nothing of these abstract propositions. They cannot there- fore have been imprinted on all men by nature. If ideas were innate, then they must be known by all from earliest childhood. For "to be in the understanding," and "to be- come known," is one and the same thing. The assertion, therefore, that these ideas are imprinted on the understand- ing while it does not know it, is a manifest contradiction. Just as little is gained by the subterfuge, that these princi- ples come into the consciousness so soon as men use their reason. This affirmation is directly false, for these maxims which ai-e called universal come into the consciousness much later than a great deal of other knowledge ; and children, 15 226 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. e.g., give man}' proofs of their use of reason before they know that it is impossible that a thing should be and at the same time not be. It is onl}' correct to say that no one be- comes conscious of these propositions without reasoning, — but to say that they are all known with the first reasoning is false. jMoreover, that which is first known is not universal propositions, but relates to individual impressions. The child knows that sweet is not bitter long before he understands the logical principle of contradiction. He who carefully be- thinks himself, will hesitate before he aflSrms that particular dicta as "sweet is not bitter," are derived from universal ones. If the universal propositions were innate, then must they be the first in the consciousness of the child ; for that which nature has stamped upon the human soul must come into consciousness antecedently to an}- thing which she has not written there. Consequentl}-, if there are no innate ideas, either theoretical or practical, there can be just as trulj' no innate art nor science. The understanding (or the soul) is essentially a tabula rasa, — a blank and void space, a tablet on which nothing is written. How now does the understanding become possessed of ideas? Only through experience, upon which all knowledge rests, and on which as its principle all knowledge depends. Experience itself is twofold ; either it arises through the per- ception of external objects b}' means of the senses, in which case we call it sensation ; or it is a perception of the activities of our own understanding, in which case it is named the inner sense, or, better, reflection. Sensation and reflection give to the understanding all its ideas ; the}' are the windows through which alone the light of ideas falls upon the naturall}' dark space of the mind ; external objects furnish us with the ideas of sensible qualities, and the inner object, which is the under- standing itself, offers us the ideas of its own activities. To show the derivation and to give an explanation of all the ideas derived from both is the problem of the Loekian phi- losophy. For this end Locke divides ideas (representations) LOCKE. 227 into simple and compound. Simple ideas are those which are impressed from without upon the understanding while it remains whollj' passive, just as tlie images of objects are reflected in a mirror. These simple ideas are partly such as come to the understanding through a particular sense, e.f/., the ideas of color, which are furnished to the mind through the eye, or those of sound, which come to it through the ear, or those of solidit}' or impenetrabilit}', which we receive through the touch ; parti}' such as a number of senses have combined to give us, as those of space and of motion, of which we become conscious b}' means of the sense both of touch and of sight ; parti}' such as we receive through reflec- tion, as the idea of thought and of will ; and parth", in fine, such as arise from both sensation and reflection combined, e.g., power, unity, etc. These simple ideas form the material, as it were the letters of all our knowledge. But now as lan- guage arises from a manifold combination of letters, s^-Uables, and M'ords, so the understanding forms complex ideas b}' the manifold combination of simple ideas with each other. The complex ideas ma}' be referred to three classes, viz., the ideas of mode, of substance, and of relation. Under the ideas of mode, Locke considei's the modifications of si>ace (as distance, measurement, immensity, surface, figure, etc.), of time (as duration, eternity), of thought (perception, memory, abstraction, etc.), of number, power, etc. Special attention is given by Locke to the conception of substance. He explains the origin of this conception in this way, viz., we find both in sensation and reflection, that a certain num- ber of simple ideas seem often to be connected together. But as we cannot divest ourselves of the impression that these simple ideas have not been produced through themselves, we are accustomed to furnish them with a ground in some exist- ing substratum, which we indicate with the word substance. Substance is something unknown, and is conceived of as pos- sessing those qualities which are necessary to furnish us with simple ideas. But from the fact that substance is a product 228 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. of our subjective thinking, it does not follow that it has no existence outside of ourselves. On the contrar}-, this is dis- tinguished from all other complex ideas in the fact that this is an idea which has its archet3pe distinct from ourselves, and possesses objective realit}-, while other complex ideas are formed b}' the mind at pleasure, and have no realit}' corres- ponding to them external to the mind. AVe do not know w^hat is the archetype of substance, and of the substance itself we are acquainted only with its attributes. From considering the conception of substance, Locke next passes to the idea of relation. A relation arises when the understanding has connected two things with each other, in such a wa}', that from the consideration of one it is inevitabl}- led to the con- sideration of the other. Every thing is capable of being brought by the understanding into relation, or what is the same thing, of being transformed into something relative. It is consequently impossible to enumerate the sum of possible relations. Hence Locke treats only of some of the more weight}' conceptions of relation, among others, that of iden- tit}' and difference, but especially' that of cause and effect. The idea of cause and effect arises when our understanding perceives that any thing whatsoever, be it substance or qualit}', begins to exist through the activity of another. So much concerning ideas. The combination of ideas among them- selves gives the conception of cognition. Hence knowledge stands in the same relation to the simple and complex ideas as a proposition does to the letters, syllables, and words which compose it. From this it follows that our knowledge does not pass bej'ond the compass of our ideas, and hence that it is bounded by experience. These are the prominent thoughts in the Lockian philoso- phy. Its empiricism is clear as da}'. The mind, according to it, is in itself void, and only a mirror of the outer world, — a camera obsciira which passively receives the images of external objects ; its whole content consists in the impressions furnished it by material things. Nihil est in intelledu quod HUME. 229 non fuerit in sensu — is the watchword of this standpoint. While Locke, b}' this proposition, expresses the undoubted preponderance of the material OA^er the intellectual, he does so still more decisively' when he declares that it is possible and even probable that the mind is a material substance. He does not admit the reverse possibilit}', that material things ma}- be classed under the intellectual as a special kind. Hence with him mind is the secondary to matter ; and hence he is seen to take the characteristic standpoint of realism {cf. § XXVII.). It is true that Locke was not alwa^-s logically consistent, and in many points did not thoroughl}- carry out his empiricism : but we can clearl}' see that the road which wiU be taken in the farther development of this direction, will result in a thorough denial of the ideal factor. The empiricism of Locke, wholh' national as it is, soon be- came the ruling philosophy in England. Standing on its basis we find Isaac Neivton, the great mathematician (1642- 1727), Samuel Clarke^ a disciple of Newton, whose chief at- tention was given to moral philosophy (1675-1729), the Eng- lish moralists of this period, William Wollaston (1659-1724)- t\\e¥^a.Ylof Shaftesbui'y (1671-1713), Francis Hutcheson (1695 -1747), and even some opponents of Locke, as Petei' Browne, who died 1735. SECTION XXIX. HUME. As already remarked, Locke had not been wholl}' consistent with the standpoint of empiricism. Though conceding to material objects a decided superioritj' above the thinking sub- ject, there was 3'et one point, viz., the recognition of sub- stance, where he claimed for thought a power above the objective world. Among all the complex ideas which are 230 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. formed b}' the subjective thinking, the idea of substance is, according to Loclve, the onl}' one which has objective realitj' ; all the rest being purel}' subjective, with nothing actually cor- responding to them in the objective world. But in the ver^' fact that the subjective thinking places the conception of sub- stance, which it has formed, in the olyective world, it affirms an objective relation of things, an objective connection of them one with another, and an existing rationality. The reason of the subject in this respect stands in a certain de- gree above the objective world ; for the relation of suljstan- tiality is not derived immediately from the world of sense, and is no product of sensation nor of perception through the sense. On a pure empirical standpoint — and such was Locke's — it was therefore illogical to allow the conception of substance to remain possessed of ol)jective validity. If the understanding is essentially a bare and empty space, an un- written tablet, if its whole content of objective knowledge consists in the impressions made upon it b}' material things, then must the conception of substance also be explained as a mere subjectiAC notion, a union of ideas joined together at the mind's pleasure, and the subject itself, thus deprived of every thing on which it could base a claim to superiorit}-, must become wholly subordinated to the material world. This stride to a logical empiricism Hume made in his criticism of the conception of causalit}'. David Hume was born at Txlinburgh 1711. Devoted in youth to the study of law, then for some time a merchant, he afterwards gave his attention exclusivel}- to philosoph}- and history. His first literary attempt was hardly noticed. A more favorable reception was, however, given to his '■'• Es- says" — of which he published different collections from 1742 to 1757, making in all five A'olumes. In these Hume treated philosophical themes as a thoughtful and culti^'ated man of the world, but without any strict S3stematic connection. In 1752 he was elected to the care of a public library in Edin- burgh, and began in this same }ear his famous history of HUME. 231 England. Afterwards he was appointed secretaiy of legation at Paris, where he became acquainted with Rousseau. In 1767 he became under secretary of state, an office, however, which he filled for only a brief period. His last years were spent in Edinburgh, in a quiet and contented seclusion. He died 1776. The centre of Hume's philosophizing is his criticism of the conception of causality. Locke had already expressed the thought that we attain the conception of substance only by the habit of alwa^^s seeing certain modes together. Hume takes up this thought with earnestness. Whence do we know, he asks, that two things stand to each other in the relation of cause and effect? We do not know it a priori, for since the effect is different from the cause, while knowl- edge a priori embraces only that which is identical, the effect cannot be discovered in the cause ; neither do we know it through experience, for experience reveals to us onl}' the suc- cession in time of two facts. All our conclusions from expe- rience, therefore, rest simply upon habit. Because we are in the habit of seeing that one thing is followed in time by an- other, do we form the notion that the latter must follow the former : we transform the relation of succession into the relation of causality ; but a connection in time is naturally something other than a causal connection. Hence, with the conception of causality, we transcend that which is given in perception and form for ourselves, notions to which we are properly not entitled. — That which is true of causality is true of every necessary- relation. We find within us concep- tions, as those of power and expression, and in general that of necessary connection ; but let us note how we attain these : not through sensation, for though external objects seem to us to have coetaneousness of being, they show us no necessary connection. Do they then come through reflection? True, it seems as if we might get the idea of power b}' seeing that the organs of our body move in consequence of the dictate of our mind. But since wc do not know the means throui2;li 232 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. which the mind works, and since all the organs of the body cannot be moved b}' the will, it follows, that we are pointed to experience in reference to this actiA'it}- also ; but since experience can show us only a frequent conjunction, but no real connection, it follows that we arrive at the conception of power, as of every necessary connection, onl}' because we are accustomed to certain transitions in our ideas. All con- ceptions which express a relation of necessity, all knowledge presumptive of a real objective connection of things, rests therefore ultimately only upon the association of ideas. Hav- ing denied the conception of substance, Hume was led also to deny that of the Ego or self. If the Pvgo or self reall}" exists, it must be a substance possessing inherent qualities. But since our conception of substance is purelj' subjective, without objective reality, it follows that there is no realit}' corresponding to our conception of the self or the Ego. The self or the Elgo is, in fact, nothing other than a compound of man}- notions following rapidly upon each other ; and under this compound we lay a conceived substratum, which we call soul, self. Ego. The self, or the Ego, rests wholly on an illusion. Of course, with such premises, nothing can be said of the immortality of the soul. If the soul is only the com- pound of our notions, it necessarily ceases with the notions — that which is compounded of the movements of the body dies with those movements. Tliere needs no further proof, than simply to utter these chief thoughts of Hume, to show that his scepticism is only a logical carrying out of Locke's empiricism. The determina- tions universalit}' and necessity must fall awa}', if we derive our knowledge only from perceptions through the sense ; for these determinations cannot be contained in sensation. CONDILLAC. 233 SECTION XXX. CONDILLAC. The French took up the problem of carrjing out the em- ph'icism of Locke to its ultimate consequences in sensualism and materialism. Although this empiricism had sprung up on English soil, and had soon become universalh' prevalent there, it was reserved for France to pusli it to the last ex- treme, and show it to be destructive of the foundations of all moral and religious life. This final consequence of empiri- cism was not congenial to the English national character. On the contrar}-, both the empiricism of Locke, and the scep- ticism of Hume, found themselves opposed in the latter half of the eighteenth century, by a reaction in the Scotch philoso- phy (Reid, 1710-1796 ; Beattie, Oswald, Ducjald Steivart, 1753-1828). The attempt was here made to establish cer- tain principles of truth as innate and immanent in the subject, which should avail both against the tabula rasa of Locke, and the scepticism of Hume. These principles were taken in a thoroughly English wa}', as those of common sense, as facts of experience, as facts of the moral instinct and sound human understanding ; as something empirically given, and found in the common consciousness by self-con- templation and reflection. But in France, on the other hand, there was such a public and social condition of things during the eighteenth century, that we can only regard the systems of materialism and egoistic morality which here appeared (as the ultimate practical consequences of the empirical stand- point) to be the natural result of the universal corruption. The expression of a lady respecting the S3stem of Helvetius, that it uttered only the secret of all the world, is well known. Most closely connected with the empiricism of Locke, is the sensualism of the Abbe Condillac. Condillac was born at 234 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. Grenoble, 1715. In his first writings he adhered to Locke, but subsequently passed beyond him, and sought to establish a philosophical standpoint of his own. He was elected a member of the French Academy in 17G8, and died in 1780. His writings, which exhibit much moral earnestness and re- ligious feeling, fill twentj'-three volumes, and have their origin in a moral and religious interest. Condillac, like Locke, started with the proposition that all our knowledge comes from experience. While, however, Locke had indicated two sources for this knowledge, sensa- tion and reflection, the outer and the inner sense, Condillac referred reflection to sensation, and reduced the two sources to one. Reflection is, with him, only sensation ; all intel- lectual occurrences, even the combination of ideas and voli- tion, are to be regarded only as modified sensations. It is the chief problem and content of Condillac's philosophizing to carry out this thought, and derive the different functions of the soul from the sensations of the outer sense. He illus- trates this thought by a statue, which has been made with a perfect internal organization like a man, but which possesses no ideas, and in which onl}' gradually one sense after another awakens and fills the soul with impressions. In such a view man stands on the same footing as the brute, for all his knowledge and all his incentives to action he receives from sensation. Condillac consequently names men perfect ani- mals, and brutes imperfect men. Still he revolts from affirm- ing the materiality of the soul, and denying the existence ol" God. These ultimate consequences of sensualism were first drawn by others after him ; though, indeed, they were suffi- ciently e\'ident. As sensualism affirmed that truth or what actually is could only be perceived through the sense, so we have only to reverse this proposition, and have the thesis of materialism, viz., the sensible alone is, there is no other being but material being. HELVETIUS. 235 SECTION XXXI. HELVETIUS. Hrlvetius fleduced the moral consequences of the sensual- istic standpoint. While theoretical sensualism affirms that all our knowledge is determined by sensation, practical sensu- alism adds to this the analogous proposition that all our voli- tion springs from the same source, and is regulated by sensu- ous desire. The satisfaction of this sensuous desire Helvetius affirmed to be the first principle of ethics. Helvetius was born at Paris in 1715. Having in his twenty- third 3'ear obtained the position of Farmer-General, he found himself soon in possession of a large income, but after a few years this office became so vexatious that he abandoned it. The study of Locke determined the direction of his specula- tions. Helvetius wrote his famed work, De T Esprit^ in the rural seclusion which followed the resignation of his office. It ap- peared in 1758, and attracted great and often favorable atten- tion at home and abroad, though it drew upon him a violent persecution, especially from the clergy. It was fortunate for him that the persecution satisfied itself with suppressing his book. The repose in which he spent his later years was inter- rupted only by two journeys which he made to Germany and England. He died in 1771. His personal character was wholly estimable, full of kindness and generosit}'. Especially in his place as Farmer-General he showed himself benevolent to- wards the poor, and resolute against the exactions of his sub- alterns. The stjde of his writings is easy and elegant. Self-love or interest, says Helvetius, is the lever of all our mental activities. Even that activity wliich is purely intel- lectual, our instinct towards knowledge, our love of ideas, rests upon this. But since all self-love refers essentially onl^' to bodily pleasure, it follows that every mental occurrence 236 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. within us has its peculiar source only in the striA'ing after this pleasure^ but in sajMng this, we have indicated where the principle of all morality is to be sought. It is an absur- dity to require a man to do the good simply for its own sake. This is just as impracticable as to require him to do the evil simpl}' for the sake of the evil. Hence if morality would not be wholly fruitless, it must return to its empirical basis, and venture to adopt the true principle of all action, viz., sen- suous pleasure and pain, or, in other words, selfishness as an actual moral principle. Hence, as a correct legislation is that which secures obedience to its laws through reward and punishment, i.e., through selfishness, so will a correct system of morals be that which derives the duties of men from self- love, which shows that that which is forbidden is something which is followed by disagreealjle consequences. A system of ethics which does not involve the self-interest of men, or which wars against this, necessaril}- remains fruitless. SECTION XXXII. THE FRENCH CLEARING UP AND MATERIALISM. 1. It has already been remarked (Sect. XXX.) that the carrying out of empiricism to its extremes, as was attempted in France, was most intimately connected with the general condition of the French people and state, in tlie period be- fore the revolution. The contradiction which was character- istic of the Middle Ages, the external and dualistic relation to the spiritual world, had developed itself in Catholic France till it had corrupted and destroyed all health}- social life. Morals, mainlj'^ through the influence of a licentious court, had become wholly corrupted ; the state had sunk to an ini- bridled despotism, and the church to a hierarchy as hypo- THE FEENCH CLEARING UP. 237 critical as it was powerful. Since, thus, all substance and worth had vanished from the spiritual world, nature alone remained, — nature, that is, in the form of a soulless mass, or matter, and related to man onl}' as the object of sen- sation and desire. Yet it is not the materialistic extreme which constitutes the peculiar character and tendency of the period now before us. The common character of the French philoso])hes of the eighteenth centur}' is rather, and most prominently, their opposition to all the tj'rann}' and wrong then dominant in state, religion, and societ}-. Their criti- cism and polemics, which were much more ingenious and eloquent than strictl}- scientific, were directed against the whole realm of traditional, given, and positive notions. The}' sought to show the contradiction between the exist- ing elements in the state and the church, and the incontro- vertible demands of the reason. Tlie}' sought to overthrow in the faith of the world every fixed opinion whicli had not been established in the e3'e of reason, and to give the think- ing man the full consciousness of his native freedom. In order that we may correctly estimate the merit of these men, we must bring before us the French world of that age against which their attacks were directed ; the dissoluteness of a [)iti- ful court, the sla\ish obedience exacted by a corrupt priest- hood, a church sunken into decay yet seeking worldl}' honor, a state administration, a dispensation of justice, and a condi- tion of society, which must be profoundly' I'evolting to every tliinking man and every moral feeling. It is tlie immoilal merit of these men that tlie}' gave over to scorn and hatred the abjectness and h}'iDocrisy which then reigned ; that tlie\' brought the minds of men to look with indifference upon tlie idols of the world, and awakened within them a consciousness of their own autonomy. 2. The most famous and influential actor of this period is Voltaire (1694-1778). Though a writer of great versatility, rather than a professed philosopher, there was yet no philoso- pher of that time who exerted so powerful an influence upon 238 A iTisTonv of philosophy. the whole thought of his conntr3- and liis age. Voltaire was no atheist. On the contrary, he regai'ded the belief in a Su- preme Being to l)e so necessary, that he once said that if there were no God we should be under the necessity of in- venting one. He was just as little disposed to den}' the immortalit}' of the soul, though he often expressed his doubts upon it. He regarded the atheistic materialism of a La ]Met- trie as nothing but nonsense. In these respects, therefore, he is fav removed from the standpoint of the philosophers who followed him. His whole hatred was expended against Christianit}' as a positive religion. To destroy hierarchical intolerance he considered to be his peculiar mission, and he left no means untried to attain tliis anxiously longed-for end. His unwearied warfare against every positive religion pre- pared the wa}^ and fiu-nished weapons for the attacks against spiritualism which followed. 3. The Encyclopedists had a more decidedly sceptical rela- tion to the principles and the basis of spiritualism. The philosophical Encyclopedia established by Diderot (1713- 1784), and published b}' him in connection with d'Alembert, is a memorable monument of the ruling spirit in France in the time immediately previous to the revolution. It was the pride of France at that age, because it expressed in a bril- liant and imiversalh' accessilile form the inner consciousness of the French people. With the keenest wit it reasoned awa}' law from the state, freedom from moralit}', and spirit and God from nature, though all this was done onh' in scat- tered, and, for the most part, timorous intimations. In Diderot's independent writings we find talent of much philo- sophic importance united with great earnestness. But it is ver}' difficult to fix and accurately to limit his philosophic views, since they were very graduall}' formed, and Diderot expressed them alwa^'s with some reserve and accommoda- tion. In general, however, it may be i-emarked, that in the progress of his speculations he constantly approached nearer tlie extreme of the philosophical direction of his age. In his THE FREXCH CLEARING UP. 239 c-ai'lier writings a Deist, lie aftenvards avowed the opiuion tliat all is God. At first defending the immateriality and immortality of the soul, he expressed himself at a later period decidedly against these doctrines, affirming that the species alone has an abiding being while the indivi(hial passes away, and that immortalit}' is nothing other than to live in the thoughts of coming generations. But Diderot did not ven- ture to the real extreme of logical materialism ; his moral earnestness restrained him from this. 4. The last word of materialism w^as spoken with reckless audacity b}' the physician La Mettrie (1709-1751), a cotem- porar}' of Diderot : every thing spiritual is a delusion, and ph3'sical enjoyment is the highest end of man. Faith in the existence of a God, says La Mettrie, is as groundless as it is fruitless. The world will not be happ}' till atheism becomes universally established. Then onlj' will there be no more re- ligious strife, then onl}' will theologians, the most odious of combatants, disappear, and nature, poisoned at present b}- their influence, will come again to its rights. In reference to the human soul, there can be no philosophy but materialism. All the observation and experience of the greatest philosophers and physicians declare this. Soul is nothing but a mere name, wiiich has a rational signification onl}' when we understand by it that part of our body which thinks. This is the brain, which has its fibres of cogitation, just as the limbs have their muscles of motion. That which gives man his advantage over the brutes is, first, the organization of his brain, and second, its capacity' for receiving instruction. Otherwise, is man a brute like the beasts around him, though in many respects surpassed b}' these. Immortality is an absurdity. The soul perishes with the bod}' of which it forms a part. AVith death ever}' thing is over, la farce est joiiee ! The practical and selfish application of all this is — let us enjo}' ourselves as long as we exist, and not throw awa}' any satis- faction we can attain. 5. The Systeme de la NaUire afterwards attempted to 240 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. elaborate with greater earnestness and scientific precision, that which had been uttered so superficially and so supercil- iously by La Mettrie, viz., the doctrine that matter alone exists, while mind is nothing other than matter refined. The Systeme de la Nature appeai'ed in London under a fictitious name in 1770. It was then published as a posthu- mous woi'k of Mirabaud, late secretary- of the Academy. It doubtless had its origin in the circle which was wont to assemble with Baron Holbach, and of which Diderot, Grimm, and others were leaders. Whether the Baron Holbach him- self, or his tutor Lagrange is the author of this work, or whether it is the joint production of a number, cannot now Ite determined. The Systeme de la Nature is hardly' a French book : the st^de is too llea^y and tedious. There is ever3'where, sa^'s the Systeme de la Nature, noth- ing but matter and motion. Both are inseparabl}- connected. If matter is at rest, it is onl}' because it is prevented from moving, for in its essence it is not a dead mass. Motion is twofold, attraction and repulsion. The ditferent motions which we perceive are the product of these two, and through these different motions arise the different connections and the whole manifoldness of things. The laws which direct in all this are eternal and unchangeable. — The most weight}' con- sequences of such a doctrine are : (1) The materiahty of man. Man is no twofold being compounded of mind and matter, as is erroneously believed. If the inquiry is closely made what the mind is, we are answered, that the most accurate philosophical investigations have shown, that the principle of activity in man is a sub- stance whose peculiar nature cannot be known, but of which we can afRrm that it is indivisible, unextended, invisible, etc. But how can we form an}' definite conception of a being which is only the negation of that which constitutes knowl- edge, a being the idea of which is peculiarly only the absence of all ideas? Still farther, how can it be explained upon such a h}iJothesis, that a substance which itself is not material THE FRE^X^H CLEARING UP. 241 can work upon material tilings, and set tliese in motion, when tliere is no point of contact between the two? In fact, those who distinguish their soul from their body, have onl}- to make a distinction between their brain and their bod}'. Thought is only a modification of our Ijrain, just as volition is another modification of the same Ijodih' organ. (2) Another chimera, the belief in the being of a God, is connected with the twofold division of man into body and soul. This belief arises like the hypothesis of a soul-sub- stance, because mind is falsely divided from matter, and na- ture is thus made twofold. The evil which men experienced, and whose natural cause the}' could not discover, the}' as- signed to a deity which they imagined for the purpose. The first notions of a God have their source therefore in sorrow, fear, and nncertainty. We tremble because onr forefathers for thousands of years have done the same. This circum- stance awakens no auspicious prepossession. But not only the rude, but also the theological idea of God is worthless, for it explains no phenomenon of nature. It is, moreover, fuU of absurdities, for, since it ascribes moral attributes to God, it renders him human ; while on the other hand, by a mass of negative attributes, it seeks to distinguish him abso- lutely from every other being. The true system, the system of nature, is hence atheistic. But such a doctrine requires a culture and a com'age which neither all men nor most men possess. If we understand by the word atheist one wlio be- lieves only in dead matter, or who designates the moving power in nature with the name God, then is there no atheist, or whoever would be one is a fool. But if the word means one who denies the existence of a spiritual being, a being w^hose attributes can only be a som^e of annoyance to men, then are there indeed atheists, and there would be more of them, if a correct knowledge of nature and a sound reason were more widely diffused. But if atheism is true, then should it be diffused. There are, indeed, many who have east off the yoke of religion, who nevertheless think it is 16 242 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. necessaiy for the common people in order to keep them within proper limits. But this is just as if we should determine to give a man poison lest he should abuse his strength. Every kind of Deism leads necessarily- to superstition, since it is not possible to continue on the standpoint of pure Deism. (3) With such premises the freedom and nnmortality of the soul both disappear. Man, like ever}' otlier substance in nature, is a link in the chain of necessary connection, a blind instrument in the hands of necessity. If any thing should be endowed with self-motion, that is, with a capacity to produce motion without any other cause, then would it have the power to destroy motion in the universe ; but this is contrary to the conception of the universe, which is only an endless series of necessary motions spreading out into wider circles continually. The claim of an individual immortality is absurd. For to affirm that the soul exists after tlie destruction of the bod}', is to affirm that a modification of a substance can exist after the substance itself has disappeared. Tliere is no other immor- talitv tiian to live in the remembrance of posterity', (4) The practical consequences of these principles are in the highest degree favorable for the System of Natia-e, the utilit}- of any doctrine being ever the first criterion of its truth. While the ideas of theologians are productive only of disquiet and anxiety to man, the System of Nature frees him from all such unrest, teaches him to enjoy the present mo- ment, and to quietly yield to his destiny, while it gives him that kind of apathy which every one must regard as a bless- ing. If morality would be active, it can rest onl}' upon self- love and self-interest ; it must show man whither his well- considered interest would lead him. He is a good man who gams his own interest in such a wa}' that others will find it for tlieir interest to assist him. Tlie system of self-interest, there- fore, demands the union of men among each other, and iu this we have true morality. The logical dogmatic materialism of the Systeme de la Na- ture is the farthest limit of an empirical direction in philoso- LEIBNITZ. 243 ph}', and consequently closes that course of the development of a one-sided realism which had begun with Locke. The attempt first made b_\- Locke to explain and deriAe the ideal world from the material, ended in materialism with the total reduction of every thing spiritual to the material, with the to- tal denial of the si)iritual. We must now, before proceeding farther, according to the classification made Sect. XXVII., consider the idealistic course of development which ran par- allel with the systems of a partial realism. At the head of this course stands Leibnitz. SECTION XXXIII. LEIBNITZ. As empiricism sprang from the attempt to subordinate the intellectual to the material, to materialize the spiritual, so on the other hand, idealism had its source in the effort to spirit- ualize the material, or so to construct the conception of mind that matter could be subsumed under it. To the empiric- sensualistic philosoph}', mind was nothing but refined matter, while to the idealistic, matter was only a grosser form of mind ("a confused notion," as Leibnitz expresses it) . The former, in its logical development, was driven to the principle that only material things exist, the latter (as with Leibnitz and Berkele}) comes to the opposite principle, that there are only souls and their ideas. For the partial realistic standpoint, material things were the truly substantial. But for the ideal- istic standpoint, substantiality belongs alone to the intellec- tual world, to the Ego. Mind, to partial realism, was essen- tially void, a tabula rasa, its whole content came to it from the external world. But a partial idealism sought to cany out the principle that nothing can come into the mind which had not at least been preformed within it, that all its knowledge is 244 A HTSTOr.Y OF PHILOSOPHY. furnisherl it I)}' itself. According to the former A'iew knowl- edge was a, passive relation ; according to the latter it was whoU}' active. AVliile, lastl}", a partial realism had attempted to explain the becoming in nature for the most part through real, j'.c, through meclianical grounds {L' Homme IfacJiine is the title of one of La Mettrie's writings) , idealism had sought an explanation of the same through ideal grounds, i.e., teleo- logicall^'. While the former had made its pi'omiuent inquiry for moving causes, and had, indeed, often ridiculed the search for a final cause ; it is final causes toward which the latter directs its chief aim. The mediation between mind and mat- ter, between thought and being, will now be sought in the final cause, in the teleological harmon}' of all things (pre- established harmony) . The standpoint of Leibnitz ma}' thus be characterized in a word. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibnitz was born in 1646, at Leipsic, w^here his father was professor. Having chosen the law as his profession, he entered the universit}' in 1661, and in 1663 he defended for his degree of doctor in philosophy, his disser- tation De Principio Iiidividv.i, a theme verj- characteristic of the direction of his later philosophizing. He afterwards went to Jena, and subsequently to Altdorf, where he took the de- gree of Doctor of Laws. At Altdorf he was oifered a pro- fessorship of jurisprudence, which he refused. The rest of his life was unsettled and desultory, spent for the most part in courts, where, as a versatile courtier, he was emplo3'ed in the most varied duties of diplomacy. In the year 1672 he went to Paris, in order to induce Louis XIY. to undertake the con- quest of P2g>q)t, and thus to direct his militar}' schemes from German}'. He subsequentl}' A'isited London, whence he was afterwards called to Hanover, as councillor and librarian of the learned Catholic duke, John Frederic. Here he spent the most of his subsequent life, though interrupted b}' occasional journeys to Vienna, Berlin, etc. He was intimatel}' associated with the Prussian Queen, Sophia Charlotte, a highh' talented woman, who surrounded herself with a circle of the most dis- LEIBNITZ. 245 tingiiislicd scholars of the time, find for whom Lciljiiitz wrote, at her own reqnest, his Tlieodicee. In 1700 an academ}' was established at Berlin, through liis ellbrts, and he became its first president. Similar, but fruitless efforts were made b}' him to establish academies in Dresden and Vienna. In 1711 the title of imperial court councillor, and a baronage, was be- stowed upon him by the emperor Charles VI. Soon after, he betook himself to Vienna, whei'e he remained a consideral.)le period, and wrote his Monadology, at the solicitation of Prince Eugene. He died in 1716. Next to Aristotle, Leibnitz was the most highly gifted scholar that had ever lived ; with the richest and most extensive learning, he united the highest and most penetrating powers of mind. German}- has reason to be proud of him, since, after Jacob Boehmc, he is the first philosopher of any note among the Germans. "With him phi- losophy found a home in Germany. It is to be regretted that the great variety of his efforts and literary undertakings, to- gether with his roving manner of life, pi'evented him from giving any connected exposition of his philosophy. His views are for the most part developed onl}- in brief and occasional writings and letters, composed frequently' in the French lan- guage. It is hence not eas}- to state his philosophy in its in- ternal connection, though none of his A'iews are isolated, but all stand strictly connected with each other. The following are the chief points : — 1. The Doctrine of Monads. — The fundamental pecu- liaritv of Leibnitz's theory is its opposition to Spinozism. Substance, as the indeterminate universal, was with Spinoza the only positive. "With Leibnitz also the concei)tion of sub- stance la}' at the basis of philosoph}', but his definition of it was entirely different. While Spinoza had sought to exclude from his substance every positive determination, and espe- ciall}' all action, and had apprehended it simply as pure being, Leibnitz viewed it as living activity and active energy, an example of which might be found in a stretched bow, which moves and straightens itself through its own energy 246 A HISTORY OF THILOSOPHY. as soon as the external hindrances are removed. That this actiA^e energy forms the essence of substance is a principle to which Leibnitz eA-er returns, and from Avhich, in fact, all the other chief points in his philosophy may Avith strictest logical sequence be deriAxd. From this there folloA\^ at once two determinations of substance directly opposed to Spino- zism ; first, that it is individual, a monad ; and second, that there are a multiplicity- of monads. Substance, in so far as it exercises an actiA'ity similar to that of an elastic body, is essentially an excluding actiA-it}*, or repulsion ; the concep- tion of an individual or a monad being that which excludes another from itself. But this involves also the second deter- mination, — that of the multiplicit}' of monads; one monad cannot exist alone, there must be others. The conception of one individual postulates other individuals, which stand over against the one as excluded from it. Hence the funda- mental thesis of the Leibnitz philosoph}- in opposition to Spinozism is this, aIz., there is a multiplicity of indiA-idual substances or monads. They are the elements of all reality, the basis of the whole universe, physical as well as spiritual. 2. The Monads more Acclrately Deteraiixed. — The monads of Leibnitz are similar to atoms in their general fea- tures. Like these they are punctual units, independent of any external influence, and indestructible by anj' external power. But notwithstanding this similarity, there is an im- portant and characteristic ditfcrence betAveen the two. Fiist, the atoms are not distinguished from each other, they are all qualitatively alike ; but each one of the monads is ditferent in quality from ever3- other, ever}- one is a peculiar world for itself, every one is different from every other. According to Leibnitz, there are no tAvo things in the world Avhich are ex- actly alike. Secondly, atoms can be considered as extended and diA'isible, but the monads are nietaph3^sical points, and actually indivisible. Here, lest Ave should stimible at this proposition (for an aggregate of unextended n^onads can never give an extended world) , we must take into considera- LEIBNITZ. 247 tion Leibnitz's view of space, which, according to him, is not something real, but onl}' confused, subjective representation. Thirdly, the monad is a living, sensitive being, a soul. Among the atomists such an idea has no place ; but with Leibnitz it has a ver}' important part to play. Everj-n^here in the world, according to him, there is life, individual vitality, and a vital connection of individual beings. The monads are not dead, not mere extended substance, but self-subsistent, self-identical, and determined b}' nothing external, (a) Con- sidered in themseh'es, however, they are to be thought of as existing in living mutation and activity. As the human soul, a monad of a higher order, is never, even when unconscious, without some activity of obscure unagination and volition ; so ever}' monad continuall}' undergoes various modifications or states, which accord with its peculiar qualit3^ Evea"3'where there is motion, nowhere perfect rest, (b) And as the Imman soul s^-mpathizes with all the varying conditions of nature, and mirrors the universe in itself, so do the monads univer- sall3% Each of the infinitely numerous monads is a micro- cosm, a centre, a mirror of the universe. Each in itself reflects every thing which is and happens ; and it does so tlii'ough its own spontaneous power, by virtue of which it holds ideally in itself, as it were in embr^'o, the totality of things. In each monad, therefore, an all-seeing eye might read ever}' thing which is occurring, has occun-ed, or will occur in the universe. This vitality of the monads, and their vital connection with the rest of the world Leibnitz charac- terizes more definitely thus : the life of the monads consists in a continuous succession of perceptions, i.e., obscure or clear conceptions of its own states and of the states of the others. The monads proceed from perception to perception. Every monad is a soul. In this consists the perfection of the world. 3. The Pre-established Harmony. — The universe is thus the sum of all the monads. Every thing, every com- posite, is an aggregate of monads. Thus every bodily organ- 248 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. ism is not one substance, but man}-, it is a multiplicit}' of monads, like a macliine which is made up of a number of distinct pieces of mechanism. Leiljnitz compared bodies to a fish-pond, which miglit be full of living elements, though dead itself. The ordinary view of things is thus whollj- re- versed ; true substantiality does not belong to bodies, i.e., to tlie aggregates, but to their original elements. Matter in the A'ulgar sense, as something conceived to be without mind, does not at all exist. How now must the inner connection of the universe be conceived ? In the following way. Every monad is a representative being, and at the same time, each one is different from every other. This difference, therefore, depends alone upon the difference of representation : there are just as many different degrees of representation as there are monads, and these degrees may be fixed according to some of their prominent stages. An important principle of classification is the distinction between confused and distinct cognition. Hence a monad of the lowest rank (a monad toute nue) will be one which merely represents, /.c, which possesses only the most confused knowledge. Liebnitz com- pares this state with a swoon, or with our condition in a dreamless sleep, in which we are not without representations (notions) , — for otherwise we could have none when awaking, — but in which the representations are so numerous that the}' neutralize each other and do not come into the con- sciousness. This is the stage of inorganic nature in which the life of the monads manifests itself only in the form of motion. In a higher rank are those monads in which the representation is active as a formative vital force, though still without consciousness. This is the stage of the vegeta- ble world. Still higher ascends the life of the monad when it attains to sensation and memory-, as is the case in the ani- mal kingdom. The lower monads may be said to sleep, and tlie brute monads to dream. When still farther the soul rises to reason or reflection, we call it mind, spirit. — The distinc- tion of the monads from each other is, therefore, this, that LEIBNITZ. 249 each one, though mirroring tlie whole and the same itniverse in itself, does it differently, the one more, and the rest less perfectly. Each one contains the whole universe, the whole infinity within itself, and in this respect is lOvC God {parvus in sua genere dens) , the onl^^ difference lieing that God knows ever}' thing with perfect distinctness, while the monad repre- sents it confusedly, though one monad may represent it more confusedly than another. The limitation of a monad does not, therefore, consist in its containing less than another or than God, but onl}' in its containing more imperfectl}' or in its representing less distinctly. — Upon this standpoint the universe, in so far as every monad mirrors one and the same universe, though each in a different wa}', represents a specta- cle of the greatest possible difference, as well as of the great- est possible unity and order, i.e., of the greatest possible perfection, or the absolute harmony. For variety in unity is harmonj'. — But in still another respect the universe is a sys- tem of harmon}'. Since the monads do not work upon each other, but each one follows only the law of its own beiug, there is danger lest the inner harmony of the universe may be disturbed. How is this danger removed? Through this, that each monad stands in a vital connection with the same universe (and with the whole of it) : each reflects the uni- versal life. The changes of the collective monads, therefore, run parallel with each other, and in this consists the harmony of all as pre-established by God. 4. The Relation of the Deity to the Monads. — What part does the conception of God pla^' in the system of Leib- nitz? An almost idle one. Following the strict conse- quences of his S3'stem, Leibnitz should have held to no proper theism, but the harmony of the universe should have taken the place of the Deity. Ordinarily he considers God as the sufficient cause of all monads. But he was also accustomed to consider the final cause of a thing as its sufhcient cause. In this respect, therefore, he almost identifies God and the absolute final cause. Elsewhere he considers the Deit}- as 250 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. a simple primitive substance, or as the individual primitive unit}-. Again, he speaks of God as a pure immaterial actu- alit}', actus purus, while to the monads belongs matter, that is, an actualit}- unfree, restricted, and obstructed through a principle of passive resistance to spontaneous movement (striving, appetitio) . Once he calls him a monad, though this is in manifest contradiction with the determinations otherwise assigned him. It was for Leibnitz a very difficult problem to bring his monadology and his theism into har- mony with each other, without giving up the premises of both. If he held fast to the substantiality of the monads, he was in danger of making them independent of the Deit}', and if he did not, he could hardly escape falling back into Spinozism. 5. The Relation of Soul and Body is readilj' explained on the standpoint of the pre-established harmon}-. This rela- tion, taking the premises of the monadolog}', might seem enigmatical. If no monad can work upon an}' other, how can the soul work upon the bod}' to lead and move it? The enigma is solved by the pre-established harmony. AVhile the body and soul, each one independently of the other, follows the laws of its being, the body working mechanically, and the soul pursuing ends, yet God has established such a con- cordant harmony of the two activities, such a parallelism of the two functions, that there is in fact a perfect unity for body and soul. There are, says Leibnitz, three views re- specting the relation of body and soul. The first and most common supposes a reciprocal influence between the two, but such a view is untenable, because there can be no interchange between mind and matter. The second, that of occasion- alism (c/. Sect. XXV. 1), brings about this interchange through the constant assistance of God, which is nothing more nor less than to make God a Dens ex macliina. Hence the only solution for the problem is the hypothesis of a pre- established harmony. Leibnitz illustrates these three views in the following example. Let one conceive of two watches, LEIBNITZ. 251 whose hands ever accurately indicate tlie same time. This agreement may be explained, first (the common view) , by supposing an actual connection between the hands of each, so that the hand of the one watch might draw the hand of the other after it, or second (the occasionalistic view), b}' con- ceiving of a watch-maker who continually keeps the hands alike, or lastly (the pre-established harmony), by ascribing to each a mechanism so exquisitely' wrought that each one goes in perfect independence of the other, and at the same time in entire agreement with it. — That the soul is immortal (indestructible), follows at once from the doctrine of monads. There is properly' no such thing as death. That which is called death is only the soul losing a i^art of the monads which compose the mechanism of its body, while the living element goes back to a condition similar to that in which it was before it came upon the theatre of the world. 6. The monadology has very important consequences in reference to the theory of knotvledge. As, with reference to ontolog}', the philosophj' of Leibnitz was determined by its opposition to Spinozism, so with reference to the theor}' of cognition it was determined b}' its opposition to the empiri- cism of Locke. Locke's Essay concerning Human Under- standing had attracted Leibnitz without satisfying him, and he therefore attempted a new investigation in his Noitveaux Essais, in which he defended the doctrine of innate ideas. But this h3'pothesis of innate ideas Leibnitz now freed from that defective view which had justified the objections of Locke. The innateness of the ideas must not be held as though they were explicitly and consciously contained in the mind, but rather the mind possesses them potentiall}' and onh' virtually-, though wutli the capacity- to produce them out of itself. All thoughts are properl}' innate, i.e.^ they do not come into the mind from without, but are rather produced b}' it from itself. An}' external influence upon the mind is inconceivable, it even needs nothing external for its sensations. While Locke had compared the miiid to an unwritten piece of paper, Leibnitz 252 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. likened it to a, block of marble, in which the veins prefigure the form of the statue. Hence the common antithesis be- tween rational and empirical knowledge disappears with Leib- nitz in the degrees of greater or less distinctness. — Among these theoretically innate ideas, Leibnitz recognizes two of special prominence, which take the first rank as principles of all knowledge and all I'atiocination, — the principle of con- tradiction (principium contradiction is) , and the principle of sufficient cause {principium rationis sufficientis) . To these, as a principle of the second rank, must be added the princi- piitm indiscernibiliitm, or the principle that there are in nature no two things wholly alike. 7. The most elaborate exposition of Leibnitz's theological views is given in his Theodicee. The Theodicee, is, however, his weakest work, and has but a loose connection with the rest of his philosoi^hy. Written at the instigation of a woman, it belies this origin neither in its form nor in its content — not in its form, for in its effort to be popular it becomes diffuse and unscientific, and not in its content, for it accommodates itself to the positive dogmas and the premises of theology farther than the scientific basis of the S3"stem of Leibnitz would permit. In this work, Leibnitz investigates the rela- tion of God to the world in order to show a conformity in this relation to a final cause, and to free God from the charge of acting without or contrary to an aim. Why is the world as it is? God might have created it ver^- differentl}'. True, answers Leibnitz, God saw an infinite number of worlds as possible before him, but out of all these he chose the one which actually is as the best. This is the famous doctrine of the best possible world, according to which no more per- fect world is possible than the one which is. — But how so? Is not the existence of evil at variance with this ? Leibnitz answers this objection by distinguishing three kinds of evil, the metaphysical, the physical, and the moral. The meta- physical evil. I.e., the finiteness and incompleteness of things, is necessary because inseparable from finite existence, and is LEIBNITZ. 253 thus unconditionally willed by God. Physical evil (pain, etc.), though not unconditionally willed by God, is often a good conditionally, i.e., as a punishment or means of improve- ment. Moral evil or wickedness can in no way be charged to the will of God. Leibnitz took various ways to account for its existence, and obviate the contradiction l^ing between it and the conception of God. At one time he sa3's that wickedness is only permitted by God as a conditio sine qua non, because without wickedness there were no freedom, and without freedom no virtue. Again, he reduces moral evil to metaphj'sical, and makes wickedness nothing real but merely' a want of perfection, a negation, a limitation, pla3'ing the same part as do the shadows in a painted picture, or the dis- cords in a piece of music, which do not diminish the beaut}', but only increase it through contrast. Again, he distin- guishes between the material and the formal element in a wicked act. The material of sin, the power to act, is from God, but the formal element, the wickedness of the act, be- longs wholly to man, and is the result of his limitation, or, as Leibnitz here and there expresses it, of his eternal self-pre- destination. In no case can the harmou}' of the universe be destro3'ed through such a cause. These are the chief points of Leibnitz's philosoph3\ The general characteristic of it as given in the beginning of the present section, will be found to have been substantiated by the specific exposition that has now been furnished. 254 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. SECTION XXXIV. BERKELEY. Leibxitz had not carried out the standpoint of idealism to its extreme. He had indeed, on the one side, explained space and motion and bodil}^ things as phenomena which had tlieir existence only in a confused repi'esentation, but on the other side, he had not wholl}' denied the existence of the corporeal world, but had recognized as a reality l^'ing at its basis the world of monads. The phenomenal or corporeal world had its fixed and substantial foundation in the monads. Thus Leibnitz, though an idealist, did not wholh' break with realism. The ultimate consequence of a pure subjective idealism would have been to wholl}' den}' the realitv of thie objective, sensible world, and explain corporeal objects as sivijiJy phenomena, as nothing but subjective notions without an}' objective realit}' as a basis. This consequence, the ideal- istic counterpart to the ultimate realistic result of materialism — appears in George Berkeley, who was born in Ireland, 1G84, made bishop of the Anglican Church in 1734, and died in 1753. Hence, though he followed the empiricism of Locke, and sustained no outward connection with Liebnitz, we must place him in immediate succession to the latter as the perfecter of a subjective idealism. Our sensations, sa3's Berkele}', are entirel}' subjective. We are wholl}' in error if we believe that we have a sensa- tion of external objects or perceive them. That which we have and perceive is only our sensations themselves. It is, e.g., clear, that by the sense of sight we can see neither the distance, the size, nor the form of objects, but that we only conclude that these exist, because our experience has taught us that a certain sensation of sight is always attended by cer- tain sensations of touch. That which we see is only colors, clearness, obscurity, etc., and it is false therefore to say that BERKELEY. 255 we see and feel one and the same thing. So also we never go out of ourselves for those sensations to which we ascribe most decidedl}' an objective character. The peculiar objects of oiu" understanding are only our own affections ; all ideas are therefore onl}' our own sensations. But just as there can be no sensations outside of the sensitive subject, so no idea can have existence outside of him who possesses it. The so- called objects exist onl}' in our notion, and have a being only as they are perceived. It is the great error of most philoso- phers that they ascribe to corporeal objects a being outside the conceiving mind, and do not see that the}' are only men- tal. It is not possible that material things should produce an}' thing so wholly distinct from themselves as sensations and notions. There is, thus, no such thing as a material ex- ternal world ; minds alone exist, i.e., thinking beings, whose nature consists in thinking and willing. But whence then arise all our sensations which come to us without our agency, and which ai^e not, thus, like the images of fancy, products of our will? They arise from a spirit superior to ourselves, — for onl}' a spirit can produce conceptions within us, — even from God, God gives us ideas ; but as it would be contradictory to assert that a being could give what it does not possess, so ideas exist in God, and we derive them from him. These ideas in God may be called archet3'pes, and those in us ectypes. — In consequence of this view, sa3's Berkeley, we do not deny an independent realit}^ of things, we onl}' deu}^ that they can exist elsewhere than in an under- standing. Instead, therefore, of speaking of a nature in which, e.g., the sun is the cause of warmth, etc., the accurate expression would be this : God announces to us through the sense of sight that we are soon to perceive a sensation of warmth. Hence b}' nature we are onl}' to understand the succession or the connection of ideas, and b}' natural laws the constant order in which they pi-oceed, i.e., the laws of the association of ideas. This thorough-going subjective ideal- ism, this complete denial of matter, Berkele}' considered as the surest way to oppose matei'ialism and atheism. 256 A HISTORT OF PHILOSOPHY. SECTION XXXV. WOLFF. The idealism of Berkeley, as was to be expected from the nature of the case, remained without aii}^ farther develop- ment, but the philosophy of Leibnitz was taken up and sub- jected to a farther revision b}' Christian Wolff. He was born in Breslau in 1679. He was chosen professor at Halle, where he became obnoxious to the charge of teaching a doctrine at variance with the Scriptures, and drew upon himself such a violent opposition from the theologians of the universit}', that a cabinet order was issued for his dismissal on the 8th of No- vember, 1723, and he was enjoined to leave Prussia within fort3'-eight hours on pain of being hung. He then became jjrofessor in Marburg, but was afterwards recalled to Prussia b}' Frederick II. immediatel}' upon his accession to the throne. He was subsequently made baron, and died 1754. In his chief thoughts (though omitting the bolder ideas of his pred- ecessor) he followed Leibnitz, a connection which he himself admitted, though he protested against the identification of his philosophy with that of Leibnitz, and objected to the name, Philoso2ohia Leibnitio- Wolfiana, which was originated by his disciple Bilfinger. The historical merit of Wolff is threefold. First, and most important, he laid claim again to the whole domain of knowledge in the name of philosophy' , and sought again to build up a S3'stematic scheme of doctrine, and make an encj'clopedia of philosophy in the highest sense of the word. Though he did not himself furnish much new material for this purpose, 3'et he carefully elaborated and arranged that which he found at hand. Secondl}', he made again the philo- sophical method as such, an object of attention. His own method is, indeed, one altogether external to the content, namely, the mathematical or the mathematico-s^llogistical, recommended by Leibnitz ; and by the application of this his WOLFF. 257 whole philosophizing sinks to a flat formalism. (For instance, in his Princi2yl€s of Architecture^ the eighth proposition is — ■ " a window must be wide enough for two persons to recline together convenientl}'," — a proposition which is thus proved : "we are more frequently accustomed to recline and look out at a window in company- with another person than alone, and hence, since the builder of the house should satisfy the owner in ever}' respect (Sect. 1), he must make a window wide enough for two persons conveniently to recline within it at the same time, q.e.d.") Still this formalism is not without its advantage, for it subjects the philosophical content to a logical treatment. Thirdl}', Wolff taught philosoph}' to speak Ger- man, an art which it has not since forgotten. Next to Leib- nitz, he is entitled to the merit of having made the German language for ever the organ of philosoph3\ The following remarks will suffice for the content and the scientific classification of Wolff's philosoph}-. He defines philosoph}' to be the science of the possible as such. But that is possible which contains no contradiction. Wolff de- fends this definition against the charge of presumption. It is not affirmed, he says, in this definition that either he or an}' other philosopher knows every thing which is possible. The definition only claims for philosoph}' the whole province of human knowledge, and it is certaiul}' proper that philosophy should be described according to the highest pei'fection which it can attain, even though it has not yet actually reached it. — In what now does this science of the possible consist ? Rel^'ing upon the perception that there are within the soul two faculties, cognition and volition, Wolff divides philoso- ph}' into two great divisions, theoretical philosophy (an expression, however, which first appears among his follow- ers), or metaph3-sic, and practical philosoph}'. Logic pre- cedes both as a preliminar}- training for philosophical stud}'. Metaphysic is still farther divided by Wolff into ontology, cosmology, psychology, and natural theolog}' ; practical phi- losophy he divides into ethics, whose object is man as man ; 17 258 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. economics, whose object is man as a member of a family' ; and politics, whose object is man as a citizen of the state. 1. Ontology is the first part of Wolff's metaphysic. On- tology treats of what are now called categories, or those fun- damental conceptions which are applied to eveiy object, and must therefore at the outset be investigated. Aristotle had alread}" furnished a table of categories, but he had derived them wholly erapiricall3'. It is not much better with the ontolog}^ of Wolff ; it is laid out like a philosophical diction- ary. At its head he places the principle of contradiction, viz., it is not possible for an}' thing to be, and at the same time not to be. The conception of the possible at once fol- lows from this principle. That is possible which contains no contradiction. That is necessar}', the opposite of which contradicts itself, and that is accidental, the opposite of which is possible. Ever}' thing which is possible is a thing, though onl}' an imaginary one ; that which neither is, nor is possible, is notliing. When man}' things together compose a thing, this is a whole, and the individual things compre- hended by it are its parts. The magnitude of a thing con- sists in the multitude of its parts. If A contains that by which we can understand the being of B, then that in A by which B becomes understood is the ground of B, and the whole A which contains the ground of B is its cause. That which contains the ground of its properties is the essence of a thing. Space is the arrangement of things which exist conjointly. Place is the determinate way in which a thing exists in conjunction with others. Movement is change of place. Time is the arrangement of that which exists succes- sively, etc. 2. Cosmology. — Wolff defines the world to be a series of changing objects, which exist conjointly and successively, but which are so connected together that one ever contains the ground of the other. Things are connected in space and in time. By virtue of this universal connection, the world is one united whole ; the essence of the world consists in the WOLFF. 269 mode of this connection. But this mode cannot be changed. It can neither receive any new ingredients nor lose any of those it possesses. From the essence of the world spring all its changes. In this respect the world is a machine. Events in the world are only hypothetically necessary- in so far as previous events have had a given character ; thej- ai'e acci- dental in so far as the world might have been directed other- wise. In respect to the question whether the world had a beginning in time, Wolff does not express himself explicitl3\ Since God is independent of time, but the world has been from eternit}' in time, the world therefore is in no case eternal in the same sense that God is eternal. But according to Wolff, neither space nor time has any substantial being. Body is a thing composed of matter, and possessing a mov- ing power within itself. The powers of a bod}- taken together are called its nature, and the comprehension of all being is called nature in general. That which has its ground in the essence of the Avorld is called natural, and that which has not is supernatural, or a miracle. At the close of his cosmology, Wolff treats of the perfection and imperfection of the world. The perfection of a world consists in this, that all things, whether simultaneous or successive, exist in perfect har- monj-. But since everj^ thing has its separate rules, the individual must give up so much from its perfection as is necessar}- for the s^Tumetr}^ of the whole. 3. Rational Psychology. — The soul is that within us which is self-conscious. The soul is also conscious of other objects besides itself. Consciousness is either clear or indis- tinct. Clear consciousness is thought. The soul is a simple incorporeal substance. There dwells within it a power of perceiving a world. In this sense brutes also may have a soul, but a soul which possesses understanding and will is mind, and mind belongs alone to men. The soul of man is a mind joined to a body, and this is the distinction between men and superior spirits. The movements of the soul and of the body harmonize with each other by virtue of the pre- 260 A HISTORY OP PHILOSOPHY. established harmony. The freedom of the human soul is the power according to its oAvn arbitrament, to choose of two possible things that which pleases it best. But the soul does not decide without motives ; it ever chooses that which it holds to be the best. Thus the soul would seem impelled to its action by its representations ; but the understanding is not constrained to accept an}- thing as good or bad, and hence also the will is not constrained, but free. As a simple being the soul is indivisible, and hence imperishable ; the souls of brutes, however, have no understanding, and hence enjo}' no conscious existence after death. This belongs alone to the human soul, and hence the human soul alone is im- mortal. 4. Natural Theology. — Wolff uses here the cosmolo- gical argument to demonstrate the existence of a God. God might have made different worlds, but has preferred the pres- ent one as the best. This world has been called into being b}' the will of God. His aim in its creation was the mani- festation of his own perfection. Evil in the world does not spring from the Divine will, but from the limited being of human things. God permits it only as a means of good. This brief aphoristic exposition of AVolflf's metaph3'sics, shows how closel}' it is related to the doctrine of Leibnitz. The latter, however, loses much of its speculative profound- ness by the abstract and logical treatment it receives in the hands of Wolff. For the most part with Wolff the specific elements of the monadolog}' remain in the background ; his simple beings are not representative like the Monads, but more like the Atoms. Hence there is in his doctrines much that is illogical and contradictory. His peculiar merit in metaphysic is ontology, which lie elaborated far more accu- rately than his predecessors. A multitude of philosophical terminations owe to him their origin, and their introduction into philosophical language. The philosoph}' of Wolff, comprehensible and distinct as it was, and by its composition in the German language more THE GERMAN CLEARING UP. 261 accessible than that of Leibnitz, soon became the - popular philosophy, and gained an extensive influence. Among the names which deserve credit for their scientific development of it, we may mention Thmmning, 1687-1728; Bilfinger, 1693- 1750/ Baumeister^ 1708-1785; Baumgarten the aesthetic, 1714-1762 ; and his disciple Meier, 1718-1777. SECTION XXXVI. THE GERMAN CLEARING UP. Under the influence of the philosoph}- of Leibnitz and "Wolff, though without any immediate connection with it, there arose in German}' during the latter half of the eighteenth centur}- , an eclectic popular philosophy, whose different phases may be embraced under the name of the German clearing up. It has but little significance for the histor}' of philosoph}', though not without importance in other respects. Its great aim was to secure a higher culture ; and hence a cultivated and polished style of reasoning is the form in which it philosophized. It is the Gennan counterpart of the French clearing up. As the lat- ter closed the realistic period of development by drawing the ultimate consequence of materialism, so the former closed the idealistic series b}' its tendency to an extreme subjectivism. To the thinkers who followed this direction, the empirical, individual Ego becomes the absolute ; they forget every thing else for it, or rather every thing else has value in their eyes only in proportion as it refers and ministers to the subject by contributing to its demands and satisfjing its inner cravings. Hence the question of immortalit}' becomes now the great problem of philosophy (in this relation we may mention Mendelssohn^ 1727-1786, the most important thinker in this movement) ; the eternal duration of the individual soul 262 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. is the chief point of interest ; tlie objective ideas or articles of faith, e.g., the personalit}' of God, though not denied, cease to liave an interest ; it was held as an established article of ])elief that we can know nothing of God. In an- other current of this direction, it is moral philosoph}' and aes- thetics {Garve, 1742-1798; Engel, 1741-1802; AhU, 1738- 1766; Sidzer.1 1720-1779) which find a scientific treatment, because both these possess a subjective interest. In general, ever}- thing is viewed in its reference to utility, its adaptation to an end ; utility becomes the peculiar criterion of truth ; that which is not useful to the subject, or which does not minister to his subjective ends, is set aside. In connection with this turn of mind stands the prevailing teleological direction which the investigations of nature assumed {Reimarus., 1694-1765), and the utilitarian character giA'en to ethics. The happiness of the individual was considered as the highest principle and the supreme end (Basedoio, 1723-1790). Even religion is contemplated from this point of view. Reimarus wrote a treatise upon the ^'■advantages" of religion, in which he at- tempted to prove that religion was not subversive of earthly pleasure, but rather increased it ; and Steinbart (1738-1809) elaborated, in a number of treatises, the theme that all wis- dom consists alone in attaining happiness, i.e., enduring satis- faction, and that the Christian religion, instead of forbidding this, was rather itself the true doctrine of happiness. In other particulars Christianit}' received onl}' a moderate degree of respect ; wherever it laid claim to any authorit}' disagree- able to the subject (as in individual doctrines lilce that of future punishment) , it was opposed, and in general the eflfcrt was made to counteract, as far as possible, the positive dogma by natural religion. Reimarus, for example, the most zeal- ous defender of theism and of the teleological investigation of nature, is at the same time the author of the Wolfenbilttel Fragments. B}' criticizing the Gospel history, and every thing positive and transmitted, and b}' rationalizing the su- pernatural in religion, the subject displaj^ed its new-found in- TRANSITION TO KANT. 263 dependence. In fine, the subjective standpoint of this period exhibits itself in the autobiographies and confessions then so prevalent, the isolated self is the object of admiring contem- * plation (^Rousseau, 1712-1778, and his Confessions) ; it be- holds itself mirrored in its particular conditions, sensations, and views — a sort of flirtation with itself, which often sinks to sickly sentimentality. According to all this, it is seen to be the extreme consequence of subjective idealism which con- stitutes the character of the German clearing up period, which thus closed the course of the idealistic development. SECTION XXXVII. TRANSITION TO KANT. The idealistic and the realistic developments to which we have been attending, each ended with a one-sided result. Instead of actually' and internally reconciling the opposition between thought and being, the}^ both issued in denying the one or the other of these factors. Realism had, one-sidedly, made matter absolute ; and idealism, with equal one-sided- ness, had endowed the empirical Ego with the same attribute, — extremes in which philosophy was threatened with total destruction. It had, in fact, in Germany as in France, be- come degraded to the most superficial popular philosoph3\ Then Kant arose, and brought again into one channel the two streams which, when separate from each other, threat- ened to lose themselves amid the sands. Kant is the great renovator of philosophy ; he reduced once more to unity and totality the one-sided efforts of those who had preceded him. He stands in some special relation, either antagonistic or harmonious, to all others — to Locke no less than to Hume, to the Scottish philosophers no less than to the earlier Eng- 264 A HISTOr.Y OF PHILOSOPHY. lish and French moralists, to the philosoph}' of Leibnitz and of Wolff, as well as to the materialism of the French and the utilitarianism of the German clearing up period. His relation to the development of a partial idealism and a one- sided realism ma}'' be stated somewhat as follows : Empiri- cism had made the Ego purely passive and subordinate to the sensible external world — idealism had made it pureh' active, and given it a sovereignt}' over the sensible world ; Kant attempted to strike a balance between these two claims, by affirming that the Ego as practical is free and autonomic, an unconditioned lawgiver for itself, while as theoretical it is receptive, and conditioned by the phenomenal world ; but at the same time the theoretical Ego contains the two sides within itself, for if, on the one side, empiricism may be justi- fied upon the ground that the material and only field of all our knowledge is furnished by experience, so on the other side, idealism may be justified on the ground that there is in all our knowledge an a priori factor and basis, for in expe- rience itself we make use of conceptions which are not fur- nished by experience, but are contained a x>riori in our under- standing. In order to obtain a general view of the very elaborate framework of the Kantian philosophy, let us briefly glance at its fundamental conceptions, and notice its chief positions and results. Kant subjected the activit}' of the human mind in knowing, and the origin of om- experience, to his critical investigation. Hence his philosophy is called critical phi- losophy, or criticism, because it aims to be essentially an examination of our facult}' of knowledge ; it is also called transcendental philosophy, since Kant calls the reflection of the reason upon its relation to the objective world, a tran- scendental reflection (transcendental must not be confounded with transcendent) , or, in other words, a transcendental knowledge is one " which does not relate so much to objects of knowledge, as to our mode of knowing them, in so far as knowledge is possible a priori." The examination of the TRANSITION TO KANT. 265 faculty of knowledge, which Kant attempts in his " Critique of Pure Reason" shows the following results. All knowl- edge is a product of two factors, the knowing subject and the external world. Of these two factors, the latter lends to our knowledge its material, the matter of experience, while the former furnishes the form, namel}', the conceptions of the understanding, through which a connected knowledge or a s^-nthesis of our perceptions into a whole of experience first becomes possible. If there were no external world, then would there be no phenomena ; if there were no understand- ing, then these phenomena, or perceptions, which are infinitely manifold, would never be brought into the unity of a concep- tion, and thus no experience would be possible. Thus, while intuitions without conceptions are blind, and conceptions without intuitions are empty, cognition is a union of the two, since in it the form of conception is filled with the matter of experience, and the matter of experience is enmeshed in the net of the understanding's conceptions. NcA^ertheless, we do not know things as the}' are in themseh^es. First, because the categories, or the forms of our understanding prcA^ent. By bringing that which is given as the material of knowledge into our own conceptions as the form, there is manifestly a change produced in the objects ; thej' are thought of not as they are, but only as we apprehend them ; the}' appear to us only as modified by the categories. But besides this subjective addition, there is yet another. Secondly, we do not know things as they are in themselves, because even the intuitions which we bring within the form of the under- standing's conceptions, are not pure and uncolored, but are already penetrated by a subjective medium, namel}', by the universal forms of all objects of sense, space and time. Space and time are also subjective additions, forms of sensu- ous intuition, which are just as originall}' present in our minds as the fundamental conceptions or categories of our understanding. That which we would represent intuitivel)' t» ourselves we must place in space and time, for Avithout 266 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. r these no intuition is possible. From this it follows that we know only phenomena, and not things in themselves separate from space and time. A superficial apprehension of these Kantian principles might lead one to suppose that Kant's criticism did not essen- tially go be3ond the standpoint of Locke's empiricism. But such a supposition disappears upon a careful scrutiny. Kant was obliged to recognize with Hume that the conceptions, cause and effect, substance and attribute, and the other con- ceptions which the human understanding finds itself neces- sitated to think in the phenomena, and which constitute the essential elements of all thought, do not arise from any expe- rience of the sense. For instance, when Ave are affected through different senses, and perceive a white color, a sweet taste, a rough surface, etc., and predicate all these of one thing, as a piece of sugar, there come from without onl}' the pluralit}' of sensations, while the conception of unity cannot come through sensation, but is a category- or conception added to the sensations by the mind itself. But instead of denying, for this reason, the reality of these conceptions of the under- standing, Kant took a step in ad^-ance, assigning a peculiar province to this activity of the understanding, and showing that these forms of thought thus furnished to the matter of experience are immanent laws of the human intellect, the peculiar laws of the understanding's operations, which ma}' be obtained b}' an accurate analysis of our thinking activit}-. (Of these laws or conceptions there are twelve, viz., unit}', pluralit}', totalit}' ; reality, negation, limitation ; substan- tiality, causalit}', reciprocal action ; possibility, actualit}', and necessity.) Kant's theory is thus not empiricism but ideal- ism ; not, however, a dogmatic idealism, transferring all i*eal- it}' to thought (conception), but a critical, subjective idealism, which distinguishes in the conception an objective and a sub- jective element, and vindicates for the latter a connection with knowledge just as essential as that of the former. From what has been said can be deduced the thi'ee chief principles pf the Kantian theory of knoAvledge : TRANSITION TO KANT. 267 1. "We know oxly Phenomeka and not Things in Them- SELA^ES. — The matter of experience furnished us b}' the exter- nal world becomes so adjusted and altered in its relations (for we apprehend it at first under the subjective forms of space and time, and then under tlic equall}' subjective forms of our understanding's conceptions) , that it no longer repre- sents the thing itself in its original condition, pure, and un- mixed. 2. Nevertheless Experience is the only Province of OUR Knowledge, and there is no Science of the Uncon- ditioned. — This follows of course, for since all knowledge is the product of the matter of experience, and the form of the understanding, and depends thus upon the cooperation of the sense and the understanding, no knowledge is possible of objects for which one of these factors, experience, fails us ; cognition through intellectual conceptions alone is illusory, since for the conception of the unconditioned posited by the understanding, the sense can furnish no corresponding object. Hence the questions which Kant places at the head of his_^ whole Critique : how are S3'nthetical judgments a jyriori pos- sible? i.e., can we widen our knowledge a priori, hy thought alone, beyond the sensuous experience? is a knowledge of the supersensible possible ? must be answered with an uncon- ditional negative. 3. If, nevertheless, human knowledge persists in endeav- oring to overstep the narrow limits of experience, i.e., to become transcendent, it involves itself in the greatest contra- dictions. The three ideas of the reason, the psychological, the cosmological, and the theological, viz., (a) the idea of an absolute subject, i.e., of the soul, or of immortalit}', (h) the idea of the world as a totality of all conditions and phe- nomena, (c) the idea of a most perfect being — are so wholl}" without application to the empirical actualit}', are so evidentl}^ mere products of the reason, regulative, and not constitutive principles, to which no object in experience corresponds, that whenever they are applied to experience, i.e., are conceived 268 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. of as actuall}' existing objects, the}' lead to mere logical errors, to the most obvious paralogisms, and sophisms. These errors, which are parti}' false conclusions and paralogisms, and parti}' unavoidable contradictions of the reason with itself, Kant undertook to demonstrate in reference to all the ideas of the reason. Take, e.g.^ the cosmological idea. Whenever the reason applies to the universe any transcendent conception, i.e., attempts to apply the forms of the finite to the infinite, it is at once evident that the antithesis of such a proposition can be proved just as well as the thesis. The affirmation that the world has a beginning in time, and limits in space, can be proved as well as, and no better than its opposite, that the world has no beginning in time and no spacial limits. Whence it follows that all speculative cosmol- ogy is an assumption by the reason. So also with the theo- logical idea ; it rests on mere logical paralogisms, and false conclusions, as Kant, with great acuteness, shows in reference to each of the proofs for the being of a God, which previous dogmatic philosophies had attempted. It is therefore impos- sible to prove and to conceive of the existence of a God as a Supreme Being, or of the soul as a real subject, or of a com- prehending universe. The peculiar problems of metaphysic lie outside the province of philosophical knowledge. Such is the negative part of the Kantian philosophy ; its positive complement is found in the " Critique of the Practical Reason.'" While the mind as theoretical and cognitive is wholly conditioned, and ruled by the objective and sensible world, and thus knowledge is only possible through intuition ; yet as practical it goes wholly beyond the given (the sense impulse) , and is determined only through the categorical im- perative, and the moral law, which is itself, and is therefore free and autonomic ; the ends which it pursues are those which itself, as moral spirit, places before itself; objects are no more its masters and lawgivers, to which it must yield if it would know the truth, but its servants, which it may use for its own ends in actualizing its moral law. "WTiile the KANT . 269 mind as theoretical is united to a world of sense and phe- nomena, a world obedient to necessary laws, the mind as practical, l)^^ virtue of the freedom essential to it, by virtue of its direction towards an absolute aim, belongs to a purel}' intelligible and supersensible world. This is the practical idealism of Kant, from which he derives the three practical postulates of the immortality of the soul, moral freedom, and the being of a God, which, as theoretical truths, had been before denied. With this brief sketch for our guidance, let us now pass to a more extended exposition of the Kantian Philosophy. SECTION XXXVIII. KANT. Immanuel Kant was born at Konigsberg in Prussia, April 22, 1724. His father an honest saddlemaker, and his mother a prudent and pious woman, exerted a good influence upon him in his earliest 3'outh. In the 3'ear 1740 he entered the university as a student of theolog}', though he devoted the most of his time to philosoplw, mathematics, and ph3'sics. He commenced his literary career in his twent3'-t\iird year, in 1747, with a treatise entitled " Thoughts concerning the trite Estimate of Living Force." Pie was obliged b}' his pecuniary circumstances to spend some years as a private tutor in dif- ferent families in the neighborhood of Konigsberg. In 1755 he settled at the university as '•'- privat-docent" which position he held for fifteen 3'ears, during which time he gave lectures upon logic, metaph3'sic, ph3'sics, mathematics, and also, during the latter part of the time, upon ethics, anthropolog3% and physi- cal geograph3\ At this period he adhered for the most part to the school of Wolff, though earl3' expressing his doubts in 270 A HISTORY OP PHILOSOPHY. respect of dogmatism. From the publication of his first trea- tise he appUed himself to writing with unwearied activity, though his great work, the "• Critique of pure Reason" did not appear till his fifty-seventh 3'ear, 1781. His " Critique of the jjractical Reason" was issued in 1787, and his '•'•Re- ligion within the Bowids of pure Reason" in 1793. In 1770, in his fort3'-sixth year, he was chosen ordinary' professor of logic and metaph3'sic, a chair which he continued to fill unin- terruptedl}' till 1797, when the weakness of age obliged him to resign it. Invitations to professorships at Jena, Erlangen, and Halle, were given him and rejected. As soon as he be- came known, the noblest and most active minds flocked from all parts of German}' to Konigsberg, to sit at the feet of the sage who was master there. One of his admirers, Reuss, professor of philosoph}- at Wiirzburg, who abode but a l)rief time at Konigsberg, entered his chamber, declaring that he had come one hundred and sixt}' miles in order to see Kant and to speak with him. — During the last seventeen years of his life he occupied a little house with a garden, in a quiet quarter of the cit}', where his calm and regular mode of life might be undisturbed. His mode of life was ver^' simple, though he enjoyed good living and society. He never left his native province even to go as far as Dantzic. His long- est journcA's were to visit some countr^'-seats in the environs of Konigsberg. Nevertheless, as his lectures upon ph3'sical geograph}' testif3', he acquired b3' reading a ver3' accurate knowledge of the earth. He knew all of Rousseau's works ; Emile at its first appearance detained him for a number of da3's from his customar3' walks. Kant died Feb. 12, 1804, in the eightieth 3'ear of his life. He was of medium stature, finel3' built, with blue e3'es, and alwa3'S enjo3"ed sound health till in his latter 3'ears, when he became childish. He was never married. His character was marked b3' an earnest love of truth, great candor, and simple modest3'. Though Kant's great epoch-making work, the " Critique of pure Reason" did not appear till 1781, 3'et had he previ- KANT. 271 ousl}' shown an approach towards the same standpoint in several smaller treatises, and particularly in his inaugural dissertation which appeared in 1770, " Concerning the Form and the Princij^les of the Sensible and Intelligible Worlds." Kant himself refers the inner genesis of his critical stand- point to Hume. "I freely confess," he sa3's, "that it was David Hume who first roused me from my dogmatic slumber, and gave a ditferent direction to ni}^ investigations in the field of speculative philosoph3\" The critical view, there- fore, first became developed in Kant as he left the dogmatic metaph3'sical school, the Wolfian philosophy in which he had grown up, and went over to the studv of a sceptical empiri- cism in Hume. " Hitherto," says Kant at the close of his Critique ofjyure Reason, " men have been obliged to proceed either dogmatically, like WolflT, or scepticall}-, like Hume. The critical road alone is 3-et open. If the reader has had the courtesy and patience to travel along this in ni}' com- l)an3% let him now contribute his aid in making this b3'-path into a highwa3', in order that that which man3' centuries could not effect ma3' now be attained before the expiration of the present, namel3', that the reason ma3' be perfectl3' sat- isfied in respect of that which has hitherto, but in vain, engaged its curiosit3'." Kant had the clearest consciousness respecting the relation of his criticism to the previous phi- losoph3'. He compares the revolution which he himself had brought about in philosoph3' with that wrought b3' Coperni- cus in astronom3'. " Hithei'to it has been assumed that all our knowledge must regulate itself according to its objects ; but all attempts to make an3' thing out of them a priori, through notions whereb3' our knowledge might be enlarged, has proved, under this pre-supposition, abortive. Let us, then, tr3' for once whether we do not succeed better with the problems of metaph3'sic b3' assuming that objects must be adapted to the nature of our knowledge, a mode of viewing the subject which accords much better with the desii-ed possi- bilit3" of a knowledge of objects a priori, which must decide 272 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. something concerning them before tlie}' are given us. The circumstances are, in this case, precisel}- the same as with the first thoughts of Copernicus, who, finding that liis attempt to explain the motions of the heavenl}- bodies did not succeed, when he assumed tlie whole starry host to revolve around the spectator, tried whether he should not succeed better, if he left the spectator himself to move, and the stars on the con- trary' at rest." In these words we have the principle of a subjective idealism, most clearly- and decidedl}' expressed. In tlie succeeding exposition of the Kantian philosoph}' we shall most suitably follow the classification adopted by Kant himself. His principle of classification is a ps^'chological one. All the faculties of the soul, he sa3's, may be reduced to three, which are incapable of any farther reduction ; cogni- tion, emotion, volition. The first facult}' contains the prin- ciples, the governing laws for all the three. In so far as the facult}' of cognition contains the principles of knowledge it- self, is it theoretical reason, and so far as it contains the principles of volition and action, is it practical reason, while, so far as it contains the principles which regulate the feelings of pleasure and pain, is it a facult}^ of judgment. Thus the Kantian philosophy (on its critical side) divides itself mto three critiques, (1) Critique of pure, i.e., theoretical Reason, (2) Critique of practical Reason, (3) Critique of the Judg- ment. 1. Critique of Pure Reasox. — The critique of pure rea- son, says Kant, is the inventoiy of all our possessions through pure reason, s^'stematically arranged. What are these possessions? What do we contribute to the act of cognition ? To answer this question, Kant explores the two chief fields of our theoretical consciousness, the two chief factors of all knowledge, the sense and the understanding. Firstl}' : what does sense or the facult}' of intuition possess a priori ? Secondl}' : what is the a j^riori possession of our understanding ? The first of these questions is discussed in the Transcendental Esthetic (a title which we must take not KANT. 273 in the sense now commonl}' attached to the word, but in its et^'mological signification as the "science of tlie a priori principles of tlie sense") ; and tlie second in the Transcen- dental Logic, principally- in the Analytic. Sense and under- standing are thus the two factors of all knowledge, the two stems — as Kant expresses it — of our knowledge, which may spring from a common root, though this is unknown to us : sense is the receptivit}', and understanding the spontaneitj' of our cognitive faculty ; by the sense, which can onh' furnish intuitions, objects are given to us ; by the understanding, which forms conceptions, these objects are thought. Concep- tions without intuitions ai*e empty ; intuitions without con- ceptions are blind. Intuitions and conceptions constitute the reciprocal!}' complemental elements of our intellectual activ- it}'. What now are the a 2^riori principles respective!}" of our knowledge through the sense and througli thought? The first of these questions, as already said, is answered by — 1. The Transcendental Esthetic. — To anticipate at once tlie answer, we may say that the a priori principles of our knowledge through the sense, the original forms of sensu- ous intuition, are space and time. Space is the form of the external sense, by means of which objects are given to us as existing outside of ourselves, and also outside of and beside one another ; time is the form of the inner sense, by means of which the circumstances of our own soul-life become objects to our consciousness. If we abstract from every thing be- longing to the matter of our sensations, space remains as the universal form in which all the materials of the external sense must be arranged. If we abstract from every thing which be- longs to the matter of our inner sense, time remains as the fonn which the movement of the mind had filled. Space and time are the highest forms of the outer and inner sense. That these forms lie a priori in the human mind, Kant proves, first, directly from the nature of these conceptions themselves ; and, secondly, indirectly by showing that without a pr/ort pre- supposing these conceptions, certain sciences of undoubted 18 274 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. valiclit}' would be impossible. The first of these he calls the metaphysical^ and the second the transcendental exposition. (1) In the metaphysical exposition it is to be shown, (a) that space and time are given a priori., (b) that the}' both belong to the sense (and therefore to the aesthetic) and not to the understanding (and therefore not to the logic), i.e., that the}' are intuitions and not conceptions, (a) That space and time are a priori is clear from the fact that ever}' experience, before it can be, must presuppose already a space and time. I perceive something as external to me ; but this externality presupposes space. Again, I have two sensations either simultaneous or successive ; this presupposes time. (&) Space and time, however, are by no means conceptions, but forms of intuition, and intuitions themselves. For in every univer- sal conception the individual is comprehended under it, but not as a part of it ; but in space and time, all individual spaces and times are parts of and contained within the universal space and the universal time. (2) In the transcendental expiosition Kant draws his proof indirectly by showing that certain sciences, universally recog- nized as such, can only be conceived upon the supposition that space and time are a piriori. The science of pure mathe- matics is possible only on the ground that space and time are pure and not empirical intuitions. Kant therefore compre- hends the whole problem of the Transcedental u^sthetic in the question. How are pure mathematical sciences possible? The sphere, says Kant, within which pure mathematics moves, is space and time. But mathematics posits its prin- ciples as universal and necessary. Universal and necessary principles, however, can never come from experience ; they must have an a priori ground ; consequently it is impossible that space and time, from which mathematics takes its prin- ciples, should be first given a posteriori ; they must be given a p?*iori as pure intuitions. Hence we have a knowledge a priori, and a science which rests upon a priori grounds ; and the matter sunply resolves itself into this : whosoever would KANT. 275 deny that a priori knowledge can be, must also at the same time deny the possibility of mathematics. But if the funda- inental truths of mathematics are intuitions a jyriori^ we might conclude that there may be also a jniori conceptions, out of which, in connection wdth these pure intuitions, a meta- physic could be formed. This is the positive result of the Transcendental Esthetic, though with this positive side the negative is closely connected. Intuition or immediate per- ception can be attained by man only through the sense, whose universal intuitions are onl}' space and time. But since these intuitions of space and time are not relations of objects them- selves, but only the subjective forms under which the}' are perceived by us, thei'e is something subjective mingled with all our intuitions ; we can know things not as they are in themselves, but onlj' as the}' appear to us through these sub- jective media, space and time. This is the meaning of the Kantian principle, that we do not know things in themselves, but onl}' phenomena. But if on this account we should affirm that all things are in space and time, this would be too much ; they are in space and time onl}' for us, — all phenomena of the external sense appearing both in space and in time, and all phenomena of the inner sense appearing only in time. Bj' this, however, Kant in no waj^ intended to admit that the world of sense is mere appearance. He affirmed, that he con- tended for the empirical reality as well as for the transcenden- tal ideality of space and time : things external to ourselves exist just as certainly as do we and the circumstances within us, only the}' are not presented to us as they are in them- selves and in their independence of space and of time. In regard to the thing-in-itself which stands back of the phenom- ena, Kant intunates in the first edition of his Critique that it is not impossible that the Ego and the thing-in-itself are one and the same thinking substance. This thought, which Kant threw out as a mere conjecture, was the source of all the wider developments of the latest philosoph}'. It was afterwards the fundamental idea of the Fichtian system, 276 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. that the Ego does not become alTected tlirougli a thing-in-itself esseutiall}^ foreign to it, but purel}- througli itself. In the sec- ond edition of his Critique^ liowever, Kant omitted this sentence. The Transcendental ^^sthetic closes with the discussion of space and time, i.e., with the discovery of the a j^rioi'i elements of sensation. But the human mind cannot be satis- fied with the mere receptivity of sense ; it does not simply receive objects, but it applies to these its own spontaneit}', and attempts to think them through its conceptions, and embrace them in the foi'ms of its understanding. It is the object of the Transcendental Analytic (which forms the first part of the Transcendental Logic), to examine these a priori conceptions or forms of thought which lie originally in the understanding, as the forms of space and time do in the intuitive faculty', 2. The Transcendental Analytic. — It is the first prob- lem of the Ancdytic to attain the pure conceptions of the understanding. Aristotle had already attempted to form a table of these conceptions or categories, but he had collected them empirically instead of deriving them from a common principle, and had numbered among them space and time, though these are no pure conceptions of the understanding, but onl}' forms of intuition. But if we would have a com- plete and regularl}' arranged table of all the pure conceptions of the understanding, or all the a jyi'ioii. forms of thought, we must look for a principle from which we ma}' deriA^e them. This principle is the judgment. The general fundamental conceptions of the understanding ma}' be accurately attained if we examine all the different modes or forms of judgment. For this end Kant considers the different kinds of judgment which are treated of in the science of common logic. Now logic shows that there are four kinds of judgment, viz., judg- ments of — Quantity. Quality. Relation. Modality. Universal, Affirmative, Categorical, Problematicalj Particular, Negative, Hypothetical, Assertory, Singular. Infinite or Limitative. Disjunctive. Apodictic, KANT. 277 From these judgments are obtained the same number of fundamental conceptions or categories of the understanding, viz. : — Quantity. Quality. Relation. Modality. Totality, Reality, Substance and In- Possibility and Im- Plurality, Negation, herence, possibility, Unity. Limitation. Causality and De- Being and Not-be- pendence, ing, Reciprocity. Necessity and Con- tingency. From these twelve categories all the rest may be derived by combination. From the fact that these categories are shown to belong a priori to the understanding, it follows, (1) that these conceptions are a priori, and hence have a necessar}^ and universal validit}', (2) that by themselves they are empty forms, and attain a content only through intuition. But since our intuition is wholl}' through the sense, these categories have validity onh' in their application to sensuous intuition, which in turn is raised from meve perception to experience proper only when apprehended under the con- ceptions of the understanding. — Here we meet a second question : how does this happen ? How do objects become subsumed under these forms of the understanding, which by themselves are so empty? There would be no difficulty with this subsumption if the objects and the conceptions of the understanding were the same in kind. But they are not. Because objects come to the understanding from the sense, they are by nature sen- suous. Hence the question arises : how can these sensible objects be subsumed under pure conceptions of the under- standing? how can the categories be applied to objects? how can rules be established in reference to the manner in which we must think things in accordance with the catego- ries ? This application of the categories to objects cannot be immediate ; there must be a mean between the two, a third, which must have something in common with each, i.e., which 278 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. is in one respect pure and a priori, and in another sensible. The two pure intuitions of the Transcendental Esthetic. space and time, especial!}' the latter, are of such a nature. A transcendentall}' determined property of time, as for exam- ple, that of simultaneousness, is on the one hand homoge- neous with the categories, since it is a priori, and on the other homogeneous with phenomena, since every phenomenon must be represented as existing in time. For this reason Kant calls the transcendental determinations of time trans- cendental schema, and the use which the understanding makes of them, he calls the transcendental schematism of the pure understanding. The schema is a product of the imaginative facult}', which spontaneously gives to the inner sense this determination, though the schema is something other than a mere image. An image is always merel}' an individual and determinate intuition ; the schema on the other hand is a universal form which the imagination produces as the repre- sentation of a categor}', and which is the mean through which the categorj^ becomes applicable to sensuous phenomena. Hence the schema can onl^' exist in the conception, and never suffers itself to be brought within the sensuous intui- tion. If, now, we consider more closely the schematism of the understanding, and seek the transcendental time-deter- mination for every categor}', we find that : (1) Quantity has for a universal schema series in time or number, i.e., the successive addition of homogeneous units. I can represent to myself the pure understanding conception of magnitude onl}' by bringing into the imagination a number of units one after another. If I stop this process at its be- ginning, the result is unity ; if I let it go on farther I have plurality ; and if I suffer it to continue without limit, totality. If I wish to appl}' this conception of magnitude to phenomena, I find it to be possible onl}- by means of this movement from one part of the homogeneous to another. (2) Quality has for its schema the content of time. If I would appl}' to any thing sensuous the pure conception of KANT. 279 realit}', which is one of the categories of quality^ I must rep- resent to myself a filled time, a content in time. That is real which fills a time. If also I would represent to myself the pure understanding conception of negation, I bring into thought a void time. (3) The categories of relation take their schemata from the order of time; for if I would represent to mj'self a deter- minate relation, I alwa3'S bring into thought a determinate order of things in time. Substance appears as the persis- tence of the real in time ; causality as regular succession in time ; reciprocit}^ as the regular coetaneousness of the deter- minations in the one substance, with the determinations in the other. (4) The categories of modality take their schema from the ivhole of time, i.e., from the manner in which an object be- longs to time. The schema of possibilit}' is the general har- mony of a representation with the conditions of time ; the schema of actuality is the existence of an object in a deter- mined time ; that of necessity is the existence of an object for all time. We are now, then, furnished with all that we need for sub- suming sensuous objects under the categories, or for appl^'ing the categories to phenomena in order to show how through this application experience — a coherent series of phenomena — arises. We have (1) the different classes of categories, which, since they are valid for the entire sphere of intuition, render possible the sj'nthesis of perceptions into a whole of experience ; and (2) the schemata by means of which we can apply these categories to the objects of sense. With every category and its schema is given a different method of bring- ing phenomena under a universally A^alid form of the under- standing, through which unit}' is introduced into cognition. With every category*, therefore, there are given principles of cognition, a priori rules, points of view, to which we subject phenomena in order to elevate them to experience. These principles, these most general, universall}' valid synthetic 280 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. judgments, correspond to the four classes of the categories and are as follows: (1) All phenomena, since they can be apprehended only under the forms of space and time, are in form magnitudes, quanta, manifolds, which the conception of * a definite space or time gives, and thus extensive magnitudes or wholes constructed out of parts successivel}' added. In- tuition is possible ovAy because our imagination apprehends phenomena as extensive quanta in space and time. For this reason, also, all intuitions are subject to the a x^riori laws of extensive quantit}', e.g., to the law of infinite divisibility, to the laws of construction in space as the}' are unfolded in geometry, etc. These laws are the axioms of intuition, the universally valid rules of all intuition. (2) In respect of their sensuous content, their realit}', all phenomena are inten- sive magnitudes ; since without a greater or less degree of impression on the sense no f)erception of a definite object, of a reality, would be possible. This magnitude of the real, which is the object of sensation, is merely intensive, i.e., determinable in degree, since sensation (as such) contains nothing extended in space or time. All the objects of per- ception thus are intensive as well as extensive quantities fill- ing space and time, and are therefore subject to the laws of both extension and intension. All the forces and qualities of things have an infinite number of degrees which ma}' in- crease or decrease ; whatever is real has alwa^'s an intensive magnitude, however small ; this intensive may be indepen- dent of extensive magnitude, etc. These principles ai'e the anticipations of ];)erce])tion, rules which are given antece- dently to all perception, and direct the investigation of it. (3) Experience is possible only through the conception of a necessary connection of perceptions. Without a necessar}* ordcr of things and their relations in time there could be no knowledge of a determinate connection of phenomena, but onl}' of accidental individual perceptions. (a) The first principle which relates to this point is : througJiout all the changes of phenomena the substance remains KAKT. 281 unchanged. Where there is nothing permanent there is also no definite relation or duration of time. If I would posit one state of a thing as prior or subsequent to other states of the same thing, t.e., if I would distinguish these states by their relation to time, I must opposit the thing itself to the states which it passes through, I must think of it as perduring through all the changes of its states, that is as a self-identical substance, {h) The second principle is : all changes occur in accordance ivith the law of cause and effect. The succession of different states in time is fixed and determi- nate only when I can posit one as the cause of the other, and as, therefore, necessarily (according to a rule or law) pre- ceding it, and the other as effect of the first, and as, therefore, necessarily succeeding it. The relation of causalit}' alone gives determinate succession in time ; but without a deter- minate succession in time there could be no "experience ; hence the relation of causality is the foundation of all knowl- edge through experience ; the dependence of one thing upon another tln-ough this relation is the basis of all connection between objects, — without it we should have only discon- nected subjective representations, (c) The third principle is : cdl co-existent substances are in complete recij)rocity . Only those things which reciprocall}- affect one another are deter- mined, posited as inseparable in time. These three principles are the analogies of exjyerience, — rules for apprehending the relations of things, without which there could be for us no whole, no nature of things, but merely individual, discon- nected phenomena. (4) To the categories of modalit}' corre- spond the x)ostidates of empirical thought. These are : (a) that which conforms to the formal conditions of experience, is possible, and can become phenomenon; (b) that which agrees with the material conditions of experience is actual, and is phenomenon; (c) that, whose connection with the actual is determined according to the universal conditions of experience, is necessary, and must exist. These are the only possible authentic synthetic judgments 282 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. a priori; they are the basis of all metaphysic. But it must not be forgotten that we are entitled to make only an empiri- cal use of all these conceptions and principles, and that we must ever appl}" them only to things as objects of a possible experience, and never to things in themselves ; for the con- ception without an object is an empty form, to which an object can be given only through pure intuition ; and pure intuition again, — the pure forms, space and time, — itself needs to be filled b^' sensuous perception. Hence, without reference to human experience, these a priori conceptions and principles are nothing but a sporting of the imagination and the understanding, with their representations. Their peculiar function is that the}' enable us to spell perceptions, that we may read them as experiences. But here one is apt to fall into a delusion which can hardly be avoided. Since the categories are not grounded upon sensation, but have an a priori origin, it would seem as though their application would reach far bej'ond the sense ; but such a view is a delu- sion ; our conceptions are not able to lead us to a knowledge of things in themselves {noumena) since our intuition gives us only phenomena for the content of our conceptions, and the thing in itself can never be given in a possible experience ; our knowledge remains limited to phenomena. The source of all confusions and errors and strife in previous metaphysic, was in confounding the phenomenal with the noumenal world. Besides the categories or conceptions of the understanding, which have been considered, and which relate primaril}- to experience, tliough often applied erroneously beyond the proA'ince of experience, there are other similar conceptions whose peculiar function is only to deceive ; conceptions whose chief characteristic is the transgression of the limits of ex- perience, and which ma}' consequent]}' be called transcendent. These are the fundamental conceptions and principles of the previous metaphysic. To examine these conceptions, and destroy the appeai-ance of objective science and knowledge, which they falsely exhibit, is the problem of the Transcenderi' tal Dialectic (the second part of the transcendental logic). KANT. 283 3. The Transcendental Dialectic. — The reason is dis- tinguished from the understanding in its more restricted sense. As the understanding lias its categories, the reason has its ideas ; as tlie understanding forms fundamental maxims from conceptions, the reason forms principles from ideas, in which the maxims of the understanding have their highest confirmation. The peculiar work of the reason is, in general, to find the unconditioned for the conditioned knowledge of the understanding, and thus to reduce it to perfect unity. Hence the reason is the faculty of the unconditioned, or of principles ; but since it has no immediate reference to objects, but only to the understanding and its judgments, its activity must remain an immanent one. Were the supreme unity of reason to be taken not merely in a transcendental sense, but considered as an actual object of knowledge, it would be transcendent,, since it would involve the application of the categories of the understanding to the knowledge of the un- conditioned. From this transcendent and false use of the categories arises the transcendental illusion which decoys us be^'ond experience, by the delusive pretext of widening the domain of the pure understanding. It is the problem of the transcendental logic to disclose this transcendental illusion. The speculative ideas of the reason, derived from the three kinds of logical syllogism, the categorical, the hypothetical, and the disjunctive, are threefold. (1) The psychological idea, the idea of the soul, as a thinking substance (the object hitherto of rational ps}'- chology) . (2) The cosmological idea, the idea of the world as in- cluding all phenomena (the object hitherto of cosmology) . (3) The theological idea, the idea of God as the highest condition of the possibilit}' of all things (the object hitherto of rational theolog}) . But with these ideas, in which the reason attempts to appl}- the categories of the understanding to the unconditioned, the reason becomes unavoidably entangled in a semblance and an 284 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. illusion. This transcendental semblance, or this optical illu- sion of the reason, cxliibits itself differently in each of the diffei-ent ideas. AVith the psychological idea the reason per- petrates a simple paralogism (paralogisms of pure reason) while with the cosmological it finds itself driven to contradic- tor}" affirmations or antinomies, and, with the theological, it wanders about in an empt^^ ideal. (1) The psychological Idea, or the Paralogisms of the pure Reason. Kant has attempted, under this rubric, to overthrow all rational ps3-cholog3- as this had been previous^ apprehended. Rational ps3'cholog3' had considered the soul as a spiritual thing with the attribute of immaterialit}' ; as a simple sub- stance with the attribute of incorruptibilit}' ; as a numericall}' identical, intellectual substance with the predicate of per- sonality ; as an unextended and thinking being with the predicate of immortality. All these principles of rational psycholog}', says Kant, are surreptitious ; they are all derived from the one premise, "I think"; but this "I think" is neither intuition nor conception, but a simple consciousnesG, an act of the mind which attends, connects, and bears in itself all representations and conceptions. This thinking is now falsely taken as a real thing. For the Ego as subject is substituted the existence of the p]go as object, as soul ; and what belongs analytically to the former is predicated S3'ntheti- call}' of the latter. But in order to treat the Ego also as object, and to be able to apply to it categories, it must be given empirically, in intuition, which is not the case. From all this it follows that the proofs for immortalitj' rest upon false conclusions. I can, indeed, separate my pure thinking ideally from the body ; but obviously, it does not follow from this that my thinking can exist really when separate from the bod}'. The result whicli Kant derives from his critique of rational psychologj' is this, viz., there is no rational psychol- ogy as a doctrine which can furnish us with any addition to our self-knowledge, but only as a discipline, which places im- KANT. 285 passable limits to the speeulatire reason in this field, in order that it ma}' neither abandon itself to a soulless materialism, nor lose itself in the delusion of a, for us in life, groundless spiritualism. In this respect rational ps3'cholog3' would rather remind us, that this refusal of our reason to give a satisfac- tor}' answer to the questions which stretch be3'ond this life, should be regarded as an intimation of the reason for us to leave this fruitless and superfluous speculation, and appl}' our self-knowledge to some fruitful and practical use. (2) The Antinomies of Cosmology. The cosmological ideas cannot be completely enumerated without the aid of the categories. (1) So far as the quantity of the world is concerned, space and time are the original gwcmto of all intuition. In a quantitative respect, therefore, something must be established in reference to the totality of the times and spaces of the world. (2) In respect of quality' something must be determined in reference to the divisibility of matter. (3) In respect of relation, the complete series of causes must be sought for the existing effects in the world. (4) In respect of modalitj^, the accidental according to its conditions, or the complete dependence of the accidental in the phenomenal world, must be conceived. When, now, the reason attempts to establish determinations I'especting these problems, it finds itself at once entangled in a contra- diction with itself. Directl}' contrar}' affirmations can be made with equal validitj' in reference to each of these four points. We can show, upon grounds equally valid, (1) the thesis ; the world has a beginning in time and limits in space ; and the antithesis, the world has neither beginning in time nor limit in space. (2) The thesis : ever)' compound sub- stance in the world consists of simple parts, and there exists nothing else than the simple and that which it composes ; and the antithesis : no compound thing exists of simple parts, and there exists nothing simple in the world. (3) The thesis : causalit}' according to the laws of nature, is not the only causality from which the phenomena of the world may be 286 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. deduced, but these ma}- be exi)lained through a causalit}- in freedom ; and the antithesis : there is no freedom, but every thing in the world happens according to natural laws. Lastly, (4) the thesis : something belongs to the world either as a part of it or as its cause, which is an absolutely necessary being ; and the antithesis : there exists no absolutely- neces- bar}' being as cause of the world, either in the world or with- out it. From this dialectic conflict of the cosmological ideas, tuere follows at once the worthlessness of the whole struggle. (3) The Ideal of the jncre Reason or the Idea of God. Kant shows at first Tiow the reason comes in the idea of a most real being (ens realissimum) , and then turns himself against the efforts of previous metaphjsics to prove its valid existence. His critique of the arguments previousl}- emploj-ed to prove the existence of a God, is essentiall}- the following. • (a) The Ontological j^t'oof. — The argument here is as follows : it is possible that there is a most real being ; now existence is implied in the conception of all rcalit}- : to den}-, there foi'e, its real existence, is to den}- the possibility of a most real being, — which is contradictory. But, answers Kant, existence is not at all a reality, or real predicate which can be added to the conception of a thing, but it is the posi- tion of a thing with all its properties. The conception of a thing loses none of its properties when the predicate of exis- tence is taken from it. Hence though all its properties belong to it, it by no means follows that it possesses existence also. Hence if it have an}- property, it does not at all follow that it possesses existence. Being is nothing but the logical copula, which does not in the least enlarge the content of the subject, A hundred actual dollars, e.g., contain no more than a hun- dred possible ones ; there is only a difference between them in reference to my own wealth. Thus the most real being may with perfect propriety be conceived of as the most real, while at the same time it should ouly be conceived of as pos- sible, and not as actual. It was therefore wholly unnatural, and a mere play of school wit, to talie an idea which had KANT. 287 been arbitraril3' formed, and deduce from it the existence of its corresponding object. An}- effort and toil which might be spent upon this famous proof is tlius onl}' tlu'own away, and a man would from mere ideas become no riclier in Ivnowledge tlian a merchant would increase his pi'operty b}' adding a number of ciphers to the balance of his accounts. (&) The Cosmolog leal proof . — While the ontological proof concludes with the existence of an absolute being, the cosmo- logical proof begins with necessar}' existence. If an}- thing exists there must also exist an absolutely necessary being as its cause. But now thei'e exists at least I m3'self, and there must hence also exist an absolutel}- necessary being as m}- cause. The last cosmological antinom}- is brought in to criticise the argument at this stage. The conclusion is errone- ous, because from the phenomenal and the accidental a neces- sar}- being above experience is inferred. Moreover, if we allow the conclusion to be valid, it is still no God which it gives us. Hence the farther inference is made : that being can alone be necessar}' which includes all realit}' within itself. If now this proposition should be reversed, and the affirmation made that that being which includes all reality is absolutelv necessar}-, then have we again the ontological proof, and the cosmological falls with this. In the cosmological proof, the reason uses the trick of bringing forth as a new argument an old one with a changed ckess, that it might seem to have the power of summoning two witnesses. (c) The Physico-theological proof. — If thus neither con- ception nor experience can furnish a proof for the divine ex- istence, there still remains a third attempt, A'iz., to start from a determinate experience and endeavor to see whether the existence of a supreme being cannot be inferred from the ar- rangement and condition of things in the world. Such is the ph3-sico-theological proof, which starts from the evidences of design in nature, and directs its argument as follows : everj'- where in the universe there exists conformity of means to ends (design) , but this design is exti-aneous to the things of 288 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. the world, i.e., it is so far as the}' are concerned accidental, and adheres to them onh- contingently- ; there exists therefore for this design a necessarj' cause which works with wisdom and intelligence ; this necessary' cause must be the most real being ; the most real being has therefore necessar}- existence. — To this Kant answers : The pli3-sico-theological proof is the oldest, clearest, and most conformable to the common reason. But it is not demonstration (apodictic). It infers, from the form of the world, a proportionate and sufficient cause of this form ; but in this wa}" we only attain an originator of the form of the world, and not an originator of its matter, a world-builder, and not a world-creator. To help out with this difficult}' the cosmological proof is brought in, and the originator of the form becomes conceived as the necessar}' being who is the ground of the content. Tlius we have an absolute being whose perfection corresponds to that of the world. But in the world there is no alisolute perfection ; we have therefore onl}' a ver}' perfect being ; to get the most perfect, we must revert again to the ontological proof. Thus the teleological proof rests upon the cosmological, while this in tui'n has its basis in the ontological, and from this circle the metaphj'sical modes of proof cannot escape. From these considerations, it would follow that the ideal of a supreme being is nothing other than a regulative princi- ple of the reason, b}' which it looks upon all connection in the world as if it sprang from an all-sufficient and necessary' cause ; in order that, in explaining this connection, it ma}' establish thereon the rule of a S3"stematic and necessar}' unity, it being also true that in this process the reason thi-ough a ti-anscendental subreption cannot avoid representing to itself this formal principle as constitutive, and this unit}' as an absolute creative intelligence. But in truth this supreme being remains for the simply speculative use of the reason, a mere though faultless ideal, a conception which is the sum- mit and the crown of human knowledge, whose objective reality, though it cannot be proved with apodictic certainty, can just as little be disproved. KANT. 289 With this critique of the ideas of the reason there is still another question. If these ideas have no objective signifi- cance, wliy are they found within ns? Since tlie}' are neces- sary, they will doubtless have some good purpose to subserve. What this purpose is, has already' been indicated in speaking of the theological idea. Though not constitutive, yet are the}' regulative principles. We cannot better order the fac- ulties of our soul, than by acting " as if" there were a soul. The cosmological idea leads us to consider the world " as if" the series of causes were infinite, without, howcA'er, exclud- ing an intelligent cause. The theological idea enables us to look upon the world in all its complexity as a regulated unity. Thus, while these ideas of the reason are not con- 'stitutive principles, by means of which our knowledge could be widened beyond expei'ience, the}' are regulative principles, b}' means of which our experience may be ordered, and brought under certain hj^pothetical unities. These three ideas, therefore, the psychological, the cosmological, and the theo- logical, do not form an organon for the discover}' of truth, but only a canon for the simplification and systematizing of our experiences. Besides their regulative significance, these ideas of the reason have also a practical importiince. There is a suffi- cient certaiut}', not objective, but subjective, which is espe- cially of a practical nature, and is called belief or confidence. If the freedom of the will, tlie immortality of the soul, and the existence of a God, are three cardinal principles, which, though not in an}- way necessary to cognition, are yet pressed contimially upon us b}' the reason, they must certainly find their peculiar significance in the practical sphere, in connec- tion with moral conviction. This conviction is not logical, but moral certainty. Since it rests wholly upon subjective grounds, upon the moral character, I cannot say : it is mor- ally certain that there is a God, but only : I am morally cer- tain, etc. That is, the belief in a God and in another world is so interwoven with my moral character, that I am in just 19 290 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. as much danger of losing this character as of being deprived of this belief. We are thus brought to the standpoint of the rRACTiCAL Reason. II. Critique of the Practical Reason. — With the Cri' tique of the Practical Reason^ we enter a wholly different world, where the reason richl^^ recovers that of which it was deprived in the theoretical province. The essential problem of the Critique of the Practical Reason is almost diametricall}' opposed to that of the critique of the theoretical reason. The object of investigation in the critique of the speculative reason, was, — whether the pure reason can know objects a priori ; in the practical reason it is, — how can the pure reason detennine a priori the will in respect of objects. The critique of the speculative reason inquired after the cog- nizableness of objects a jyriori : the practical reason has noth- ing to do with the cognizableness of objects, but onl}' with those questions which relate to the grounds of the determina- tion of the will (motives), and eveiy thing which can be known in that connection. Hence, in the latter critique, we have an order directly the reverse of that which we find in the former. As the original detenninations of oiu" theoretical knowledge are intuitions, so the original determinations of our will are principles and conceptions. The critique of the practical reason must, therefore, start from moral principles, and only after these are firml}' fixed, may we inquire con- cerning the relation in which the practical reason stands to the sense. The results of the two critiques, also, are mutually' op- posed. If in the theoretical sphere the ideas of reason remained essentially negative, because the reason in seeking to attain to the thing-in-itself became transcendent, in the practical sphere the opposite is the case. In the practical sphere the ideas of reason demonstrate their certainty in a whoUy immediate and immanent wa}', without once over- stepping the bounds of self-consciousness and inner expe- rience. In this sphere is considered the relation of reason, KANT. 291 not to external things, but to something internal, to the wiU, and it is demonstrated that the reason can determine the will purely from itself ; from which fact the ideas of freedom and immortality obtain that certaint}' which the theoretical reason was unable to give them. That there is a determination of the will through pure reason, or that the reason has practical reality', is not im- mediately certain, since human actions appear to proceed primarily from the sensuous motives of pleasure and pain, inclination or affection. The ci'itique of practical reason must therefore inquire, whether these determinations of the will are the only ones, or whether there is yet a higher source of motives in which not sense but reason is the lawgiver, so that under its influence the will follows not incentives from with- out, but obe3's, with absolute freedom, a higher practical principle of the reason. The exposition of these facts and principles is given in the analytic of the practical reason ; while on the other hand it belongs to the dialectic of practical reason to consider and solve the antinomies which arise from the relation of the legislation of pure reason to the empirical determination of the will through sensuous motives. 1. The Analytic. — The reality of a higher faculty' of motives within us is made certain b}' the fact of the moral laiv, which is nothing else than the law which reason of itself imposes upon the will. The moral law within us stands pre-eminent above all lower impulses, and with an inward irresistible necessity' bids us follow it absolutel}^ and uncon, ditionally in utter independence of every sensuous motive. All other practical laws relate solel}' to the empirical ends of pleasure and pain ; the moral law, however, has no refer- ence to these, and demands that we pa}^ no regard to them. The moral law is not a hypothetical imperative which promul- gates mere rules of expediencj^ for the attainment of empi- rical ends ; but a categorical imperative, a universal law valid for every rationally directed will. It can therefore originate only in the reason and not in any lower impulses or individual 292 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. desires ; it can moreover originate onl}' in pure reason and not in reason as empirically conditioned ; it must be a com- mandment of the autonomous, one, and universal I'eason. In the moral law, therefore, reason demonstrates itself as practical ; in it reason attains immediate reality ; and through it, it is proved that the pure reason is no mere idea but a force actually determining volition and action. Moreover, through this law is determined the complete certaintj' and truth of another idea, — the idea of freedom. The moral law says, " Thou oughtest, therefore thou canst," and thus assures us of our freedom ; indeed it is in its essence nothing but the will freed from all sensuous content of desire, which thus con- stitutes for us the supreme law of volition and action. — But here the further question arises, what is it that the reason categoricall}" enjoins ? In order to answer this we must first consider the empirical will, the natural side of man. The nature of an empirical will consists in this, that in it volition is directed upon an object to which the subject is driven by a feeling of pleasure to be derived from it ; and this feeling, again, is rooted in the nature of the subject, in its susceptibility for this or that, in its natural wants, etc. Under this empirical volition belongs all striving for a defi- nite object, or all material volition ; for nothing can be an object of subjective volition except in so far as a suscepti- bility exists in the subject b}' virtue of which the object is not indifferent to it, but pleasing. All material motives fall un- der the principle of agreeableness or happiness, or, subject- ively, under that of self-love. The will in so far as it follows these motives is not autonomic but heteronomic, limited, that is, through its dependence upon natural empirical ends. From this it follows that a law of reason which is to be uncondi- tionall}^ binding upon all rational beings must be absolutely' distinct from all material principles, that is, must contain nothing material. Material motives are b}' nature empirical, accidental, variable. For men are not at one as regards pleasure and pain, but what is disagreeable to one may appear KANT. 293 pleasing to another ; and even if tliey did agree in this respect tlie agreement would be purely accidental. Consequently, these material motives can never act the part of laws binding upon ever}' being, but each subject may select for himself a different object as a motive. Such rules of action Kant calls maxims of the will. He also censures those moralists who set up such maxims as universal principles of moralit}-. Nevertheless, these maxims, though not the highest prin- ciples of morality, are yet necessary to the autonom}- of the will, because they alone furnish it a definite content. It is onl}' b}' uniting the two sides, that we gain the true principle of morality. To this end the maxims must be freed from their limitation, and widened to the form of universal laws of the reason. Only those maxims should be chosen as motives of action which are capable of becoming universal laws of the reason. The highest prinaple of morality will therefore be this : act so that the maxim of thy wUl can at the same time be Aalid as a principle of universal legislation ; I.e., act so that no contradiction shall arise in the attempt to conceive the maxim of th}' acting as a law universally obeyed. By this formal moral principle all material moral principles which can onl}' be of a hetei'onomic nature are excluded ; in it there is a law which elevates the will above all lower incen- tives, a law which reduces all wills to unanimity, a law which is the one true law of reason itself since it is valid for all rational beings. The question next arises — what impels the will to act con- formably to this highest moral law ? Kant answers : the moral law itself, apprehended and revered, must be the onl}' moving spring of the human will. If an act which in itself might be conformable to the moral law, be done onl}' through some impulse to happiness arising simply from an inclination of the sense, if it be not done purely for the sake of the law itself, then have we simplj- legality and not morality. That which is included in every inclination of the sense is self-love and self-conceit, and of these the former is restricted by the 294 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. moral law, and the latter wholly destro^'ed. But that which strikes down our self-conceit and humbles us must appear to us in the highest degree worthy of esteem. This is the effect of the moral law. Consequentl}' the positive feeling which we shall cherish toward the moral law will be reverence. This reverence, though a feeling, is neither sensuous nor pathological, for it stands opposed to these ; but is rather an intellectual feeling, since it arises from the notion of the prac- tical law of the reason. On the one side as subordination to law, reverence involves pain ; on the other side, since the coercion can only be exercised through the reason itself, it involves pleasure. Reverence is the only sentiment befitting man in reference to the moral law. Man, as creature of sense, cannot rest on any inner inclination to the moral law, for he has ever inclinations within him which resist the law ; love to the law can onl}' be considered as something ideal. — Thus the moral purism of Kant, or his effort to separate every impulse of the sense from the motives to action, merges into rigorism, or the gloomy Adew that duty can never be done except with reluctance. A similar exaggeration belongs to the well-known epigram of Schiller, who answers the follow- ing scruple of conscience — The friends whom I love I gladly would serve, But to this inclination incites me ; And so I am forced from virtue to swerve Since my act, through affection, delights me — with the following decision : — The friends whom thou lov'st, thou must first seek to scorn, For to no other way can I guide thee : 'Tis alone with disgust thou canst rightly perform The acts to which duty would lead thee. (2) The Dialectic. — The pure reason has always its dia- lectic, since it belongs to the nature of the reason to demand the unconditioned for the given conditioned. Hence also the KAKT. 295 practical reason seeks an unconditioned highest good for that conditioned good after which man strives. What is this highest good? If we understand by the highest good the fundamental condition of all other goods, then it is virtue. But virtue is not the perfect good, since finite rational beings as sensitive stand in need also of happiness. Hence the highest good is only perfect when the highest happiness is joined to the highest virtue. The question now arises : what is the relation of these two elements of the highest good to each other? Are they analytically or synthetically united? The former would be affirmed by most of the ancients, es- pecially by the Greek moral philosophers. We might allow with the Stoics, that happiness is contained as an accidental element in virtue, or, with the Epicureans, that virtue is con- tained as an accidental element in happiness. The Stoics said : to be conscious of one's virtue is happiness ; the Epi- cureans said : to be conscious of the maxims leading one to happiness is virtue. But, says Kant, an analytic connection between these two conceptions is not possible, since they are wholly different in kind. Consequently there can be between them only a synthetic unity, and this unit}' more close]}' scanned is seen to be a causal one, so that the one element is cause, and the other effect. Such a relation must be regarded as its highest good b}' the practical reason, whose thesis must therefore be : virtue and happiness must be bound together in a correspondent degree as cause and effect. But this thesis is contradicted by the actual fact. Neither of the two is the direct cause of the other. Neither is the striving after happiness a moving spring to virtue, nor is virtue the efficient cause of happiness. Hence the antithesis : virtue and happiness do not necessarity correspond, and are not universally connected as cause and effect. The critical solu- tion of this antinomy Kant finds in the distinction between the sensible and the intelligible world. In the world of sense, virtue and happiness do not, it is true, correspond ; but the reason as noumenon is also a citizen of a supersen- 296 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. sible world, where the counter-strife between A-irtue and hap- piness has no place. In this supersensible world virtue is always adequate to happiness, and when man passes OA'er into this he may look for the actualization of the highest good. But the highest good has, as already" remarked, two elements, (1) highest virtue, (2) highest happiness. The necessary realization of the first of these elements postulates the immortality of the soul, and the second, the existence of God. (a) To the highest good belongs in the first place perfect virtue or holiness. But no creature of sense can be bolj' : reason limited by sense can only approximate to holiness as an ideal in an endless progression. But such an endless progress is only possible in an endless continuance of per- sonal existence. If, therefore, the highest good is ever to be actualized, the immortalit}' of the soul must be presupposed. (6) To the highest good belongs, in the second place, perfect happiness. Happiness is that condition of a rational creature in the world, in which every thing goes according to his desire and will. This can only occur when all nature is in accord with his purposes. But this is not the case ; as acting beings we are not causes of nature, and there is not the slightest ground in the moral law for connecting morality and happiness. Notwithstanding this, we ought to endeavor to secure the highest good. It must therefore be possible. There is thus postulated the necessary connection of these two elements, i.e., the existence of a cause of nature distinct from nature, and which contains the ground of this connec- tion. There must be a being as the common cause of the natural and moral world, a being who knows our characters, an intelligence, who, according to this intelligence imparts to us happiness. Such a being is God. Thus from the practical reason there issue the ideas of im- mortalit}' and of God, as we have alread}' seen to be the case with the idea of freedom. The reality of the idea of freedom is derived from the possibilitj' of a moral law ; that of the idea KANT. 297 of immortalit}" is borrowed from the possibility of a perfect virtue ; that of the idea of a God follows from the necessary demand for a perfect happiness. These three ideas, therefore, which the speculative reason has treated as problems that could not be solved, gain a firm basis in the proAdnce of the practical reason. Still they are not even now theoretical dog- mas, but as Kant calls them practical postulates, necessary premises of moral action. My theoretical knowledge is not enlarged by them : I onh' know now that there are objects corresponding to these ideas, but of these objects I can know no more. Of God, for instance, we possess and know no more than this very conception ; and if we should attempt to establish the theory of the supersensible grounded upon such categories, this would be to make theolog}' like a magic lan- tern, with its phantasmagorical representations. Yet has the practical reason acquired for us a certainty respecting the objective reality of these ideas, which the theoretical reason had been obliged to leave undecided, and in this respect the practical reason has the primacy. This relative position of the two faculties of knowledge is wisel}' adapted to the nature and destiny of men. Since the ideas of God and immortality are theoreticall}' obscure to us, they do not defile our moral motives by fear and hope, but leave us free space to act through reverence for the moral law. Thus far Kant's Critique of the practical Reason. In con- nection with this we may here mention his Adews of religion as they appear in his treatise upon ^^ Religion tvithin the Bounds of Pure Reason." The fundamental idea of this treatise is the reduction of religion to moralit}'. Between moralit}' and religion there may be the twofold relation, that either morality is founded upon religion, or else religion upon morality. If the first relation were real, it would give us fear and hope as principles of moral action ; but this cannot be ; there remains, therefore, only the second. Moralit}' leads necessarily to religion, because the highest good is a neces- ^ar}' ideal of the reason, and this can only be realized tlii'ough 298 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. a God ; but in no way may religion first incite us to A'irtue, for the idea of God ma}' never become a moral motive. Re- ligion, according to Kant, is the recognition of all our duties as divine commands. It is revealed religion when I must first know that something is a divine command, in order to know that it is m}- dut}' : it is natural religion when I must first know that something is m}' duty, in order to know that it is a divine command. The Chiu'ch is an ethical community, which has for its end the fulfilment and the most perfect exhibition of moral commands, — a union of those who with united energies purpose to resist evil and advance morality. The Church, in so far as it is no object of a possi- ble experience, is called the invisible Church, which, as such, is merely the idea of the union of all the righteous under the divine moral government of the world. The visible Church, on the other hand, is that which represents the kingdom of God upon earth, so far as this can be attained thi'ough men. The requisites, and hence also the characteristics of the true visible Church (which are divided according to the table of the cate- gories since this Church is given in experience) are the fol- lowing : (a) In respect of quantity the Church must be total or universal; and though it ma}' be divided in accidental opinions, yet must it be instituted upon such principles as will necessarily lead to a universal union in one single chuix-h. (&) The quality of the true visible Church is 2>?a"%, as a union under no other than moral motives, since it is at the same time purified from the stupidness of superstition and the madness of fanaticism, (c) The relation of the members of the Church to each other rests upon the principle of free- dom. The Church is, therefore, a free state^ neither a hie- rarchy nor a democrac}', but a voluntary, universal, and en- during spiritual luiion. (d) In respect of modality the Church demands that its constitution should be unchangeable. The laws themselves maj' not change, though one ma}' reserA-e to iimself the privilege of changing some accidental arrange- ments which relate simpl}' to the administration. — That KANT. 299 alone which can establish a universal Church is the moral faith of the reason, for this alone can be shared by the con- victions of every man. But, because of the peculiar weakness of human nature, we can never reckon enough on this pure faith to build a Church on it alone, for men are not easily convinced that the striAang after virtue and an irreproachable life is ever}' thing which God demands : they always suppose that the}' must offer to God a special service prescribed b}' tradition, which onl}' amounts to this — that he is served. To establish a Church, we must therefore have a statutory faith historically grounded upon facts. This is the so-called faith of the Church. In ever}- Church there are therefore two elements — the purely moral, or the faith of reason, and the historico-statutory, or the faith of the Chm'ch. It depends now upon the relation of these two elements whether a Church shall have any worth or not. The statutory element should ever be onl}' the vehicle of the moral element. Just so soon as this element becomes in itself an independent end, claim- ing an independent validity, will the Chui'ch become corrupt and UTational, and whenever the Church passes over to the pure faith of reason, it approximates to the kingdom of God. Upon this principle we may distinguish the true from the spm-ious service of the kingdom of God, religion from priest- craft. A dogma has worth alone in so far as it has a moral content. The apostle Paul himself would scarcely have given credit to the dicta of the creed of the Chm-ch without this moral faith. From the doctrine of the Trinity, e.g.^ taken literally, nothing actually practical can be derived. Whether we have to reverence in the Godhead three persons or ten makes no difference, if in both cases we have the same rules for our conduct of life. The Bible also, with its interpre- tation, must ba considered in a moral point of view. The records of revelation must be interpreted in a sense which ynW harmonize with the universal rules of the religion of reason. Reason is in religious things the highest interpreter of the Bible. This interpretation in reference to some texts may 300 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. seem forced, yet it must be preferred to an}- such literal in- terpretation as would contain nothing for morality, or per- haps go against every moral feeling. That such a moral signification ma}' always be found without ever entirel}- repu- diating the literal sense, results from the fact that the foun- dation for an ethical religion lay originally in the human reason. We need only to divest the representations of the Bible of their m3-thical dress (an attempt which Kant has himself made, by an ethical interpretation of some of the weightiest doctrines) , in order to attain for them a rational meaning which shall be universally valid. The historical ele- ment of the sacred books is in itself of no account. The maturer the reason becomes, the more it can hold fast for itself the moral sense, so much the more unnecessary will be the statutory institutions of the faith of the Church. The transition from the creed of the Church to the pure faith of reason is the approximation to the kingdom of God, to which, however, we can onl}- approach nearer and nearer in an infinite progress. The actual realization of the kingdom of God is the end of the world, the termination of histor}'. III. Critique of the Faculty of Judgment. — The con- ception of this science Kant gives in the following manner. The two faculties of the human mind hitherto considered were the faculty of knowledge and that of desire. It was proved in the Critique of Pure Reason^ that the understand- ing alone of the faculties of the mind possesses a priori constitutive principles of knowledge ; while the fact that in reference to the facult}' of desire the reason alone possesses a priori constitutive principles of action is shown in the Critique of Practical Reason. AYhether now the faculty of judgment., as the link between understanding and reason, can take its object — the feeling of pleasure and pain as the mean between cognition and desire — and furnish it a jjriori with principles which shall be constitutive and not simply regulative, is the problem with which the Critique of Judg- ment occupies itself. KANT. 301 I The facult}' of judgment is by virtue of its peculiar func- tion, the mean between the understanding as the faculty of conceptions, and the reason as the facult}' of principles. The speculative reason has taught us to consider the world as wholly subject to natural laws ; the practical reason had inferred for us a moral world, in which ever}' thing is deter- mined through freedom. There was thus a gulf between the kingdom of nature and that of freedom, which could not be passed unless the facult}' of judgment should furnish a con- ception which should unite the two sides. That it is entitled to do this lies in the very conception of the faculty of judg- ment. Since it is the faculty of conceiving the particular as contained under the universal, it thus refers the empirical manifoldness of nature to a supersensible, transcendental principle, which embraces in itself the ground for the unit}' of the manifold. The object of the faculty of judgment is, therefore, the conception of design in nature ; for design is nothing but the supersensuous unity which contains the ground for the actuality of an object. And since all design and every actualization of an end is connected with pleasure, we may farther explain the faculty of judgment by saying, that it contains the laws for the feeling of pleasure and pain. Conformity to design in nature can be represented either subjectively or objectively. In the first case I perceive pleasure and pain, immediately through the representation of an object, before I have formed a conception of it ; my delight, in this instance, can only be referred to a designed harmony of relation between the form of an object, and my faculty of beholding. The faculty of judgment viewed thus subjectively, is called the cpsthetic facility. In the second case, I form for myself at the outset a conception of the object, and then judge whether the form of the object corre- sponds to this conception. In oi'der to find a flower that is beautiful to my sense of vision, I do not need to have a con- ception of the flower ; but, if I would see design in the 302 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. flower, then a conception is necessary. The facult}' of judg- ment, viewed as capacity to judge of objective design, is called tlie teleolog iced facult >j. 1. Critique of the Esthetic Faculty of Jld(;3iext. (1) Analytic. — The anah'tic of the aesthetic faculty- of judg- ment is divided into two parts, the anah'tic of the beautiful, and the anal^'tic of the sublime. In order to discover what is required in order to judge an object to be beautiful, we must smsxlyze the judgments of taste, as the facult}' for deciding upon the beautiful, (a) In respect of quality', the beautiful is the object of a pure, uninterested satisfaction. This disinterestness enables us to distinguish between the satisfaction in the beautiful, and the satisfaction in the agreeable and the good. In the agreeable and the good I am interested ; my satisfaction in the agreea- ble is connected with a sensation of desire ; mj satisfaction in the good is, at the same time, a motive for ni}- will to actualize it. My satisfaction in the beautiful alone is with- out interest, (b) In respect of quantity, the beautiful is that which universally satisfies. In respect of the agreeable, eveiy one decides that his satisfaction in it is onlj' a personal one ; but when any one affirms of a picture, that it is beauti- ful, he expects that not onl}' he, but every one else, will also find it so. Nevertheless, these judgments of taste do not arise from conceptions ; their universal validit}' is therefore purel}' subjective. I do not judge that all the objects of a species are beautiful, but onl}' that a certain specific object will appear beautiful to eveiy beholder. All the judgments of taste are individual judgments, (c) In respect of rela- tion, that is beautiful in which we find the form of design, without representing to ourselves any specific end designed. (d) In respect of modalit}', that is beautiful which is recog- nized without a conception, as the object of a necessaiy sat- isfaction. Of ever}' representation, it is at least possible, that it ma}' awaken pleasure. The representation of the" agreeable actually awakens pleasure. The representation of KAKT. £03 the beautiful, on the other hand, awakens pleasure necessa- ril}'. The necessity' -which is conceived in an aesthetic judg- ment, is a necessity for the agreement of all in a judgment, which can be A'iewed as an example of a universal rule, though the rule itself cannot be stated. The subjective prin- ciple which lies at the basis of the judgment of taste, is therefore a common sense, which determines what is pleasing, and what displeasing, onl}' through feeling, and not through thought. The sublime is that which is absolutel}', or bej'ond all com- parison, great, compared with which ever}' thing else is small. But now in nature there is nothing than which there is not something greater. The absolutely great is onl}* the infinite, and the infinite is onl}' to be met with in ourselves, as idea. The sublime, therefore, is not properl}' found in nature, but is onl}' carried over to nature from our own minds. We call that sublime in nature which awakens within us the idea of the infinite. As in the beautiful there is prominent reference to quality, so, in the sublime, the most important element of all is quantit}' ; and this quantity is either magnitude of extension (the mathematically sublime), or magnitude of power (the dynamically sublime) . In the sublime there is a greater satisfaction in the formless than in form. The sub- lime excites a vigorous movement of the heart, and awakens pleasure only through pain, i.e., through the feeling that the energies of life are for the moment restrained. The satisfac- tion in the sublime is hence not so much a positive pleasure, but rather an amazement and awe, which may be called a negative pleasure. The elements for an aesthetic judgment of the sublime are the same as in the feeling of the beautiful, (o) In respect of quantity, that is sublime which is absolutely great, in comparison with which every thing else is small. The aesthetic estimate of gi'eatness does not lie, however, in enumeration, but in the simple intuition of the subject. The magnitude of an object, which the imagination attempts in vain to comprehend, implies a supersensible substratum, 304 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. which is great bej-ond all the measures of the sense, and to which the feeling of the sublime is properl}* related. It is not the object itself, as for example the surging sea, which is sublime, but rather the emotion in the mind of him who contemplates it. {h) In respect of qualit}', the sublime does not awaken pure pleasure, like the beautiful, but first pain, and through this, pleasure. The feeling of the insufficiency of our imagination, in the aesthetic estimate of magnitude, gives rise to pain ; but, on the other side, the consciousness of our independent reason in its superiority- to the imagina- tion, awakens pleasure. In this respect, therefore, that is sublime which immediatelj- pleases us, through its opposition to the interest of the sense, (c) In respect of relation, the subhme causes nature to appear as a power, indeed, but as one in reference to which we have the consciousness of supe- riorit}'. (d) In respect of modality-, the judgments concern- ing the sublime are as necessaril}' valid, as those in reference to the beautiful ; only with this difference, that our judgment of the sublime finds an entrance to some minds, with greater difficult}' than our judgment of the beautiful, since in order to perceive the sublime, culture, and developed moral ideas, are necessar3^ (2) Dialectic. — A dialectic of the sesthetic facult}' of judg- ment, like ever}' dialectic, is onl}' possible where we can meet with judgments which la}' claim to univei'sality a priori. For dialectic consists in the opposition of such judgments. The antinomy of the principles of taste rests upon the two oppo- site elements of the judgment of taste, viz., that it is purely subjectiA-e, and at the same time, lays claim to universal validity. Hence, the two commonplace sayings: "there is no disputing about taste," and " there is a contest of tastes." From these we have the following antinomy, (a) Thesis : the judgment of taste cannot be grounded on concei^tion, else might we dispute it. (h) Antithesis : the judgment of taste must be grounded on conception, else, notwithstanding its diversity, there could be no contest respecting it. — This KANT. 805 antinomy, sa3'S Kant, is, however, onty an apparent one, and disappears as soon as the two propositions are more accurately apprehended. Tlie thesis should be : the judg- ment of taste is not grounded upon a definite conception, and is not strictly demonstrable ; the antithesis should be : this judgment is grounded upon a conception, though an indefi- nite one, viz., upon the conception of a supersensible sub- stratum for the phenomenal. Thus apprehended, there is no longer any contradiction between the two propositions. In the conclusion of the investigation of the aesthetic faculty of judgment, we can now answer the question, whether the adaptation of things to our faculty of judgment (their beauty and sublimit}'), lies in the things themselves, or in us? Esthetic realism claims that the supreme cause of nature designed to produce things which should affect our imagina- tion, as beautiful and sublime ; and the organic forms of nature strongly support this view. But on the other hand, nature exhibits even in her merely mechanical forms, such a tendency to the beautiful, that we might believe that she could produce also the most beautiful organic forms through mechanism alone ; and that thus the design would lie not in nature, but in our mode of apprehension. This is the stand- point of idealism, upon which it becomes explicable how we can decide a priori in reference to beauty and sublimit}'. But the highest view of the sesthetical, is its use as a S3'mbol of moral good. Thus Kant makes the theory of taste, like religion, to be a corollary of ethics. 2. Critique of the Teleological Faculty of Judgment. — In the foregoing, we have considered the subjective oesthet- ical conformity to design in natural objects. But natural ob- jects stand to one another also in the relation of adaptation. This objective conformity to design is the object of the teleo- logical faculty of judgment. (1) Analytic of the Teleological Faculty of Judgment. — The analytic has to determine the kinds of objective adapta- tion. Objective, material conformity to design, is of two 20 306 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. kinds, external and internal. External conformit}- to de- sign is onl}' relative, since it simpl}* indicates a usefulness of one thing for another. Sand, for instance, which borders the sea shore, is of use in bearing pine forests. In order that animals can live upon the earth, the earth must produce nour- ishment for them, etc. These examples of external design show that here the design never belongs to the means in it- self, but onl}' accidentally'. We should never get a concep- tion of the sand by saying that it is a means for pine forests ; it is conceivable for itself, without an}' reference to the con- ception of design. The earth does not produce nourishment, because it is necessary' that men should dwell upon it. In brief, this external or relative conformity to design may be conceived as resulting from the mechanism of nature alone. Not so the inner adaptations, which show themselves promi- nently in the organic products of natm'e. In an organism, ever}' one of its parts is end, and ever}' one, means or instru- ment. In the process of generation, the natural product produces itself as species, in growth it appears as individual, and in the process of complete formation, every part of the individual develops itself. This natural organization cannot be explained from mechanical causes, but only through final causes, or teleologically. (2) Dialectic. — The dialectic of the teleological faculty of judgment, has to adjust this opposition between this mechan- ism of nature and teleology. On the one side we have the thesis : the production of all material things, according to sim- ple mechanical laws must be judged possible. On the other side we have the antithesis : certain products of material na- ture cannot be judged as possible, according to simple me- chanical laws, but demand the conception of design for their explanation. If these two maxims are posited as constitutive (objective) principles for the possibility of the objects them- selves, then do they contradict each other, but as simply reg- ulative (subjective) principles for the investigation of nature, they are not contradictory. Earlier systems treated the con- KANT. 307 ception of design in nature dogmatically, and either affirmed or denied its essential existence in nature. But we, conAdneed that teleology is onl}' a regulative principle, have nothing to do with the question whether an inner design belongs essen- tiall}' to nature or not, but we onl}' affirm that our faculty of judgment must look upon nature as designed. We envisage the conception of design in nature, but leave it wholl}- unde- cided whether to another understanding, which does not think discursively' like ours, nature ma}' not be understood, without any necessit}' for introducing this conception of design. Our understanding thinks discursively : it proceeds from the parts, and comprehends the whole as the product of its parts ; it cannot, therefore, conceive the organic products of nature, in which the whole is the ground and the prius of the parts, except from the point of view of the conception of design. If there were, on the other hand, an intuitive understanding, which could know the particular and the parts as co-deter- mined in the universal and the whole ; such an understanding might conceive the whole of nature under one principle, and would not need the conception of design. If Kant had thoroughlj' carried out this conception of an intuitive understanding as well as the conception of an im- manent design in nature, he would have overcome, in prin- ciple, the standpoint of subjective idealism, which he made numerous attempts, in his critique of the faculty of judgment, to break through ; but these ideas he onlj^ propounded, and left them to be positively carried out b}^ his successors. 308 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. SECTION XXXIX. TRANSITION TO THE POST-KANTIAN PHILOSOPHY. The Kantian philosoph}' soon gained in German}- an almost undisputed rule. The imposing boldness of its stand- point, the novelt}' of its results, the applicability of its princi- ples, the moral severity of its view of the world, and above all, the spirit of freedom and moral autononi}' which ap- l)eared in it, and which was so directl}" opposed to the efforts of that age, gained for it an assent as enthusiastic as it was extended. It aroused among the cultivated classes a wider interest and participation in philosophic pursuits, than had ever appeared in an equal degree among any people. In a short time it had drawn to itself a very numerous school : there were soon few German universities in which it had not had its talented representati^-es, while in every department of science and literature, especiall}" in theolog}" (it is the parent of theological rationalism) , and in natural rights, as also in belles-lettres (ASchiUer), it began to exert its influ- ence. Yet most of the writers who appeared in the Kantian school, confined themselves to an exposition or popular appli- cation of the docti'ine as Kant had stated it, and even the most talented and independent among the defenders and im- provers of the critical philosophy (e.g.,BeinJiolcl, 1758-1813 ; /Schulze, Beck, Fries, Krug, Bouterioeck) , onl}' attempted to give a firmer basis to the Kantian philosophy as the}' had received it, to obviate some of its wants and deficiencies, and to carry out the standpoint of transcendental idealism more purel}' and consistentl}'. Among those who carried out the Kantian philosoph}', onl}' two men, Fichte and Herhart, can be named, who' made by their actual advance an epoch in philosoph}' ; and among its opposers {e.g., Hamann, Her- der), only one, Jacobi, is of philosophic importance. These TRANSITION TO POST-KANTIAN PHILOSOPHY. 309 three philosophers must therefore be first considered. In order to a more accurate development of their principles, we preface a brief and general characterization of their relation to the Kantian philosophy. 1 . Dogmatism had been critically annihilated by Kant ; his Critictue of pure Reason had for its result the theoretical indemonstrableness of the three ideas of the reason, God, freedom, and immortality. True, these ideas which, from the standpoint of theoretical knowledge, had been thrust out, Kant had introduced again as postulates of the practical reason ; but as postulates, as only practical premises, the}' possess no theoretic certaint}^ and remain exposed to doubt. In order to do awa}' with this uncertainty, and this despair- ing of knowledge which had seemed to be the end of the Kantian philosophy, Jacobi, a younger cotemporary of Kant, placed himself upon the standpoint of philosophical faith in opposition to the standpoint of criticism. These highest ideas of the reason, the eternal and the divine, cannot indeed be reached and proved by means of demonstration ; but it is the very nature of the divine to be indemonstrable and un- attainable for the understanding. For attaining with cer- taint}' the highest, that which lies be3"ond the understanding, there is only one organ, viz., feeling. In feeling, therefore, in immediate knowledge, in faith, Jacobi thought he had found that certainty which Kant had sought in vain on the basis of discursive thinking. 2. While Jacobi stood in an antithetic relation to the Kan- tian philosoph}^, FicJite appears as its immediate consequence. The Kantian dualism, according to which the Ego, as theo- retic, is subjected to the external world, while as practical, it is its master, or, in other words, according to which the Ego stands related to the objective world, now receptively and again spontaneousl}', Fichte removed by emphasizing the primacy of the practical reason. He allowed the reason to be exclusively^ practical, as will alone, and spontaneity alone, and apprehended its theoretical and respective relation to the 310 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. objective world as only a circumscribed activity, as a limita- tion prescribed to itself by the reason. But for the reason, so far as it is practical, there is nothing objective except what itself produces. The will knows no heinrj but onh' an ought. Hence the objective being of truth is universally denied, and the thing-in-itself which is essentially unknown must fall away of itself as an empty shadow. " All that is, is the Ego," is the principle of the Fichtian S3stem, and represents at the same time subjective idealism in its consequence and completion. 3. While the subjective idealism of Fichte was carried out in the objective idealism of Schelling, and the absolute ideal- ism of Hegel, there arose cotemporaneousl}' with these systems a third offshoot of the Kantian criticism, viz., the philosophy of Herhart. Its relation to the Kantian philos- ophy was rather that of subjective origination than of objec- tive historical connection. It has no relation to historic continuity'', and holds an isolated position in the history of philosoph}'. Its general basis is Kantian, in so far as it takes for its problem a critical investigation of the subjective ex- perience. "We place it between Fichte and Schelling. SECTION XL. JACOBI. Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi was born at Diisseldorf in 1743. His father destined him for a merchant. After he had studied in Geneva and become intei-ested in philosoph}', he entered his father's mercantile establishment ; but after- wards abandoned this business, having been made chancellor of the exchequer and customs commissioner for Jiilich and Berg, and also privy councillor at Diisseldorf. In this city, JACOBI. 311 or at his neighboring estate of Pempelfort, he spent a great part of his hfe devoted to philosophy and his friends. In the year 1804 he was called to the newl3'-formed Academj' of Sciences in Munich. In 1807 he was chosen president of this institution, a post which he filled till his death in 1819. Ja- cob! had a rich intellect and an amiable character. Besides being a philosopher, he was also a poet and man of the world ; and hence we find in his philosophizing an absence of strict logical arrangement and precise expression of thought. His writings are no systematic whole, but are occasional treatises written " rhapsodically and in grasshopper gait," for the most part in the form of letters, dialogues, and romances. "It was never my purpose," he sa3's himself, "to set up a sys- tem for the schools. M3' writings have sprung from m}' inner- most life, and were only historicall}' consecutive. In a certain sense I did not make them Aoluntarily, but the}' were pro- duced under the influence of a higher and b}- me irresistible power." This want of an inner principle of classification and of a systematic arrangement, renders a development of Ja- cobi's philosoph}' not eas}'. It may best be represented under the following three points of view: 1. Jacobi's polemic against mediate knowledge. 2. His principle of immediate knowledge. 3. His relation to the cotemporaneous philoso- ph}', especiall}' to the Kantian criticism. 1 . Spinoza was the negative starting-point of Jacobi's phi- losophizing. In his work "0^ the Doctrine of Spinoza^ in Letters to Moses Mendelssohn" (1785), he directed public at- tention again to the almost wholly forgotten philosoph}' of Spinoza. The correspondence originated thus : Jacobi made the discover}' that Lessing was a Spinozist, and announces this to Mendelssohn. The latter will not believe it, and thence grew the farther histoiical and philosophical examina- tion. The positive philosophic views which Jacobi expounds in this treatise can be reduced to the following three princi- ples -. (1) Spinozism is fatalism and atheism. (2) Every method of philosophic demonstration leads to fatalism and 312 A HISTORY OF THILOSOrHY. atheism. (3) In order that we ma}" not fall into these, we must set a limit to demonstration, and recognize faith as the element of all human knowledge. (1) Spinozism is atheism, because, according to it, the cause of the world is not a person — is not a being working for an end, and endowed with reason and will — and hence is no God. It is fatalism, for, according to it, the human will regards itself only falsel}' as free. (2) This atheism and fatalism is, however, only the neces- sary consequence of all strictl}' demonstrative philosophizing. To conceive a thing, sa3"s Jacobi, is to refer it to its proxi- mate cause ; it is to find a possible for an actual, the condi- tion for a conditioned, the mediation for an immediate. We conceive only that which we can explain from another. Hence our conceiving moves in a chain of conditioned conditions, and this connection forms the mechanism of natm'e, in whose investigation our understanding has its immeasurable field. However far we may carry conception and demonstration, we must hold, in reference to ever}- oliject, to a still higher one which conditions it ; where this chain of the conditioned ceases, there do conception and demonstration also cease ; unless we give up demonstrating we can reach no infinite. If philosoph}' determines to apprehend the infinite with the finite understanding, then must it cause the divine to become finite ; and here is where eveiy preceding philosoph}' has been entangled ; and yet it is obviously absurd to attempt to discover the conditions of the unconditioned ; and make the absolutely necessary a possible, in order that we may be able to construe it. A God who could be proved is no God, for the ground of proof is exer above that which is to be proved ; the latter derives its whole reality from the former. If the existence of God should be proved, then God would be derived from a ground which were before and abo^'e him. Hence the paradox of Jacobi ; it is for the interest of science that there be no God, no supernatural and no extra or supra- mundane being. Only upon the condition that nature alone JACOBI. 313 is, and is therefore indepcndont and all in all, can science hope to gain its goal of perfection, and l)ecorae, like its object itself, all in all. Hence the result which Jacob! derives from the " Drama of the histor}' of philosoph}'" is this: "There is no other philosoph}' than that of vSpinoza. He who con- siders all the works and acts of men to be the effect of natural mechanism, and who believes that intelligence is but an accompanying consciousness, which has only to act the part of a looker-on, cannot be contended with and cannot be helped ; he must be let alone. No philosophical conclusion can reach him, for what he denies cannot be philosophically proved, and what he proves cannot be philosophically de- nied." Whence then is help to come? " The understanding, taken b}' itself, is materialistic and irrational ; it denies spirit and God. The reason taken b^- itself is idealistic, and has nothing to do with the understanding ; it denies nature and makes itself God." (3) Hence we must seek another way of knowing the supersensible, which is faith. Jacobi calls this flight from cognition through conception to faith, the salto mortale of the human reason. Every certainty through a conception demands another certaint}-, but in faith we are led to an immediate certaint}' which needs no ground nor proof, and which is in fact absolutely exclusive of all proof. Such a confidence which does not arise from arguments, is called faith. We know the sensible as well as the supersensible only through faith. All human knowledge springs from reve- lation and faith. These principles which Jacobi brought out in his letters concerning Spinoza, did not fail to arouse a universal oppo- sition in the German philosophical world. It was charged upon him that he was an eneni}' of reason, a preacher of blind faith, a despiser of science and of philosoph}', a fanatic and a papist. To rebut these attacks, and to justif)' his standpoint, he wrote in 1787, a year and a half after the first appearance of the work already named, his dialogue entitled 314 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. " David Hume on FaitJi, or Idealism and Realism " in which he develops more extensively and definitel}' his principle of faith or immediate knowledge. 2. Jacobi distinguished his faith at the outset from a blind belief in authority'. A blind faith is one which supports it- self on the authority of another, instead of on the grounds of reason. But this is not the case with his faith, which rather rests upon the inner necessity' felt b}^ the subject itself. Still farther : his faith is not arbitrary imagination : we can imagine to ourselves ever}'^ possible thing, but in order to regard a thing as actual, there must be an inexplicable neces- sity of our feeling, for which we have no other name than faith. Jacobi was not consistent in his terminology, and hence did not always express himself alike in respect of the relation in which this faith stood to the different sides of the human faculty of knowledge. In his earlier terminology he jjlaced faith (or as he also called it, the faculty' of faith) , on the side of the sense or the receptivity as opposed to the understanding and the reason, taking these two terms as equiA'^alent expressions for the finite and mediate knowledge of previous philosoph}' ; afterwards he followed Kant, and, distinguishing between the reason and the understanding, he called that reason which he had previously named sense and faith. According to him now, the faith or intuition of the reason is the organ for perceiving the supersensible. As such, it stands opposed to the understanding. There must be a higher faculty which can learn, in a way inconceivable to sense and the understanding, that which is true in and above phenomena. Over against the explaining understand- ing stands the reason, or the natural faith of the reason, which does not explain, but positively reveals and uncon- ditionall}^ decides. As there is an intuition of the sense, so is there a rational intuition through the reason, and a demon- stration has no more validit}^ in respect of the latter than in respect of the former. Jacobi justifies his use of the term, intuition of the reason, from the want of any other suitable JACOB!. 315 designation. Language has no other expression to indicate the wa}' in wliicli that, wliich is unattainable to tlie sense, becomes apprehended in the transcendental feeling. If any one affirms that he knows an^' thing, he may proper]}" be required to state the origin of his knowledge, and in doing this, he must of necessity go back either to sensation or to feeling ; the latter stands above the former as high as the human species above the brute. So I affirm, then, without hesitation, sa^'s Jacobi, that my philosophy starts from pure objective feeling, and declares the authorit}^ of this to be supreme. The faculty of feeling is the highest in man, and that alone which specificall}' distinguishes him from the brute. This facultj' is identical with reason ; or, reason ma^' be said to find in it its single and onl}- starting-point. Jacobi had the clearest consciousness of the opposition in which he stood, with this principle of immediate knowledge, to previous philosophy. In his introduction to his complete works, he sa^'S : "There had arisen since the time of Aris- totle an increasing effort in philosophical schools, to subject immediate knowledge to mediate, to make that faculty of perception which is the original ground of ever}- thing, de- pendent on the faculty of reflection, which is conditioned through abstraction ; to subordinate the archet3i:)e to the copy, the essence to the word, the reason to the understand- ing, and, in fact, to make the former wholly disappear in the latter. Nothing is allowed to be true w^hich is not capable of a double demonstration, in the intuition and in the con- ception, in the thing and in its image or word ; the thing itself, it is said, must truly lie and actuall}' be known only in the word." But every philosoph}' which admits onh' the reflecting reason, must lose itself at length in an utter igno- rance. Its end is nihilism. 3. From what has been already' said, the attitude of Jaco- bi's principle of faith, toward the Kantian philosoph}', can, partly at least, be seen. Jacobi had explained himself in reference to this philosophy, partly in the above-named dia- 316 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. logue '■'■David Hume" (especially in an appendix to this, in which he discussed the transcendental Idealism) , and partly in his essa}^ " 0?i the Attempt of Criticism to bring the Reason to the Understanding" (1801). His relation to it ma}' be reduced to the following three general points : ( 1 ) Jacobi does not agree with Kant's theorj' of sensuous knowledge. In opposition to this theory he defends the stand- point of empiricism, affirms the truthfulness of the sense-per- ception, and denies the apriorit}' of space and time, for which Kant contends in order to prove that objects as well as their relations are simpl}^ determinations of our own self, and do not at all exist cxternaDy to us. For, however much it may l)e afth-med that there is something corresponding to om- no- tions as their cause, yet does it remain concealed what this something is. According to Kant, the laws of our beholding and thinking are without objective validity, our knowledge has no objective significance. But it is wrong to claim that in the phenomena there is nothing revealed of the hidden truth which lies behind them. With such a claim, it were far better to give up completel}' the unknown thing-in-itself, and caxvy out to its results the consequent idealism. " Logi- call}', Kant is at fault, when he presupposes objects which make impressions on our soul. He is bound to teach the strictest idealism." (2) Yet Jacobi essentially agrees with Kant's critique of the understanding. Jacobi affirmed, as Kant had done, that the understanding is insufficient to know the suj^ersensible, and that the highest ideas of the reason can be apprehended onl}' by faith. Jacobi places Kant's great merit in having cleared awa}' the ideas, which were simply- the products of reflection and logical phantasms. "It is ver}- easj' for the understanding, when producing notions of notions from no- tions, and thus graduall}' mounting up to ideas, to imagine that, b}' virtue of these, which, though the}' cany it beyond the intuitions of the sense, are nothing but logical phantasms, it has not only the power to transcend the world of sense. JACOBI. 317 and to gain b}' its flight a higher science independent of in- tuition, a science of the supersensible, but that this tran- scendence is its most pecuhar function. Kant discovers and destro^'s tliis error and self-deception. Thus there is gained, at least, a clear place for a genuine rationalism. This is Kant's trul}' great achievement, his immortal merit. But the sound sense of our sage did not allow him to hide from himself that this clear place must be transformed into a gulf, which would swallow up in itself aU knowledge of the true, unless a God should be found to prevent it. Here Kant's doctrine and mine meet." (3) But Jacobi does not fuU}^ agree with Kant, in wholl}' denying to the theoretical reason the capacity' for objective knowledge. He blames Kant for complaining that the human reason cannot theoreticall}" prove the reality of its ideas. He affirms that Kant is thus still entangled in the delusion, that the onl}' reason why these ideas cannot be proved, is found not in the nature of the ideas themselves, but in the deficient nature of our faculties. Kant therefore attempts to seek, in the practical application of reason, a kind of scientific proof; a roundabout wa}', which, to every profound investigator, must seem folly, since ever}' proof is as impossible as it is unnecessarj'. Jacobi agreed better with Kant than with the post- Kantian philosoph}'. The pantheistic tendency of the latter was especially repulsive to him. "To Kant, that profound thinker and upright philosopher, the words God, freedom, immortalit}', and religion, signified the same as the}' have ever done to the sound human understanding ; he never uses them deceptively. He caused off'ence b}' irresistibl}' showing the insuflficienc}' of all proofs of speculative philosoph}' for these ideas. That which was wanting in the theoretical proof, he supplied by the necessary postulates of a pu,re practical rea- son. With these, according to Kant's assurance, philosophy was full}' helped out of her difficulty, and the goal, which had been always missed, actually reached. But the first daughter 318 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. of the critical philosoph}- (Fichte's s^'stem) makes the living and working moral order itself to be God, a God expressly declared to be without consciousness and self-existence. These frank words, spoken publicl}' and without restraint, roused some attention, but the excitement soon subsided. Presently astonishment ceased wholly, for the second daugh- ter of the critical philosophy (Schelling's S3'stem) gave up entirely' the distinction which the first had allowed to remain between natural and moral philosoph}', necessit}' and freedom, and without any further ado affirmed that the only existence is nature, and that there is nothing above ; this second daughter is Spinozism transfigured and reversed, an ideal materialism." This latter allusion to Schelling, connected as it was with other and harder thrusts in the same essa}', called out from this philosopher the well-known answer : " Schelling's Memo- rial of the Treatise on Divine Things, 1812." If we now take a critical survey of the philosophical stand- point of Jacobi, we shall find its peculiarit}^ to consist in the abstract separation of understanding and feeling. These two Jacobi could not bring into harmou}-. " There is light in m}' heart," he sa3's, " but it goes out whenever I attempt to bring it into the understanding. Which of these two is the true luminary-? That of the understanding, which, though it re- veals fixed forms, shows behind them onl}' a bottomless gulf? Or that of the heart, which sends its rays promisingly up- wards, though determinate knowledge escapes it? Can the human spirit grasp the truth imless it possesses these two luminaries united in one light ? And is this union conceivable except through a miracle ? " If now, in order to escape in a certain degree this contradiction between undei'standing and feeling, Jacobi gave to immediate knowledge the place of mediate (finite) knowledge, he was self-deceived. Even that knowledge, which is supposed to be immediate, and which Jacobi regards as the peculiar organ for knowing the super- sensible, is also mediate, the result of a course of subjective mediations, and can only claim to be immediate when it wholl}' forgets its own origin. FICHTE. 319 SECTION XLI. FICHTE. JoHANN Gottlieb Fichte was born at Rammenau, in Upper Lusatia, 1762. A nobleman of Silesia became in- terested in the boy, and placed him first under the instruction of a clergyman, and afterwards at the high school at Schulp- forte. In his eighteenth year, at Michaelmas, ] 780, Fichte entered the university at Jena to study theology. He soon found himself attracted to philosophy, and became powerfully affected by the study of Spinoza. His pecuniary circum- stances were straightened, but this only served to harden his will and his energy. During the year 1784, and subsequent- ly, he was employed as a teacher in various families in Sax- ony. In 1787 he sought a place as country clerg^Tuan, but was refused on account of his religious opinions. He was now obliged to leave his fatherland, to which he clung with his whole soul. He repaired to Zurich, where, in 1788, he accepted a position as private tutor, and where also he be- came acquainted with his future wife, a niece of Klopstock. At Easter, 1790, he returned to Saxony and taught privately at Leipsic, where he became acquainted with the Kantian philosophy, by means of lessons which he was obliged to give to a student. In the spring of 1791 we find him as private tutor at Warsaw, and soon after in Konigsberg, where he resorted, that he might become personally acquainted with the Kant he had learned to revere. Instead of a letter of recom- mendation he presented him his " Critique of all Revelation- s' treatise which he composed in four weeks. In this he attempted to deduce, from the practical reason, the possibility of a revelation. This deduction is not purely a priori, but is limited by an empirical condition, viz., that humanity must be considered to be in a moral ruin so complete, that 320 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. the moral law has lost all its influence upon the will and all morality is extinguished. In such a case it might be expected that God, as moral governor oftlic woiid, would give to men, through the sense, some pure moral impulses, and reveal him- self to them as lawgiver through a special manifestation deter- mined for this end, in the world of sense. In such a case a. particular revelation would be a postulate of the practical reason. Fichte sought also to determine a priori the possible content of such a revelation. Since we need to know nothing but God, freedom, and immortalit}*, the revelation will con- tain naught but these, and these it must contain in a compre- hensible form, 3et so that the s^'mbolical dress ma}' lay no claim to unlimited veneration. This treatise, which appeared anon3mousl3' in 1792, at once attracted the greatest atten- tion, and was at first universall}' regarded as a work of Kant. It procured for its author, soon after, a call to the chair of philosoph}' at Jena, to succeed Reinhold, who then went to Kiel. Fichte received this appointment in 1793 at Zurich, where he had gone to consummate his marriage. At the same time he wrote and published, also anon^moush', his '•^ Aids to correct Vietvs of the French Revolution" an essa}' which the governments never looked upon with favor. At Easter, 1794, he entered upon his new office, and soon saw his public call confirmed. Taking now a new standpoint, which transcended Kant, he sought to establish it, and carry it out in a series of writings (the Wissenschciftslehre appeared in 1794, the Naturrecht in 179G, and the Sittenlehre in 1798), by which he exerted a powerful influence upon the scientific movement in Germany, aided as he was in this b}' the fact that Jena was then one of the most flourishing of the German universities, and the resort of all energetic minds. AVith Goethe, Schiller, the brothers Schlegel, William von Hum- boldt and Hufeland, Fichte was in close fellowship, though this was unfortunately' broken after a few years. In 1795 he became associate editor of the ^'^ Philosojjhical Journal" which had been established b}- Niethammer. A fellow-laborer, riCHTE. 321 rector Forberg, of Saalfekl, offered for publication in this journal an article "on the determination of the conception of religion." Fiehte advised the author not to publish it, but at length inserted it in the journal, prefacing it, however, with an introduction of his own, " On the gi'ouiicl of our faith in a divine government of the icorld" in which he endeavored to remove, or at least soften, the views in the article which might give offence. Both the essays raised a great cry of atheism. The elector of Saxon}' confiscated the journal in his territory, and sent a requisition to the Ernestine Dukes, who held in common the university of Jena, to summon the author to trial and punishment. Fiehte answered the edict of confiscation and attempted to justify himself to the public (1799), by his " ylp^ea? to the Public. An essay ivhich it is requested may be read before it is confiscated" ; while he de- fended his course to the government by an article entitled " The Publishers of the Philosophical Journal justified from the Charge of Atheism." The government of Weimar, being as anxious to spare him as it was to please the elector of Saxony, delayed its decision. But as Fiehte, either with or without reason, had privatel}' learned that the whole matter was to be settled by reprimanding the accused parties for their want of caution ; and, desiring either a civil acquittal or an open and proper satisfaction, he wrote a private letter to a member of the government, in which he desired his dis- mission in case of a reprimand, and which he closed with the intimation that many of his friends would leave the universit}' with him, in order to establish together a new one in Ger- man}'. The government regarded this letter as an applica- tion for his discharge, indirectl}' declaring that the reprimand was unavoidable. Fiehte, now an object of suspicion, both on account of his religious and political views, looked about him in vain for a place of refuge. The prince of Rudolstadt, to whom he turned, denied him his protection, and his arrival in Berlin (1799) attracted great notice. In Berlin, where he had much intercourse with Frederick Schlegel, and also with 21 322 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. Schleiermacher and Novalis, his views became gradually modified ; the catastrophe at Jena had led him from the exclusive moral standpoint which he, resting upon Kant, had hitherto held, to the sphere of religion ; he now sought to reconcile religion with his standpoint of the Wissenschaftslehre, and turned himself to a certain mj-sticism (the second form of the Fichtian theory). After he had privatel}' taught a number of 3'ears in Berlin, and had also held philosophical .lectures for men of culture, he was recommended (1805) by Beyme and Altenstein to the chancellor of state, Hardenberg, for a professorship of philosoph}' in Erlangen, an appointment which he received together with a permit to return to Berlin in the winter, and hold there his philosophical lectures before the public. Thus, in the winter of 1807-8, while a French marshal was governor of Berlin, and while his voice was often drowned b}^ tlie hostile tumults of the enem}" through the streets, he delivered his famous ^'■Addresses to the German Nation." Fielite labored most assiduously' for the foundation of the Berlin university, for only through a complete trans- formation of the system of education did he believe the re- generation of German}' could be secured. "When the new university was opened 1809, he was made in the first year dean of the philosophical faculty, and in the second was in- vested with the dignit}' of rector. In the " war of liberation," then breaking out, Fichte took a most active part both in word and deed. His wife had contracted a nervous fever b}' her care of the sick and wounded, and though she recovered, he fell a victim to the same disease. He died Jan. 28, 1814, not having 3'et completed his fifty-second 3'ear. In the following exposition of Fichte's philosoph}', we dis- tinguish between the two internall}- different periods of his philosophizing, that of Jena and that of Berlin. The first division will include two parts — Fichte's theor}^ of knowl- edge and his practical philosophy. I. The Fichtian Philosophy ix its Original Form. 1. The Theoretical Philosophy of Fichte, his Wissen- FICHTE. 323 SCHAFTSLEHRE, OR THEORY OF KNOWLEDGE. — It lias already' been shown (Sect. XXXIX.) that the thorough-going subjec- tive idealism of Fichte was oul^- the logical consequence of the Kantian standpoint. It was whoU}' unavoidable that Fichte should eutirel}' reject the Kantian thing-in-itself, which Kant had himself declared to be incognizable though real, and that he should posit as a proper act of the mind, that external influence which Kant had referred to the tliing-in- itself. That the Ego alone is, and that what we regard as a limitation of the Ego b}' external objects, is rather the proper self-limitation of the Ego, — this is the grand feature of the Fichtian idealism. Fichte himself supported the standpoint of his Theory of Knowledge as follows : In ever}' perception there are given conjointl}' an Ego and a thing, the intelligence and its object. Which of these two sides must be reduced to the other ? If the philosopher abstracts the Ego, he has remaining a thing-in- itself, and must then apprehend his representations or sensa- tions as the products of this object ; if he abstracts the object, he has remaining au Ego-in-itself. The former is the basis of dogmatism, the latter of idealism. Both are irreconcilable •with each other, and there is no third possible. We must therefore choose between the two. In order to decide be- tween the two systems, we must note the following: (1) That the Ego appears in consciousness, while on the other hand the thing-in-itself is a pure invention, since in conscious- ness we have onl}' that which is perceived ; (2) Dogmatism accounts for the origin of representations b}' assuming an object- 171- itself; it starts from something which does not lie in the consciousness. But the effect of being is onl}' being, and not representation. Hence idealism alone can be correct which does not start from being, but from intelligence. Ac- cording to idealism, intelligence is onl}' active, not passive, because it is a first and absolute : and on this account there belongs to it no being, but simpl}' an activit}'. The forms of this activity, the system of the necessary modes of intellectuaJ 324 A HTSTOrvY OF PHILOSOPHY. activity must be deduced from the essential nature of intelli- gence. If we should take the laws of intelligence from ex- perience, as Kant did his categories, we would err in two re- spects : ( 1 ) in so far as it is not shown wh}- intelligence must so act, nor whether these laws are immanent laws of intelli- gence ; (2) in so far as it is not shown how the object itself originates. Hence the fundamental principles of intelligence, as well as the objective world, must be derived from the Ego itself. V Ficlite supposed that in these results he only expressed the true sense of the Kantian philosophy. "Whatever ni}' sys- tem may properl}' be, whether the genuine criticism thoroughl}' carried out, as I believe it is, or howsocA'er it be named, is of no account." His system, Fichte affirms, had the same view of the matter as Kant's, while the numerous followers of this latter philosopher had wholl}' mistaken and misundei'stood their master's idealism. In the second introduction to the Theor}' of Knowledge (1797), Fichte grants to these ex- pounders of the Critique of Pure Reason that it contains some passages where Kant would affirm that sensations must be given to the subject from without as the material condi- tions of objective reality ; but shows that the Innumerabl}' repeated declarations of the Critique, that there can be no discussion whatever in reference to the influence upon us of a real transcendental object outside of us, cannot at all be reconciled with these passages, if any thing other than a mere thought be understood as the ground of sensations. "So long," adds Fichte, "as Kant does not expressly de- clare that he derives sensations from an impression of a thing- in-itself, or, to use his terminology, that sensation must be explained from a transcendental object existing externall}' to us : so long will I not believe what these expounders tell us of Kant. But if he should give such an explanation, I should regard the Critique of Pure Reason as a work of chance rather than of design." For such an explanation the aged Kant did not sutfer him long to wait. In the Intelligenzhlatt der AUgemeinen Litteraturzeitung (1799), he formally', and FICHTE. 325 VA'ith much emphasis, rejects the Fichtian improvement of his s^'stem, and protests against every interpretation of his writings in accordance with an arbitrary- theory of what he intended to sa^', and maintains tlie literal interpretation of his theory as laid down in tlie Critique of Reason. Reinlrold remarks upon all this: "Since the well known and public explanation of Kant respecting Fichte's philosophy, there can be no longer a doubt that Kant himself would represent his own s3-stem, and desire to have it represented b}' his readers, entirely otherwise than Fichte has represented and interpreted it. But from this it indisputaljly follows, that Kant himself did not regard his system as illogical because it presupposed something external to subjectivity. Nevertheless, it does not at all follow that Fichte erred when he declared that this sys- tem, with such a presupposition, must be illogical." So much for Reinhold. That Kant himself did not fail to see this want of logical consistenc}', is evident from the changes he introduced into the second edition of the Critique of Pure Reason, where he suffered the idealistic side of his system to fall back decidedly behind the empirical. From what has been said, we can see the general stand- point of the Theory of Knowledge ; the Ego is made princi- ple, and from the Ego every thing else is derived. It hardly needs to be remarked, that b}- this Ego we are to understand, not any individual, liut the universal Ego, the universal ra- tionality, Egoliood (Ichheit) and the individual, the pure and the empirical Ego, are wholly different conceptions. We have still to premise the following concerning the form of the Theory of Knoioledge. A theory of knowledge, according to Fichte, must posit some supreme principle, from which every other must be derived. This supreme principle must be absolutely, and through itself, certain. If our human knowledge is to be coherent, a system, there must be such a supreme principle. But now, since such a principle does not admit of proof, we must determine its validit}- by experiment. Its test and demonstration can only be thus gained, viz., if 326 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. we find a principle to •whicli all knowledge may be referred, then is this shown to be a fundamental principle. But be- sides the first fundamental principle, there are jet two others to be considered, the one of which is unconditioned as to its content, but as to its form, conditioned through and derived from the first fundamental principle ; the other the reverse. Finally', these two principles are so related that though each is the opposite of the other, a third principle can be formed from their union. Hence, according to this plan and the pre- ceding exposition, the first absolute principle starts from the Ego, the second opposes to the Ego a thing or a non-Ego, and the third brings forward the Ego again in reaction against the thing or the non-Ego. This method of Fichte (thesis, — antithesis, — sj'nthesis) like that of Hegel, is a combination of the synthetical and analytical methods. Fichte lias the merit of having brought the fundamental con- ceptions of philosophy into determinate connection, and de- duced them from a common point, instead of taking them, as did Kant, merely empirically and placing them in juxtaposi- tion. We start with a fundamental sj'nthesis, from which through analysis we deduce two opposites, which are again united by another more definite synthesis. But in this second synthesis, analysis discovers still farther antitheses, which obliges us therefore to find another synthesis, and so onward in the process, till we come at length to antitheses which can no longer be perfectly but only approximately united. We stand now upon the threshold of the Theory of Knowl- edge. It is divided into three parts. (1) General principles of a theory of knowledge. (2) Principles of theoretical knowledge. (3) Principles of practical (ethical) science. As has alreadj'been said, there are three supreme fundamen- tal principles, one absolutely unconditioned, and two rela- tively unconditioned. (1) The absolutely Jirst and absolutely xmconditioned fan- dartiental principle ought to express that act of the mind which lies at the basis of all consciousness, and alone makes con- FICHTE. 327 sciousness possible. Such is tlie principle of iclentit}', A = A. This principle remains, and cannot be thought awa}', though every empirical determination be removed. It is a fact of consciousness, and must, therefore, be universally' admitted : but at the same time it is by no means conditioned, like every other empirical fact, but unconditioned, because it is a free act. By affirming that this principle is certain Avithout any farther ground, we ascribe to ourselves the facultj' of positing something absolutel}'. We do not, therefore, affirm that A is, but only that if A is, it is. It is no matter now about the content of the principle, we need only regard its form. The principle A = A is, therefore, conditioned (hypo- theticall}') as to its content, and unconditioned only as to its form and its connection. If we would now have a principle unconditioned in its content as well as in its connection, we put Ego in the place of A, as we are fully entitled to do, since the connection of subject and predicate contained in the judgment A = A is posited in the Ego, and through the Ego. Hence A = A becomes transformed into Ego = Ego. This principle is unconditioned not only as to its connection, but also as to its content. While we could not, instead of A = A, say that A is, yet we can, instead of Ego = Ego, say I am. All the facts of the empirical consciousness find their ground of explanation in this, viz., that befoi'e any thing else is posited in the Ego, the Ego itself is given. This fact, that the Ego is absolutel}' posited and grounded on itself, is the basis of all activit}- in the human mind, and shows the pure character of acti^'it}- in itself. The Ego is, because it posits itself, and it is only because this simple positing of itself is wholly through itself. The being of the Ego is thus seen in the positing of the Ego, and on the other hand, the Ego is enabled to posit simpl}- by ^artue of its being. It is at the same time the acting, and the product of the action. I am, is the expression of the only possible original act. Logically considered we have, in the first principle of a theor}' of knowledge, A = A, the logical law of identity. Erom the 828 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. proposition A = A, we arrive at the proposition Ego = Ego. The latter proposition, however, does not derive its vahdity from the former, but contrar3-wise. The ^jrnts of all judg- ment is the Ego, which posits the connection of subject and predicate. The logical law of identity* arises, therefore, from Ego = Ego. Metaph3'sicalh' considered, we have in this same first principle of a theor}' of knowledge, the cate- gory' of reality. We obtain this categor}' by abstracting every- thing from the content, and reflecting simply upon the mode of action of the human mind. From the P>go, as the abso- lute subject, ever}' category is derived. (2) The second fundamental irrbiciple^ conditioned in its content, and only unconditioned in its form, which is just as incapable as the first of demonstration or derivation, is also a fact of the empirical consciousness : it is the proposition non-A is not = A. This proposition is unconditioned in its form, because it is a free act like the first, from which it can- not be derived ; but in its content, as to its matter it is con- ditioned, because if a non-A is posited, there must have previously been posited an A. Let us examine this principle more closelj'. In the first principle, A = A, the form of the act was a positing, while in this second principle it is an op- positing. There is an absolute opposition, and this opposi- tion, in its simple form, is an act absolutely' possible, standing under no condition, limited by no higher ground. But as to its matter, the opposition (antithesis) presupposes a position (thesis) ; the non-A cannot be posited without the A. AYhat non-A is, I do not through this contraposition itself ye\ know : I onl}' know concerning non-A that it is the opposite of A : hence I onl}' know what non-A is under the condition that I know A. But A is posited through the Ego ; there is originall}' nothing posited but the Ego, and nothing but this absolutel}' posited. Hence there can be an absolute opposi- tion onl}' to the Ego. That which is opposed to the Ego is the non-Ego. A non-Ego is absolutely opposed to the Ego, and this is the second fact of the empirical consciousness ncHTE. 329 In ever}- thing ascribed to the Ego, the contrar}-, by virtue of this simple opposition, must be ascribed to the non-Ego. — As we obtained from the first principle Ego = Ego, the logi- cal law of identit}', so now we have, from the second proposi- tion, Ego is not = non-Ego, the logical law of contradiction. And metaph^-sicallj, — if we wholly abstract the particular judgment concerned, and consider simply- the form of infer- ence from opposited being to not-being, — we obtain from this second principle the category- of negation. (3) The third principle., conditioned in its form, is almost capable of proof, since it is determined by two others. At each step we approach the province where every thing can be proved. This third principle is conditioned in its form, and unconditioned onlj' in its content: i.e., the problem, but not the solution of the act to be established through it, has been given through the two preceding principles. The solution is afforded unconditionally and absolutel}- by an arbitrary deci- sion of the reason. The problem to be solved by this third principle is this, viz., to adjust the contradiction contained in the other two. On the one side, the Ego is wholly suppressed by the non-Ego : there can be no positing of the Ego so far as the non-Ego is posited. On the other side, the non-Ego is only in the Ego, posited in the consciousness, and hence the Ego is not suppressed by the non-Ego : the Ego is both sup- pressed and not suppressed. Such a result would be non-A = A. In order to remove this contradiction, which threatens to destroy the identity' of our consciousness, which is the only absolute foundation of our knowledge, we must find an x which will justif)' both of the first two principles, and leave tiie identity of our consciousness undisturbed. The two op- posites, the Ego and the non-Ego, are to be united in the consciousness, are to be alike posited without either excluding the other ; the}' are to be received in the identity' of the proper consciousness. How shall being and not-being, realit}' and negation, be conceived together without destroying each other? They must reciprocally limit each other. Hence the 530 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. unknown quantity x^ which we are seeking, stands for these limits : Hmitation is the sought-for act of the Ego ; or if con- ceived as a categor}', it is the category of determination or limitation. But in limitation, there is also given the category- of quantity^ for when we sa}' that any thing is limited, we mean that its realit}' is through negation, not ivholly, but onl^' par- tially suppressed. Thus the conception of limit contains also the conception of divisibility and of quantitabilit}' in general, besides the con- ceptions of reality and negation. Through the act of limita- tion, the Ego, as well as the non-Ego, is posited as divisible. Still farther, we see how a logical law follows from the third fundamental principle as well as from the first two. If we abstract the definite content, the Ego and the non-Ego, and leave remaining the simple form of the union of opposites through the conception of divisibility, we have then the logi- cal principle of the ground or sufficient reason., which ma}' be expressed in the formula : A in part = non-A, non-A in part = A. Wherever two opposites are alike in one character- istic, we consider the ground to be a ground of relation, and wherever two similar things are opposite in one character- istic, we consider the ground to be a ground of distinction. — With these three principles we have now exhausted the measure of that which is unconditioned and absolutel}' cer- tain. We can embrace the three in the following formula : 1 posit in the Ego a divisible non-Ego over cigainst the divisible Ego. No philosoph}' can go be^'ond this cognition, and every well-grounded philosophy should go back to this. Just so far as it does this, it becomes science ( Wissenschafts- lehre) . Ever}' thing which can appear in a s^'stem of knowl- edge, as well as a farther division of the Theory of Knowledge itself, must be derived from this. The proposition that the Ego and non-Ego reciprocally limit each other, may be divid- ed into the following two : (1) the Ego posits itself as limited through the non-Ego {i.e.., the Ego apprehends itself as cog- nitive or passive) ; (2) the Ego posits the non-Ego as Imiit- ncHTE, 331 ed through the Ego (i.e., the Ego apprehends itself as active). The former proposition is tlie basis of tlie theoretical, and the latter of the practical part of the Theory of Knoidedge. The latter part cannot, at the outset, be brought upon the stage; for the non-Ego, which is to be limited by the activity- of the Ego, does not at the outset exist, and we must wait and see whether it will find, in the theoretical part, a realit}'. The elementary principles of theoretical knoivleclge are de- veloped through an uninterrupted series of antitheses and syntheses. The fundamental S3nithesis of the theoretical part of the Theory of Knowledge is the proposition : the Ego posits itself as determined {limited) by the non-Ego. If we analyze this proposition, we find in it two subordinate propo- sitions which are reciprocally opposed. (1) The non-Ego as active determines the Ego, which to this extent is passive ; but since all activity- must originate with the Ego, (2) the Ego determines itself through an absolute activity. Herein is a contradiction, that the Ego should be at the same time active and passive. Since this contradiction would destroy the above principle, and also suppress the unity of conscious- ness, we are forced to seek some point, some new synthesis, in which these given antitheses may be united. This S3'ntlie- sis is attained when we find that the conceptions of action and passion, which are contained under the categories of reality and negation, find their compensation and due adjust- ment in the conception of divisibility'. The propositions : "the Ego determines," and "the Ego is determined," are reconciled in the proposition : " the Ego determines itself in part, and is determined in part." Both, however, should he considered as one and the same. Hence more accuratel}' : as man}' parts of reality- as the P^go posits in itself, so many parts of negation does it posit in the non-Ego ; and as many parts of realit}' as the Ego posits in the non-Ego, so many parts of negation does it posit in itself. This determination is reciproccd determination, or reciproccd action. Thus Ficlite deduces the last of the thi'ee categories under Kant's general 332 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. category of relation. In a similar way (viz., b}' a s^'nthesis of previously discovered contradictories), he deduces the two other categories of this class, viz., that of cause, and that of substance. The process is as follows : So far as the Ego is determined, and therefore passive, the non-Ego has reality. The category of reciprocal determination, to which we ma^' ascribe indifferently either of the two sides, realit}' or nega- tion, may, more strictly taken, imply that the Ego is passive, and the non-Ego active. The notion which expresses this relation is that of causality. That to which activitj' is ascribed, is called cause (primal reality), and that to which passivity is ascribed, is called effect ; both, conceived in con- nection, may be termed an operation or action. On the other side, the Ego determines itself. Herein is a contradiction ; ^(1) i\\Q. Y^go determines itself; it is therefore that which de- termines, and is thus active ; (2) it determines itself; it is therefore that which is determined, and is thus passive. Thus in one respect and in one action both realit}' and negation are ascribed to it. To resolve this contradiction, we must find a mode of action which is activity' and passivity' in one ; the Ego must determine its passivit}' through activity, and its activit}' through passivity. This solution is attained by aid of the conception of quantity. In the Ego all reality is first of all posited as absolute quantum, as absolute totality, and thus far the Ego may be compared to a great circle. A defi- nite quantum of activity, or a limited sphere within this great circle of activity, is indeed a reality ; but when compared with the totality of activity, is it also a negation of the totalit}* or passivity. Here we have found the mediation sought for ; it lies in the notion of substance. In so far as the Ego is con- sidered as the whole circumference, embracing the totality of all realities, is it substance ; but so far as it becomes pos- ited in a determinate sphere of this circle, is it accidental. No accidence is conceivable without substance ; for, in order to know that au}' thing is a definite realit}', it must fii'st be referred to reality in general, or to substance. In ever^' FICHTE. 333 change we think of substance in the universal ; accidence is something specific (determinate) , which changes with every changing cause. There is originally hut one substance, the Ego; in this one substance all possible accidents, and there- fore all possible realities, are posited. The Ego alone is the absolutely infinite. The intellectual and practical actiA'it}' of tlie Ego implies limitation. The Fichtian theory is accord- ingl}' Spinozisra, onl}' (as Jacobi strikingly called it) a re- versed and idealistic Spinozism. Let us look back a moment. The objectivity which Kant had allowed to exist Fichte has destroyed. There is oiily the Ego. But the Ego presupposes a non-Ego, and therefore a kind of object. How the Ego comes to posit such an ob- ject, the theoretical theor}- of knowledge must now proceed to show. There are two extreme views respecting the relation of the A/' Ego to the non-Ego, according as we start from the concep- tion of cause, or that of substance. (1) Starting from the conception of causality, we have posited through the passiv- it}' of the Ego an activity' of the non-Ego. This passivit}' of the Ego must have some ground. This cannot lie in the Ego, which in itself posits onl}^ activity. Consequent!}' it lies in the non-Ego. Here the distinction between action and passion is apprehended, not simpl}- as quantitative {i.e., viewing tlie passivit}' as a diminished activity) , but the passion is in qualit}' opposed to the action ; a presupposed activity of the non-Ego is, therefore, a real ground of the passiveness in the Ego. (2) Starting from the conception of substance, we have posited a passivit}' of the Ego througli its own activity. Here the passivity in I'espect of qualit}' is the same as activit}', it being only a diminished activit}'. AVhile, therefore, according to the first view, the passive Ego has a ground distinct in qualit}' from the Ego, and thus a real ground, yet here its gi'ound is onl}' a diminished activit}' of the Ego, distinct only in quantit}' from the Ego, and is thus an ideal ground. The former view is dogmatic realism, 334 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. the latter is dogmatic idealism. The latter affirms : all real- itj' of the non-Ego is only a realit}' given it from the Ego ; the former declares : nothing can be given, unless there be something to receive, unless an independent realit}' of the non-Ego, as thing-in-itself, be presupposed. Both views present thus a contradiction, which can onl}' be removed by a new S3'nthesis. Fichte attempted this S3'nthesis of idealism and realism, b}' bringing out a mediating s^'stem of critical idealism. For this pin-pose he sought to show that the ideal ground and the real ground are one and the same. Neither is the simple activity of the Ego a ground for the realit}' of tlie non-Ego, nor is the simple activity of the non-Ego a ground for the passiveness in the Ego. Both must be con- ceived together in this w^ay, viz., the activity- of the Ego meets a hindrance^ which is set up against it, not without some assistance of the Ego, and w^iich circumscribes and re- flects back upon itself this activit}' of the Ego. The hind- rance consists in tliis, that the subjective can be no farther extended, and the expanding activity of the Ego is driven back into itself, producing as its result self-limitation. What we call objects are nothing other than the different impacts of the activity of the Ego on some incomprehensible hind- rance, and these determinations of the Ego, ^ve cany over to something external to ourselves, and represent them to our- selves as space-filling matter. That which Fichte calls a hindrance through the non-Ego, is thus in fact the same that Kant calls thing-in-itself, the onl}' difference being that with Fichte it is made subjective. From this point Fichte then deduces the subjective activities of the Ego, wdiich mediate, or seek to mediate, theoretically, the Ego wath the non-Ego — as imagination, representation (sensation, intuition, feel- ing) , understanding, facult}- of judgment, reason, — and in connection "with these the subjective projections of intuition, space and time. We have now reached the third part of the Theory of Knoivledge, viz., the foundation of the practical. We have FICHTE. 335 apprehended the Ego as a representing iutelligenee. But that it represents does not depend upon the Ego alone, but is determined by something external to it. We could in no way conceive of a representation, except through the presupposi- tion that the P^go finds some hindrance to its undetermined and unlimited activit3^ Accordingly- the Ego, as intelligence, is universally dependent upon an indefinite, and hitherto wholly indefinable non-Ego, and outy through and b}- means of such non-Ego, is it intelligence. These limits, however, must be broken thi'ough. The Ego, according to all its de- terminations, should be posited absolutely' through itself, and hence should be whoU}' independent of ever}' possible non- Ego. But in so far as it is an intelligence it is finite, depen- dent. Consequentl}', the absolute Ego and the intelligent Ego, both of which should constitute but one, are opposed to each other. This contradiction is obviated, when we see that because tlie absolute Ego is capable of no passivit}', but is absolute activity, therefore the Ego determines, through itself, that hitherto unknown non-Ego, to which the hindrance has been ascribed. The limits which the Ego, as theoretic, has set over against itself in the non-Ego, it must, as practical, seek to destro}', and absorb again the uoil-Ego into itself (or conceive it as the self-limitation of the Ego) . The Kantian primacy of the practical reason is here made a truth. The transition of the theoretical part to the practical, the neces- sity of advancing from the one to the other, Fichte represents more precisel}- thus : The theoretical part of the Theory of Knowledge had to do with the mediation of the Ego, and the non-Ego. For this end it introduced one connecting link after another, without ever attaining its end. Then enters the reason with the absolute and decisive word : ' ' there ought to be no non-Ego, since the non-Ego can in no way be united with the Ego ; " and with this the knot is cut, though not untied. Thus it is the incongruit}- between the absolute (practical) Ego, and the finite (intelligent) Ego, which is carried over beyond the theoretical province into the practical. 336 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. True, this incongruity does not wholly disappear, even in the practical province, where activity is onh' an infinite striving to surpass the limits of the non-Ego. The Ego, so far as it is practical, has, indeed, the tendency to pass beyond the actual world, and establish an ideal world such as would exist were every realit}' posited b}- the absolute Ego ; but this striving is always confined to the finite parti}' through itself, because it goes out towards objects, and objects are finite, and parti}' because the conscious self-positing of the Ego re- mains always confined b}' a non-Ego opposed to it and hm- iting its activity. We ought to seek to reach the infinite, but we cannot do it ; this striving and inabilit}' is the impress of our destiny for eternit}'. Thus — and in these words Fichte brings together the re- sult of the Theory of Knoioledge — the whole being of finite rational natures is comprehended and exhausted : an original idea of our absolute being ; an effort to reflect upon our- selves, in accordance with this idea ; a limitation, not of this striving, but of our own existence, which first becomes actual through this limitation, through an opposite principle, a non- Ego, or, in general, through our finiteness ; a self-conscious- ness, and especiall}' a consciousness of our practical strivings ; a determination accordingl}' of our representations, and through these of our actions ; a constant widening of our limits into the infinite. yj 2. Fichte's Practical Philosophy. — The principles which Fichte had developed in his Theory of Knowledge he applied to practical life, especiall}' to the theoiy of rights and morals. He sought to deduce here eveiy thing with methodical rigid- ness, without admitting any unreasoned facts of experience. Thus, in the theor}' of rights and of morals, he will not pre- suppose a plurality of persons, but first deduces this : even that man has a bod}' is first demonstrated, though, to be sure, not stringently. The Theory of Rights (natural rights) Fichte founds upon the conception of the individual. First, he deduces the con- FICHTE. 337 ception of rights as follows : A finite rational being cannot posit itself withont ascribing to itself a free activity. Through this assertion of its capacity for free activit}', a rational being posits an external world of sense, for it can ascribe to itself no activit}^ till it has posited an object towards which this ac- tivity' ma}' be directed. Still farther, this free activit}' of a rational being presupposes other rational beings, for without these it would never be conscious that it was free. We have therefore a pluralit}' of free individuals, each one of whom has a sphere of free activity'. This co-existence of free indi- viduals is not possible without a relation of rights. Since through his own free determination no one passes beyond his sphere, and each one therefore limits himself, they recognize each other as rational and free. This relation of a reciprocal action through intelligence and freedom between rational be- ings, according to which each one has his freedom limited by the conception of the possibilit}' of the other's freedom, under the condition also that this other limits his own freedom also through' that of the first, is called a relation of right. The supreme maxim of a theor}' of rights is therefore this : limit \ th}' freedom through the conception of the freedom of ever}' «: other person with whom thou canst be connected. After Fichte has attempted the application of this conception of rights, and for this end has deduced the corporeit}-, the an- thropological side of man, he passes over to a proper theory of rights. The theory of rights may be divided into three parts : (1) Rights which spring from the pure conception of personalit}' are called original rights. Original right is the absolute right of a person to be only a cause in the sensuous world, i.e., absolutel}' not an eftect. In this are contained, (a) the right of personal (bodil}') freedom, and (b) the right of property. But every relation of rights between individual persons is conditioned through each one's recognition of the rights of the other. Each one must limit the quantum of his free acts for the sake of the freedom of the other, and only so far as the other has respect to ni}' freedom need I have 22 338 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. regard to his. In case, thei-efore, the other docs not respect my original rights, some mechanical necessit}- must be sought in order to secure the rights of person, and this involves (2) the right of coercion. The laws of punishmont have their end in securing tliat tlic opposite of that which is intended shall follow every unrigliteous aim, that ever}- vicious purpose shall be destroyed, and the right in its integrit}- be estab- lished. To establish such a law of coercion, and to secure a universal coercive power, the free individuals must enter into covenant among themselves. Such a covenant is only possible on the ground of a common nature. Natural right, i.e., the rightful relation between man and man, presup- poses thus (3) a civil right, viz., (a) a free covenant, a compact of citizens by which the free individuals guarantee to each other their reciprocal rights ; (h) positive laws, a civil legislation, through which the common will of all becomes law ; (c) an executive, a civil power which executes the com- mon will, and in which, thei'efore, the private will and the common will are S3'nthetically united. The ultimate view of Fichte's theory of rights is this : on the one side there is the state such as reason demands (philosophical theor}' of rights) , and on the other side the state as it actuall}' is (theoiy of positive rights and of the state) . But now comes up the problem, to make the actual state ever more and more con- formable to the rational state. The science which has this approximation for its aim, is politics. We can demand of no actual state a perfect conformity to tlie idea of a state. Every state constitution is according to right, if it onlj' leaves possible an advancement to a better state, and the onl}^ con- stitution wholly contrary to right is that whose end is to hold every thing just as it is. The absolute Ego of the Theory of Knowledge is separated in the theor}' of rights into an infinite number of persons endowed with rights : to bring it out again in its unit}' is the problem of ethics. Right and morals are essentially differ- ent. Right is the external necessit}' to omit or to do some- FICHTE. 339 thing ill order not to infringe upon the freedom of another ; the inner necessit}' to do or omit something wholh' independ- ent of external ends, constitutes the moral nature of man. And as the theory of rights arose from the conflict of the impulse of freedom in one subject with the impulse of freedom in another suliject, so does the theory of morals or ethics arise from such a conflict, which, in the present case, is not external but internal, between two impulses in one and the same person. (1) The rational being is impelled towards absolute independence, and strives after freedom for the sake of freedom. This fundamental impulse maj' be called the pure impulse, and it furnishes the formal principle of ethics, the principle of absolute autonomy', of absolute iudetermiua- bleness through an}' thing external to the Ego. But (2) as the rational being is actually empirical and finite, as it b}' nature posits over against itself a non-Ego and posits itself as corporeal, so there is found beside the pure impulse an- other, the impulse of nature (instinct) which takes for its end not freedom but enjoyment. This impulse of nature fur- nishes the material, utilitarian (eudoemonistic) principle of striving after pleasure for the sake of pleasure. These two impulses seem to annihilate each other ; but from a transcen- dental point of view the}- are one and the same primitive Impulse of human nature. For even the instinct of self- presem^ation is an expression of the effort of the Ego after self-activity, and it cannot be repressed. If these natural instincts should be destroyed, all conscious action, all definite activity, would perish. Both impulses are, therefore, to be united in such a waj' that the natural shall be subordinated to the pure. This union can occm* onl}' in an act, which in content (matter) is based, as is the natural impulse, upon the sensuous world, but in its ultimate aim, like the pure im- pulse, endeavors to bring about a complete separation from the world of sense. The problem is neither a purely negative withdrawal from the world of objects, in order that the Ego may attain a purely independent existence, nor a struggle for 340 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. happiness ; but a positive act in the sensuous world through Avhich the p]go shall become ever freer, and its power over the non-Ego, the supremac}' of reason over nature, shall be more and more fully realized. Tliis effort to act freely in order to become more free, is the ethical impulse, and it is formed from the union of the pure and the natural impulse. The ultimate aim of moral action, however, lies in infinitude ; it can never be attained, since the Ego can never be com- pletely freed from all limitation, so long as it remains intelli- gence, self-conscious personality. The nature of a moral act is consequentl}' to be defined thus : all action must constitute a series of acts in the prosecution of which the Ego can see itself approximating to absolute independence. Everj' act must be a term of this series : there are no indifferent acts. Our moral vocation is to be ever engaged in actions which belong to this series. The principle of morals is, there foi'e : Ahvays fulfil your vocation ! On its formal, subjective side it is essential to moral activity', that it should be an intelli- gent, free, rational activit}' : be free in all that 3'ou do in order to become free ! We ought to follow neither the pure nor the natural impulse, blindly. We should act onl}' with the clear consciousness tliat what we do relates to our voca- tion or duty. We must do our duty for its own sake. The blind impulses of uncorrupted instinct, sympath}', pit}', hu- manit}', etc., do indeed, by virtue of the original identit}' of pure and instinctive impulse, promote the same ends as the former. But as mere natural impulses they have no ethical character. The ethical impulse possesses causalit}' in a wa}' which seems to indicate the lack of it, for it bids us, — he free. Only through free activity in accordance with the idea of abso- lute duty is a reasonable being absolutely independent ; only action from a sense of duty manifests pure rationality. The formal condition of the morality of our actions is : act always according to the conviction of thy duty ; or, act according to thy conscience. The absolute criterion of the correctness of our conviction of duty is a feeling of truth and certaint}'. FICHTE. 341 This immediate feeling never deceives, for it onl}- exists with the perfect harmon}' of our empirical Ego with that which is pm-e and original. From this point Fichte develops his par- ticular ethics, or theory of duties, which, however, we must here pass by. Fichte's theory of religion is developed in the above-men- tioned treatise: '•'•On the Ground of our Faith in a Divine Government of the World" and in the writings which he sub- sequentl}' put forth in its defence. The moral government of the world, sa^'s Fichte, we assume to be the Deity. This divine government becomes living and actual in us through right-doing : it is presupposed in every one of our actions which are only performed in the presupposition that the moral end is attainable in the world of sense. The faith in such an oi'der of the world comprises the whole of faith, for this living and active moral order is God ; we need no other God, and can comprehend no other. There is no ground in the reason to go outside of this moral order of the world, and by concluding from design to a designer, affirm a separate being as its cause. Is, then, this order an accidental one? It is the absolute First of all objective knowledge. But now if 30U should be alloM^ed to draw the conclusion that there is a God as a separate being, what have 3'ou gained b}' this ? This being should be distinct from you and the world ; it should work in the latter according to conceptions ; it should, there- fore, be capable of conceptions, and possess personality and consciousness. But what do you call personality and con- sciousness ? Certainly that which 3'ou have found in 3'ourself, which you have learned to know in yourself, and which 3'ou have characterized b}- that name. But that you cannot con- ceive of this without limitation and finiteness, 30U might see b3' the slightest attention to the construction of this concep- tion. 63^ attaching, therefore, such a predicate to this being, 3'ou bring it down to a finite, and make it a being like 3'our- self ; 3'ou have not conceived God as you intended to do, but have onl3' multiplied 3-ourself in thought. The conception of 342 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY, God, as a separate substance, is impossible and contradictoiy. God has essential existence only as such a moral order of the world. Ever}- belief in a divine being, which contains any- thing more than the conception of the moral order of the world, is an abomination to me, and in the highest degree unworthy of a rational being. — Religion and morality- are, on this standpoint, as on that of Kant, naturall}- one ; both are an apprehending of the supersensible, the former through action and the latter through faith. This " Religion of joyous right-doing," Fichte farther carried out in the writings which he put forth to rebut the charge of atheism. He affirms that nothing but the principles of the new philosoph}- can restore the degenerate religious sense among men, and bring to light the inner essence of the Christian doctrine. He seeks to show this especially in his "appeal" to the public. In this he sa^-s : to furnish an answer to the questions, what is good? what is true? is the aim of my philosophical system. We must start with the affirmation that there is something abso- lutel}^ true and good ; that there is something which can hold and bind the free flight of thought. There is a voice in man which cannot be silenced, which affirms that there is a duty, and that it must be done simply for its own sake. Resting on this basis, there is opened to us an entirel}- new world in our being ; we attain a higher existence, which is independent of all nature, and is grounded simply- in ourselves. I would call this absolute self-satisfaction of the reason, this perfect freedom from all dependence, blessedness. As the single but unerring means of blessedness, my conscience points me to the fulfilment of dut}-. I am, therefore, impressed b}- the unshaken conviction, that there is a rule and fixed order, ac- cording to which the purely- moral disposition necessarilj' produces blessedness. It is absolutel}- necessary-, and it is the essential element in religion, that the man who would maintain the dignit}- of his reason, should repose on the faith in this order of a moral world, should regard each one of his duties as an enactment of this order, and jo3'full3- submit FICHTE. 343 himself to, and find bliss in, eA'ery consequence of his dut}-. Thou shalt know God if thou canst onl}' beget in thyself a dutiful character, and though to others of us thou mayest seem to be still in the world of sense, 3'et for thyself art thou already a partaker of eternal life. II. The later form of Fichte's Philosophy. — Every thing of importance which Fichte accomplished as a specula- tive philosopher, is contained in the Theory of Knowledge as above considered. Subsequently, after his departure from Jena, his sj'stem gradually became modified, and from differ- ent causes. Partly, because it was difficult to maintain the rigid idealism of the Theory of Knovdedge ; partly, because Schelling's natural philosoph}', which now appeared, was not without an influence upon Fichte's thinking, though the latter denied this and became involved in a bitter controversy with Schelling ; and, partly, his outward relations, which were far from being happ}', contributed to modif}' his view of the world. Fichte's writings, in this second period, are for the most part popular, and intended for a mixed class of read- ers. The}' all bear the impress of his acute mind, and of his exalted manly character, but lack the originality and the scientific sequence of his earlier productions. Those of them which are scientific do not satisfy the demands which he him- self had previously laid down with so much strictness, both for himself and others, in respect of genetic construction and philosophical method. His doctrine at this time seems rather a web of his old subjective idealistic conceptions and the newly added objective idealism, so loosely connected that Schelling might call it the completest syncretism and eclecti- cism. His new standpoint is chiefly distinguished from his old b}^ his attempt to merge his subjective idealism into an objective pantheism (with many points of resemblance to Neo-Platonism) , to transmute the Ego of his earlier philoso- phy into the absolute, or the thought of God. God, whose conception he had formerly placed onl}' at the end of his s3-s- tem, in the doubtful form of a moral order of the world, be- 344 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. comes to him now the absohite beginning, and single element of his philosophy. Tliis gives to his philosophy an entirely new color. Moral severit}' giA'es place to a religious mild- ness ; instead of the Ego and the Ought, life and love are now the chief features of his philosoph}^ ; in place of the exact dialectic of the Theory of Knowledge^ he now makes choice of mistical and metaphorical modes of expression. This second period of Fichte's philosoph}' is especially characterized by its inclination to religion and Christianity, as exhibited most prominently in the essay '•'•Direction to a Blessed Life." Fichte here affirms that his new doctrine is exactly that of Christianity, and especiall}' of the Gospel according to John. He would make this gospel alone the clear foundation of Christian truth, since the other apostles remained half Jews after their conversion, and adhered to the fundamental error of Judaism, that the world had a creation in time. Fichte la^s great weight upon the first part of John's prologue, where the formation of the world out of nothing is confuted, and a true view laid down of a revelation co-eternal with God, and necessarily given with his being. That which this prologue sa3's of the incarnation of the Logos in the person of Jesus, has, according to Fichte, onl}^ a his- toric validity. The absolute and eternally true standpoint is, that at all times, and in ever^' one, without exception, who is vitallj' sensible of his union with God, and who actuall}^ and in fact yields up his whole individual life to the divine life within him, — the eternal word becomes flesh in the same way as in Jesus Christ, and holds a personal, sensible, and human existence. The whole communion of believers, the first-born alike with the later born, coincides in the Godhead, the com- mon source of life for all. And so then, Christianitj' having gained its end, disappears again in the eternal truth, and affirms that every man should come to a union with God. So long as man desires to be himself any thing whatsoever, (xod does not come to him, for no man can become God. But just as soon as he purely, wlioU}', and radically' g\\c% up HERBAET. . 345 himself, God alone remains, and is all and in all. Man can- not make for himself a God, but he can give up himself as a proper negation, and thus he disappears in God. The result of his advanced philosophizing, Fichte has briefly and clearly comprehended in the following lines, which we extract from two posthumous sonnets : — The perennial One Lives in my life and seeth in my siglit. God only is — and God is nought but life I And yet thou knowest and I know with thee. If such a thing as knowing then can be, Must it not be a knowing of God's life? " Gladly to His mij life I would resign: But oh! how find it? If 'tis ever brought Into my knowing, it becomes a thought, Clad with thought's garb like other thoughts of mine." The obstacle, my friend, is very clear, It is thy self. Whate'er can die, resign, And God alone will hence breathe in thy breath. Note well what may survive this partial death, Then shall the hull to thee as hull appear. And thou shalt see unveiled the life divine.* SECTION XLII. HEEBAET. A PECULIAR, and in many respects noticeable, development of the Kantian philosophy, was attempted by Johann Fried- rich Herbart, who was born at Oldenburg in 1776, chosen professor of philosophy' in Gottingen in 1805 ; made Kant's successor at Konigsberg in 1808, and recalled to Gottingen ♦ From the translation of A. E. Kroeger. The lines here given include the last two lines of the second, and the whole of the third, of Fichte's sonnets. — B. E. S. 346 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. in 1833, where he died in 1841. His philosoph}', instead of taking, like most other systems, for its principle, an idea of the reason, followed the direction of Kant, and expended it- self mainly in a critical examination of subjective experi- ence. It is essentiall}' a criticism, but wnth results which are peculiar, and M^hich differ wholly from those of Kant. Its position in the history' of philosophy is from the very nature of its fundamental principle an isolated one ; instead of re- garding antecedent systems as elements of a true philosophy, it looks upon almost all of them as failures. It is especially hostile to the Post-Kantian German philosoph}', and most of all to Schelling's philosophy of nature, in which it could onl}^ l)ehold a phantasm and a delusion ; sooner than come in con- tact with this, it would join Hegelianism, of which it is the opposite pole. We will give a brief exposition of its prom- inent thoughts. 1 . The Basis and Starting-point of Philosophy is, according to Herbart, the common view of things, or a knowledge which accords with experience. A philosophical system is in real- ity nothing but an attempt b}" which some one thinker strives to solve certain questions which present themselves to him. Ever}' question in philosoph}' should relate singl}' and solely to that which is given, and must arise from this source alone, because there is for man no original field of certainty', other than experience. Every philosophy should begin with it. Thought should yield itself to experience, which should lead it, and not be led by it. Experience, therefore, is the onl}' o1)ject and basis of philosophy ; that Avhich is not given can- not be an object of thought, and it is impossible to establish any knowledge which transcends the limits of experience. 2. Though the material furnished by experience is the basis of philosophy, 3'et, since it is furnished (given ready- formed) it stands outside of philosophy. The question arises, what is the first act or beginning of philosophy? Thought should first separate itself from experience, that it may clearly Gee the difificulties of its undertaking. The beginning of phi- HEEBAET. 347 losophy^ where thought rises above that which is given, is accordingly' doubt or scepticism. Scepticism is twofold, a lower and a higher. The lower scepticism simpl^^ doubts that things are so constituted as they appear to us to be ; the higher scepticism passes beyond the form of the phenomenon, and inquires whether in reality any thing there exists. It doubts, e.g.^ the succession in time; it asks in reference to the forms of the objects of nature which exhibit design, whether the design is perceived, or only attached to them in thought, etc. Thus the problems which form the content of metaphysic, are gradually brought out. The result of scep- ticism is therefore not negative, but positive. Doubt is noth- ing but the thinking of those conceptions of experience which are the material of philosophy. Through this reflection, scep- ticism leads us to the knowledge that these conceptions of experience, though the}' refer to something given, yet contain no content that is conceivable, i.e., free from logical incon- gruities. 3. Remodelling of the conceptions of experience. — Meta- physic, according to Herbart, is the science of that which is intelligible in experience. Our view thus far has been a two- fold one. On the one side we hold fast to the opinion that the sole basis of philosophy is experience, and on the other side scepticism has shaken the credibility of experience. The point now is to transform this scepticism into a definite knowledge of metaph^'sical problems. Conceptions from ex- perience crowd upon us, which are incogitable, i.e., they may indeed be thought by the ordinar}' understanding, but this thinking is obscure and confused, and does not separate nor compare opposing characteristics. But acute thought, logi- cal analysis, will find in the conceptions of experience {e.g.., space, time, becoming, motion, etc.), contradictions, totall}' inconsistent characteristics. What now is to be done ? We may not reject these conceptions, for they are given, and be3'ond the given we cannot step ; we cannot retain them, for they are inconceivable and cannot logically be established. 348 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. The only wa}' of escape which remains to us is to remodel them. To remodel the conceptions of experience^ to eliminate their contradictions, is the proper act of speculation. Scep- ticism has brought to liglit the more definite problems which involve a contradiction, and whose solution it therefore be- longs to metaph3-sics to attempt ; the most important of these are the problems of inherence, change, and the Ego. The relation between Herbart and Hegel is very clear at tliis point. Both are agreed respecting the contradictory nature of the determinations of thought, and the conceptions of experience. But from this point they diverge. It is the nature of these conceptions as of everj' thing, sajs Hegel, to be an inner contradiction ; becoming, for instance, is essen- tially the unit}' of being, and not being, etc. This is im- l)ossible, says Herbart, on the other hand, so long as the principle of contradiction is valid ^ if the conceptions of expe- rience contain inner contradictions, this is not the fault of the objective world, but of the representing snbject who must rectify his false apprehension b}^ remodelling these concep- tions, and eliminating the contradiction. Herbart thus charges the philosophy of Hegel with empiricism, because it receives from experience these contradictory conceptions unchanged, and not onlj- regards these as established, but even goes so far as to metamorphose logic on their account, and this sim- ply because the}' are given in experience, though their con- tradictor}- nature is clearly seen. Hegel and Herbart stand related to each other as Heraclitus and Parmenides (c/. Sects. VI. and VII.). 4. From this point Herbart attains his " reals " as follows : The discovery of contradictions, he says, in all our concep- tions of experience, might lead us to absolute scepticism, and to despair of the truth. But here we remember that if the existence of ever}' thing roul be denied, then phenomena, sen- sation, representation, and thought itself would be destro3'ed. We ma}', therefore, assume that the indications of reality in- crease with the increase of appearance. AVe cannot, indeed, HERBART. 349 ascribe to the given an}' true and essential being per se ; it is not i^er se alone, but only on, or in, or through something other. True being is an absolute being, which as such excludes all relativity and dependence ; it is absolute jwsition^ which it is not for us first to posit, but only to recognize. In so far as this being is attributed to any thing, this latter possesses realit}'. True being is, therefore, ever a quale, a something which is considered as being. In order now that this posited may correspond to the conditions which lie in the conception of absolute position, the ivhat of the real must be thought (a) as absolutel}' positive or affirmative, i.e., without au}- nega- tion or limitation, which might destroy its absoluteness ; {b) as absolutel}' simple, i.e., in no wa}', as a multiplicit}' or ad- mitting of inner antitheses ; (c) as undetermined by an}' con- ceptions of magnitude, i.e., not as a quantum which ma}' be divided and extended in time and space ; hence, also, not as a continuous magnitude or continuity. But we must never forget that this being or this absolute reality is not sim])!}' something thought, but is something independent and resting on itself, and hence it is simply to be recognized by thought. The conception of this being lies at the basis of all Herbart's metaphysic. Take an example of this. The first problem to be solved in metaphysics is the problem of inherence, or the thing with its qualities. Every perceptible thing presents itself to the senses as a complex of several characteristics. But all the attributes of a thing which ai'e given in perception are relative. We say, e.g., that sound is a property of a cer- tain body. It sounds — but it cannot do this without air; what now becomes of this property in a space without air ? Again, we say that a body is heavy, but it is so only on the earth. Or again, that a body is colored, but light is neces- sary for this ; what now becomes of such a property in dark- ness ? Still farther, a multiplicity of properties is incompati- ble with the unity of an object. If you ask tvhat is this thing, you are answered with the sum of its characteristics ; it is soft, white, full-sounding, heavy, — but your question was of 350 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. one, not of man}'. The answer only affirms what the thing has, not what it is. Moreover, the list of characteristics is always incomplete. The what of a thing can therefore lie neither in the individual given properties, nor in their unity. In determining Avliat a thing is, we have only this answer re- maining, viz., the thing is that unknown, which we must posit before we can posit any thing as Ij'ing in the given properties ; in a word, it is the substance. For if, in order to see what the thing purely and essentiall}' is, Ave take away the charac- teristics which it ma}' have, we find that nothing more remains, and we perceive that what we considered as the real thing was only a complex of characteristics, and the union of these in one whole. But since every appearance indicates a definite reality, and since there must be as much reality as there is appearance, we have to consider the reality, which lies at the basis of the thing with its qualities, as a complex of many simple substances or monads, and whose quality is diflferent in different instances. When our experience has led us to a repeated grouping together of these monads, we call the group a thing. Let us now briefly look at that modification of the fundamental conceptions of metaph}'sic which is in- volved in this fundamental conception of reality. First, there is the conception of causality, which cannot be main- tained in its ordinary form. All that we can perceive in the act is succession in time, and not the necessary connection of cause with effect. The cause itself can be neither transcen- dent nor immanent ; it cannot be transcendent, because a real influence of one real thing upon another, contradicts the con- ception of absolute realit}' ; nor immanent, for then the sub- stance must be thought as one with its qualities, which con- tradicts the results of the investigation concerning a thing with its qualities. We can just as little find in the conception of the real an answer to the question, how one determinate being can be brought into contact with another, for the real is the absolute unchangeable. We can therefore onl}' explain the conception of causality on the ground that the different HERBART. 351 reals which lie at the basis of the characteristics are con- ceived, each one for itself, as cause of the phenomenon, there being just as many causes as there are phenomena. The problem of change is intimatel}' connected with the concep- tion of cause. Since, however, according to Herbart, there is no inner change, no self-determination, no becoming and no life ; since the monads are, and remain in themselves un- changeable, the}' do not become different in respect of qualit}', but thej' are originally different one from another, and each one exhibits its Cjuality without ever an}' change. The problem of change can thus onl}' be solved through the theory of the disturl^ances and self-preservations of these essences. But if that which we call not simply an apparent but an actual event, in the essence of the monads, ma}- be reduced to a " self-preservation," as the last gleam of activity and life, still we have the question ever remaining, how to explain the appearance of change. For this it is necessar}- to bring in two auxiliar}' conceptions ; first, that of accidental views, and second, that of intellectual spaces. The accidental views, an expression taken from mathematics, signify, in reference to the problem before us this much, viz., one and the same conception ma}' often be considered in very diff"er- ent relations to different essences without the slightest change in its own nature, e.g., a straight line may be considered as radius or as tangent, and a tone as harmonious or discordant. By help of these accidental views, we may now regard that which actually results in the monad, when other monads, op- posite in quality, come in contact with it, as on the one side an actual occurrence, though on the other side, no actual change can be imputed to the original condition of the mo- nads (a gray color, e.g., seems comparatively white by the side of black, and comparatively black by the side of white, without changing at all its quality) . A further auxiliary con- ception is that of intellectual space, which arises when we must consider these essences together as well as not together. By means of this conception we can eliminate the contradic- 352 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. tions from the conception of movement. Lastl}', it can be seen that the conception of matter and that of the Ego (in psychologically explaining which, the rest of the metaph3sic is occupied) are, like the preceding ones, no less contradic- tory in themselves than they are irreconcilable with the fun- damental conception of the real ; for neither can an extended being, like matter, be formed out of spaceless monads, — and with matter, thei-efore, fall also the ordinar}' (apparent) con- ceptions of space and time, — nor can we admit, without transformation, the conception of the Ego, since it exhibits the contradictor}' conception of a thing with man}' and chang- ing qualities (conditions, powers, faculties, &c.). We are reminded by Herbart's '■'■reals" of the theor}' of the atomists (cf. Sect. IX. 2), of the Eleatic theory of being (c/. Sect. VI.), and of Leibnitz's monadolog}'. His reals how- ever are distinguished from the atoms by not possessing im- penetrabilit}'. The monads of Herbart may be just as well conceived in the same space as a mathematical point ma}' be conceived as co-existing with another in the same place. In this respect the ' ' real " of Herbart has a far greater similarity to the "one" of the Eleatics. Both are shnple, and to be conceived in intellectual spaces, but the essential difference is, that Herbart's substances are not only numerically distinct but are even opposed in quality. Herbart's simple quantities have already been compared to the monads of Leibnitz ; but these latter have essentially a power of representation ; they are beings watli inner states, while, according to Herbart, representation belongs to the real itself just as little as every other state. 5. The Philosophy of Nature and Psychology are connected with metaphysic. In the first he shows how the most impor- tant phenomena of nature, attraction, repulsion, chemical affln- ity, etc., are explicable through his metaphysic, and through it alone. The second treats of the soul, but first of all of the Ego. The Ego is primarily a metaphysical problem, since it involves contradictions. It is also a psychological problem, HERB ART. 353 since its origination is to be explained. We must, therefore, first consider those contradictions wliich are involved in tlie identity of subject and ol)ject. The sul)jeet posits itself and is therefore itself object. Bat this posited object is nothing other than the positing subject. Thus the Ego is, as Fichte sa3'S, subject-object, and, as such, full of the hardest contra- dictions, for subject and object can never be aflirmed as one and the same without conti'adiction. But now since the Ego is given it cannot be rejected, but must be purified from its contradictions. This occurs whenever the Ego is conceived as that which represents, and the different sensations, thoughts, &c., are embraced under the common conception of changing appearance. The solution of this problem is similar to that of inherence. As in the latter problem the thing was apprehended as a complex of as man}' reals as it has qualities, just so here the Ego ; but with the Ego, inner states and representations correspond to its qualities. Thus that which we are accustomed to name Ego is nothing other than the soul. The soul as a monad, as absolutely being, is therefore simple, eternal, indissoluljle, from wliich we may conclude its eternal existence. From this standpoint Her- bart combats the ordinar}- course of ps3'cholog3^ which ascribes certain powers and faculties to the soul. That which occurs in the soul is nothing other than self-preservation, which can onl}' be manifold and changing in opposition to other reals. The causes of its changing states are therefore these other reals, which come variously in conflict with the soul- monad, and thus produce that apparently' infinite manifold- ness of sensations, representations, and aflTections. This theor}' of self-preservation lies at the basis of all Herbart's ps3'chology. That Avhich ps3'cholog3' ordinaril3' calls feeling, thinking, representing, «&;c., are onl}' specific diff'erences in the self-preservation of the soul ; the3' indicate no proper con- dition of the inner reality itself, but onl3' relations between the reals, relations, which, coming up together at the same time from different sides, are partly suppressed, partl3' in- 23 354 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. tensifiecl, and parth' modified. Consciousness is the sum of those I'elations in Avliich the soul stands to other essences. But the relations to objects, and hence to the representations corresponding to these, are not all equally- definite ; one sup- presses, restricts, and obscures another until a relation of equilibrium results which can be calculated according to the laws of statics. But the suppressed representations do not whoU}' disappear, but waiting on the threshold of conscious- ness for the favourable moment when the}' shall be permitted again to arise, the}' join themselves with kindred representa- tions, and press foi'ward with united energies. This move- ment of the representations (sketched in a masterly manner b}' Herbart) ma}- be calculated according to the rules of mathematics, and this is Herbart's well-known application of mathematics to empirical ps}cholog}'. The representations which were pressed back, which wait on the threshold of con- sciousness and only work in the darkness, and of which we are only half conscious, are feelings. They express them- selves as desii'es, according as their struggle outward is more or less successful. Desire becomes will when united with the hope of success. The will is no separate faculty of the mind but consists only in the relation of the dominant representa- tions to the others. The strength of decision and the character of a man depend upon the constant presence in the conscious- ness of a certain number of representations, while other rep- resentations are weakened, or denied an entrance over the threshold of consciousness. C). The Importance of Herharfs Philosojihy . — Herbart's philosophy is important mainly for its metaphysic and psy- chology. In the other spheres and activities of the human mind, e.g., rights, morality, the state, art, religion, his phi- losophy is mostly barren of results, and though there are not wanting here striking observations, yet these have no connec- tion with the speculative principles of the system. Herbart carefully isolates the different philosophical sciences, distin- guishing especially and in the strictest manner between theo- SCHELLING. 355 retical and practical pliilosopli}-. lie charges the effort after unit^' in philosophy, with occasioning the greatest errors ; for logical, metaphysical, and iiesthetic forms are entirely di- verse. Ethics and aesthetics have to do with objects in which an immediate evidence appears, but this is foreign to the whole nature of metaph3'sic, which can onl}' gain its knowl- edge b}' the removal of errors. Esthetic judgments on which practical philosophy' rests, are independent of the reality of an}' object, and appear with immediate certainty' in the midst of the strongest metaphysical doubts. The elements of moi'- als, says Herbart, are pleasing and displeasing relations of the will. He thus grounds the whole practical philosoph}' upon aesthetic judgments. The aesthetic judgment is an in- voluntary' and immediate judgment, which attaches to certain objects, without proof, the predicates of goodness and bad- ness. — In this lies the greatest difference between Herbart and Kant. We may characterize, on the whole, the philosoph}' of Her- bart as a development of the monadolog}' of Leibnitz, full of enduring acuteness, but without any inner fruitfulness or capacity of development. SECTION XLIII. SCHELLING. ScHELLiNG sprang from Ficlite. We may pass on to an exposition of his philosoph}' without an}' farther introduction, since that which it derives from Fichte forms a part of its historical development, and will therefore be treated of as this latter is unfolded. Friedrich Wilhehn Joseph SchelUng was born at Leonberg, in Wiirtemberg, Jan. 27, 1775. With a very precocious 356 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. development, he entered the theological seminary at Tul)in- gen in his sixteenth year, and devested himself partly to philolog}' and mythology, but especially to Kant's philoso- phy. During his course as a student, he was in personal connection with Holderlin and Hegel. Schelling came before the world as an author very early. In 1792 appeared his graduating thesis on the third chapter of Genesis, in which he gave an interesting philosophical significance to the Mo- saic account of the Fall. In the following 3'ear, 1793, he published in Paulus' Memorabilia an essay of a kindred na- ture " On the Myths and Philosopliemes of the Ancient World." To the last year of his abode at Tiibiugen belong the two philosophical writings: ^' On the Possibility of a Form for Philosophy as such" and " Oa the Ego as a Principle of Philosophy., or on the Unconditioned in Human Knoicledge." After completing his university studies, Schelling went to Leipsic as tutor to the Baron yon Riedesel, but soon after- wards I'epaired to Jena, where he became the' pupil and co- laborer of Fichte. After Fichte's departure from Jena, he l)eeame himself, 1798, teacher of philosoph}' there, and now began, removing himself from Fichte's standpoint, to develop more and more his own peculiar views. He published in Jena the Journal of Speculative Physics, and also in company' with Hegel, The Criticcd Journcd of Philosojjhy. In the 3'ear 1803 he went to Wiirzburg as professor ordniariws of philoso- phy. In 1807 he repaired to Munich as member ordinaiius of the newl^'-established academy of sciences there. The 3'ear after he became general secretar3' of the Aeadem3' of the Plastic Arts, and subsequentl3', when the universit3' professor- ship was established at Munich, he became its incumbent= After the death of Jacobi, he was chosen president of the Munich Academ3'. In 1841 he removed to Berlin, where he sometimes held lectures particularly on the ^^ Pliilosophy of Mythology" and on '•'•Revelation." During the last ten years of his life Schelling published nothing of importance. The publication of his complete works was begun soon after SCHELLING. 357 his death (which occuiTed at Ragaz on tlie 20th of August, 1854) and completed in 1861. Ten volumes comprise his earlier writings, and four others, his later prelections. Schel- ling's philosoph}- is no completed system of which his separate works are the constituent elements ; but, like Plato's, it has a historical development, a course of formati^•e steps which the philosopher passed through in his own speculation. Instead of S3"stematically elaborating the separate sciences from the standpoint of his fundamental principle, Schclling went back repeatedly to the beginning, seeking ever for new foundations and new standpoints, connecting these for the most part (like Plato) with some antecedent philosopbemes (Fichte, Spinoza, Neo-PIatonism, Leibnitz, Jacob Bo?hme, Gnosticism), which one after another he attempted to interAveave with his sys- tem. We must modify accordingl}' our exposition of Schel- ling's Philosoph}', and take up its different periods, in ac- cordance with the succession of the different groups of his writings. 1. First Period. Schelling's Derivation from Fichte. Schelling's starting-point was Fichte, whom he openly fol- lowed in his earliest writings. In his essay, " On the Possi- bility of a Form of Philosophy ^'^ he shows the necessity' of that supreme principle which Fichte had first propounded. In his essa}', " On the Ego" Schelling shows that the ulti- mate ground of our knowledge can lie only in the Ego, and hence that eveiy true philosoph}- must be idealism. If our knowledge is to possess reality, there must be one point in which ideality and realit}-, thought and being, can identically coincide ; and if outside of our knowledge there were some- thing higher which conditioned it, if itself were not the high- est, then it could not be absolute. Fichte regarded this essay as a commentary on his Theory of Knoivledge ; yet it con- tains already indications of Schelling's subsequent standpoint, in its express affirmation of the unity of all knowledge, the necessity that in the end all the different sciences shall become merged into one. In the " Letters on Dogmatism and Criti- 358 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. C('.s7)i " (1795), Schclling combated the notions of those Kan- tians who had left the critical and idealistic standpoint of their master, and fallen back again into the old dogmatism. It was also on the standpoint of Fichte that Schelling pub- lished in Niethammer's and Fichte's Journal (1797-98), a series of articles, in which he reviewed the philosophical lit- erature of the da}'. Here he begins to turn his attention to- wards a philosophical deduction of nature, though in this he was still wholly Fichtian, since he attempted to deduce nature from the essence of the Ego. In the essay which was com- posed soon after, and entitled '■'■ Ideas for a PMlosojihy of Nature" 1797, and the one " On the Workl-soul" 1798, he graduall}' unfolded more clearly his views. The chief points wiiich are brought out in the tlu*ee last-named essays are tlie following : The origin of the conception of matter lies in the nature of human intuition. Mind is the union of an unlimited and a limiting energy. If there were no limit to the mind, consciousness would be just as impossible as it would be if the mind were totally' and absoluteh' limited. Feeling, per- ception, and knowledge are conceivable onl}' on the suppo- sition that the energ}' whicli strives for the unlimited becomes limited through an opposing force, and that this latter be- comes itself freed from its limitations. Mind consists actual- iter only in the antagonism of tliese two energies, and hence only in their ever approximate or relative unity. Just so is it in nature. Tlie absolute pr»